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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy
Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24
882Chapter 11: Foundation 2-2
"So the rumors were true. You really can smell shit from ten miles away," Brandon mused next to Ned, seated upon his horse as they were joined by a company of guards and sons of nobility. He wasn't wrong, though. They had smelled King's Landing long before they saw it, cresting a hill to grant them a view of the capital. A city that boasted a population of a million people.
Though, by the looks of things, the city couldn't contain everyone that had come for the royