CHAPTER IX
A Crab In A Mummer's PlayCaspian was grinning.
Not madly, as Ser Jaremy likely feared, though from the way the knight's hand hovered near his hilt, he clearly thought his lord a moment from lunging. He kept glancing between Caspian and Beron like one of them might erupt.
Not yet, my friend.
Caspian's fingers rested lightly on his sword's pommel...not in threat. He'd learned his lessons. Gesture, never raise. Suggest, never show. He wasn't here to duel.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Uncle Thoren practically vibrating.
If a bear could wear noble garb and froth at the mouth without being dragged out by the ears, that would be him. Gods, he looked like a Mormont. A proper Celtigar wouldn't glower like a thunderhead on the verge of bursting. I'd say as much if I weren't sure he'd beat me bloody and toss me in the sea.
"Uncle," he murmured, voice still shaped into a smile, "if only you knew what sword I didn't give the king, you wouldn't be growling over the one I did."
Thoren didn't answer. Just kept staring ahead, knuckles gone white on his belt.
Lymond leaned in close, his voice a ghost. "My lord. Should've gutted that bastard on the Rosby road. Not poison. Steel. Belly to blade and blame it on bandits."
Caspian shook his head. "Lymond… relax. This is going according to plan."
"Plan?" Thoren hissed. His beard twitched with rage. "That rat-fucked pile of shite is up there spinning lies, pissing on your name, and you're standing there smiling like some tavern whore who just saw a handsome purse. We attacked him? Burned villages? Pillaged? Raped?" He spat the word like venom. "And you- you with your cursed books and gifts and that bloody sword, have half the court whispering sorcerer."
"Uncle," Caspian said again, quiet but firm, "trust me, it is going as I expected-"
A pause.
Then Thoren let out a slow, resigned huff. He still didn't get it. None of them did. But Caspian's plans had a way of bearing fruit, and for now that was enough.
Across the hall, Caspian caught Jaremy's eye and gave the faintest nod.
The knight's brows knit together. Then he turned and slipped out, silent.
Now it was time.
He bowed gracefully, neither low nor high...just right. Then raised his voice, clear and calm, carrying through the hall.
"Your Grace. Honored lords. Fair ladies."
He smiled. Not smug, but measured. The kind of smile that made people lean in.
"I have heard Lord Brune's accusations, and while I find them quite inventive… I cannot leave them unanswered."
He let the words hang. Murmurs stirred, waiting.
Caspian exhaled slowly.
The throne room felt different now. The bait had been taken, and the air had shifted. The audience watched, not for justice, but for performance.
And it was a performance, not court. A mummer's show draped in velvet and law, no less scripted than a fool's farce. Unlike the lord before him, snarling and stumbling over his own tongue, Caspian understood the role he had to play.
His robes were crimson and cream, the colors of cracked claw and old bone. Cut perfectly. Flattering without boasting. A quiet reminder: I know the cost of appearance. I pay it gladly.
He smoothed a sleeve. Then turned to the throne and waited.
The King nodded. But not warmly.
Aegon's lips were tight, jaw set. One hand clutched the sword Caspian had gifted him, white-knuckled. That told him enough.
Good, Caspian thought. Anger is still thought. It means the Brune has erred in my favor.
His gaze swept the hall. The Grand Maester. Lord Baratheon. Rosby. Petty Crownlords red-faced and whispering behind their hands. He met their eyes in turn.
I see you. I know who guides the puppet's hand.
Because when a fool in motley starts dancing, you don't look at the fool. You look at the man tugging the strings.
Beron Brune had come prepared, no doubt...notes, lines, rehearsed gasps and righteous fury… all penned and prompted by better men now seated in silence.
So Caspian had prepared too.
Just a drop. A single drop in Lord Brune's ginger ale. Not poison, not truly. A tincture. Something to sour the belly and stoke the blood. To make the skin hot, the tongue heavy, the temper raw. Enough to tip a fool into madness.
He'd come in bloated, barking, red-faced. Half the court had watched him rave like a drunkard, sweat beading, breath ragged.
He'd nearly shouted over the prince.
The fool.
Now Caspian stood with his balls in his hands, yet the smug idiot still had not realized it.
Let them feel the difference. Let them see the contrast.
He stepped forward, slow and even.
"I am a vassal of the crown. My family bent the knee to Queen Visenya, as did his." He turned, voice smooth. "And as such, I have honored those oaths. I have rebuilt roads… not in Brune lands, but in my own. I have raised granaries and halls, septs and healing houses. For nobles, for merchants, for peasants alike."
Another step.
"Because only when the people of your land prosper can a lord truly claim strength. This is not copper-counting. This is not softness. This is stewardship."
A few heads nodded. One of the septons murmured agreement.
Caspian pressed forward.
"For I know many who mock me...a copper counter behind my back. But it is coin that ensures the bellies of your folk are full. Coin that girds your walls and arms your men. Coin that keeps the wolves from your doors, be they bandits or winter itself."
He turned to face the throne again.
"I did what the Father above bid me. I fed the hungry, healed the sick, brought justice and order where there was once swamp and bone. And for that, I am called sorcerer?"
He let the last word sting. A few mutters rippled...uneasy ones.
He folded his hands behind his back. Head high. Eyes bright.
"Tell me, my lords… who among us would be accused of such villainy, were they poor?"
Caspian tilted his head, still smiling.
"He accused me of raiding his lands, was it?" he said, tone light, conversational, as if discussing poor wine. "Burning. Pillaging. Even claimed the women of Dyre Den are still recovering from their wounds… and something worse. His words."
His face sobered just enough. "A grave accusation, my lord."
Beron opened his mouth.
Caspian lifted a single hand. "No...don't speak now. You had your turn."
"You seem red, Lord Brune. Everything well? You're sweating through your silks. Too much wine- that too before your king?"
A few chuckles. The smile flickered back into the court. Beron snarled, but the words didn't come. He looked half-cooked, gut shifting in his tunic.
"Never mind," Caspian said, his tone crisp. "Back to the matter."
He stepped forward again, toward the king this time. "As I said, a grave accusation. And a false one. Lord Brune might speak passionately… even delude himself into thinking all would believe him. But I come with proof."
Right on cue, the doors at the far end opened with a groan of wood and steel. Ser Jaremy returned, expression stone-cold, flanked by a handful of guards. And behind them...
Beron's eyes widened.
"Ah," Caspian said softly. "Recognize someone, do you?"
Behind the guards came men in chains. Mud-stained, bruised, and in Brune colors.
"Allow me, my lords. My prince. My king."
He swept a hand toward them with mummer's grace.
"Ser Rogar Brune, of Dyre Den. And with him, his sergeants and soldiers. Including Sergeant Beric, son of Lord Beron's steward."
Gasps. Voices rising. One lady's gloved hand flew to her mouth. Beron looked like he'd been stabbed as he wheezed.
Caspian folded his arms behind his back, smiling gently.
"Funny, isn't it?" he said to the hall. "For a man sacrificed to dark magic... Ser Rogar looks rather well-fed."
The hall erupted.
Shouts. Gasps. The rustle of silk and the clatter of rings as lords rose from benches. The Queen's cousin whispering furiously. A septon made the sign of the Seven. Somewhere, someone laughed...high, nervous, ugly.
Beron Brune stood frozen. Sweat slicked his brow. His eyes darted from his cousin, to the king, to Caspian.
He really thought I wouldn't bring them. He thought they were dead.
"Funny," Caspian said again, louder. "For a man supposedly sacrificed to wicked magicks- Ser Rogar only has a surprising number of bruises to show for it."
Gasps turned to murmurs. The chainmail clinked as the men were marched forward.
"Ser Jaremy?" Caspian called.
The knight nodded. "Taken during the ambush. On our lands."
"Thank you," Caspian said, voice lifting but the charm was gone now.
"Let's not pretend this is just about men in chains or drunken lies. This was meant to break me. To discredit everything I've built. The healing houses. The roads. The trade. The books. The hope."
He paused. Let the word linger.
"I was accused without proof. Of sorcery. Of breaking oaths. Of harming innocents. Of stealing lands and smallfolk both. Bold claims."
His voice dropped half a tone.
"Yet who here asked what proof I bring?"
He gestured toward Ser Rogar. The knight's lip was split, eye swollen, but he stood with his chin high. Shame in his eyes… and anger. Not at Caspian. At Beron.
"Let Ser Rogar speak, if he wishes," Caspian said, turning to the king. "Or let the court hear their testimonies in private. I submit freely, Your Grace. I do not fear the truth."
That landed. He saw it ripple across the room. Aerys, watching with that strange fire. The Grand Maester rubbing his chin. Even Ormund looked unsure now.
And Beron?
He looked ready to explode.
He stepped forward, face red, fists clenched.
"They're traitors!" he barked. "Lies…all of it! You bribed them, bewitched them, you-"
"Enough," Caspian snapped. Not loud. But sharp.
Then softer, "No more frothing, Lord Brune. It's beneath you."
Caspian bowed slightly. Civil. Not apologetic.
"I ask only that we hear the truth. That we weigh words against proof. Passion against fact."
He turned to the king.
"I am your servant, Your Grace. And if I've erred, I will answer for it. But let no man here pretend that anger is a virtue. That hate is holy. Or that shouting makes you right."
A voice broke the silence.
Jerren. Stubble on his chin, shame in his eyes. He looked older from guilt alone.
"We were lied to, Your Grace," he said.
The court quieted again.
Jerren glanced at Ser Rogar, then Caspian, then the king.
"Ser Rogar was with us. On Lord Beron's orders. We were told Celtigars had crossed our lands. Killed, raped, burned. That the monsters had come."
Murmurs.
"But when we came, we saw nothing of the sort. No borders crossed. No huts torched but we were taken past it. Into Celtigar's- to only find just foresters. Good men. Honest men. Felling trees. Building halls. Feeding their families."
He swallowed hard.
"And we were ordered to kill them all."
Gasps now. Loud. Angry.
Beron made a sound…half bark, half protest- but no one looked at him.
Jerren pressed on.
"That wasn't the first time either. My brother was told to dress like a savage. Bronze and bones with mud on his face, ordered to kill anyone who passed the river." He paused. "He's dead now."
Then another man stepped forward. Then another. Four… all soldiers in battered mail, scarred, ashamed. One by one, they knelt.
The oldest among them lifted his head. His voice rasped, a commander's voice worn down by years of shouting orders.
"My king," he said. "My liege."
Each bowed his head. Each fell to his knees.
"My king," said the oldest among them repeated, voice rasped from years of shouting orders, "my liege."
They looked up, eyes wet. Not performative, just broken.
"We know what we did. We know innocent blood is on our hands. We were soldiers, yes- but that's no excuse. We knew right from wrong."
He looked at the septons. At the nobles. At the smallfolk in finer garb.
"We do not beg for mercy, only judgment. Let us repent proper… let us answer what we owe."
The air in the court felt heavier than stone. No one dared speak.
He let them kneel. Let their voices echo. Let the truth dig in deeper than any blade.
And let the lords who had conspired in shadow realize...they had just lost.
The sword tapped once against stone.
Not loud. But final.
King Aegon stood. Slowly. Like a mountain straightening, his eyes bored into the disgraced knight.
"Your king commands you," he did not say as much, so he declared."Tell the truth, Ser Rogar. Reclaim what honor you have left. Let your house not drown in silence."
The words rang like a bell and Rogar hesitated.
He looked to the court...faces leaned in, frozen. He looked to Caspian, then to the floor. But it was the weight of other eyes that made him swallow.
Ser Duncan the Tall stood near the steps of the throne. Still. Watching.
The septons were staring now. Stern, silent. Judging.
And across the room, Prince Aerys, flushed and furious moments before… was deathly still, watching with something colder than rage.
Beron Brune sputtered.
"No no, this is madness, he's my blood, he wouldn't-"
Aegon raised his hand.
"Quiet, Lord Brune," he said, steel behind the breath. "Or you will be made quiet."
And Beron, red-faced and shaking, went still.
It was Ser Rogar who broke.
He took a knee.
"My king," he said, voice hoarse. He did not look at Beron. "The attack was planned. By my cousin and I. We told the men the Celtigars were invading- breaking your peace... that they had taken our lands. That we would ride to reclaim them. We-" He exhaled hard. "We were to kill any who resisted. And then say they struck first."
He looked up, straight into the eyes of the king.
"I knew it was wrong," he said. "But I followed orders. And now I beg judgment, not pardon."
He bowed his head down to the ground in repentance.
"Take them."
And so the white cloaks moved, silent and certain. The traitors were marched off in pairs, heads low. None resisted. Not now.
Beron said nothing at first. His hands ran wild through his hair, fingers trembling as they clawed his scalp.
"I thought them dead," he muttered. "No ransom, no letters. I thought him-"
He turned, eyes wild, sweat running down his brow, and locked onto Caspian.
"You," he spat, stepping forward with a stumble. "You bastard!"
One hand clutched his belly. Still the cramps. Still the poison working through his gut.
"What did you feed them? What lies, what witchery did you pour in their ears to turn blood against blood?"
He reached, but Ser Jaremy stepped in between, sword not drawn, but hand on the hilt.
"Uh-uh," Caspian murmured, smile thin. "That's close enough."
Beron flailed now, voice ragged. "He's a sorcerer! Can't you see it? He's bewitched them! The knights, the septons, the crowd- all of you!"
His voice cracked.
"Lord Darklyn! Maester! Baratheon.. Say something! Say it!"
But they didn't.
Darklyn looked away. The Grand Maester busied himself examining the parchment on his lap. Ormund Baratheon stood with arms crossed and said not a word.
"What are you talking about, Lord Beron?" came the weasely voice of Lord Massey, voice as dry as it was mocking. "Say what? That you made a fool of yourself and now want to drag others down with you?"
"You snake-!"
He turned, frantic now, eyes hunting for someone, anyone.
"My king-ah, your divinity," Beron cried, spinning toward the High Septon. "You must see it! That man- is a sorcerer!"
Now was the time for the final stretch, the final nail in this coffin. Caspian stepped forward.
"Yes."
The room froze and Beron blinked.
"What?"
"I said yes," Caspian repeated, voice carrying. "I am a sorcerer. If that is what you call the blessings of the divine."
Murmurs. Gasps. The court trembled with it.
Caspian took another step...toward the throne. Toward the flame.
"If healing the sick with medicine is sorcery, then I am a sorcerer. If feeding the hungry and raising hospitals… teaching mercy is sorcery, then I am a sorcerer. If building crossbows you yourself bought and praised makes me a witch, then perhaps I am what you say I am."
He turned slowly, eyes sweeping across them all now. The lords. The septons. The king.
"You say I wrote scripture? You're right. I did. I wrote what the Seven whispered to me in quiet hours, when I knelt in the dirt beside the dying. I wrote not only for lords, but for those who had nothing. Who bled. Who wept. And I asked no coin in return."
His voice rose… no longer polite.
"And you dare spit on that? You dare believe the gods are so impotent, so feeble… that they would let their names be twisted and worn by a mortal man for sorcery, and do nothing?"
A pause. A breath. He turned to the septons.
"If I have lied in their name, may they strike me down. Now. If I have deceived my people here...let their justice fall."
Silence.
"But if I speak truth… then it is not me you accuse. It is them."
He looked to Beron, now red- maybe purple even...sputtering like a man drowning in his own bile.
"You defile the Seven by calling their light sorcery. You insult the Father by calling his judgment deceit. You dishonor the Smith by scorning what I built with my hands. And you question the honor of your king… your king, for the sword I gave him in good faith."
Caspian's voice dropped to ice.
"Careful, Lord Brune. It is his justice that stays your head. For now."
He turned back to the throne, then to the court.
"I am a lord. A vassal. A man who tends his flock, who rebuilds what was broken. If that is a crime... then let it be known."
"But I will not bow to envy. And I will not let lies stand as truth."
The court held its breath, and the Brune stood alone, shaking, eyes darting like a cornered rat.
Caspian gave him one final look.
"The fact that you're still standing, my lord," he said, voice almost gentle, "speaks more to their mercy than to your innocence."
The words hung in the air like smoke over a battlefield and Caspian stepped back, not retreating.
The eyes of the realm turned to the Iron Throne And to the man who sat on it.
Aegon the Fifth, now cloaked in a simpler crown and heavier burdens. His hand still rested on the hilt of the sword Caspian had gifted him, gleaming like moonlight made solid.
He looked tired. Not weak.
Tired.
He scanned the court slowly, and no one… no one dared speak.
Beron Brune was still breathing hard, still red in the face, but he did not dare interrupt again. Not now. His allies… if any still remained were silent. Watching.
His voice was not loud. But it carried.
"I have ruled this realm for more than thirty years," he said. "I have seen lords rise and fall. Seen dragons die, and wars born of pride and madness."
He looked at Caspian.
"Seen miracles too, though not often. And rarer still, do they come wearing the garb of men."
He looked now to Beron.
"You brought accusations, Lord Brune. You spoke of crimes. Of rape. Of murder. Of sorcery. But your own blood, your own men, spoke against you. And proof stood beside them."
Beron opened his mouth, but the king's gaze turned on him like fire.
"I gave you space. I gave you silence. And still you raised your voice above the truth."
He turned to the white cloaks.
"Lord Beron Brune will be placed under guard. He will be confined to his rooms until the court decides his fate. He will be afforded the luxuries befitting his station. But should the accusations be proven further… then we shall see."
The clang of plate, the shuffle of boots and Lord Brune let out a cry not words, not really just frustration but fear.
He was dragged back. Not in chains, not yet and as he was taken, Caspian caught his eye. The look he gave him?
Pity.
Not real, just to mess with the poor man- he could not help it.
That made Beron rage more than anything.
When the doors shut, Aegon turned once more to the court.
"I will not see this court turned into a den of rabble. Nor let the Faith be weaponized by envy. Lord Celtigar has my favor, yes… but that does not make him untouchable. No one is untouchable- it makes him watched. As all powerful men are."
A pause.
"And if he does wield power greater than most," the king said, gaze sweeping the room, "then perhaps it is because the gods trust him with it."
A pause. Then, almost a smile.
"Seven help us… we could have had a far lot worse."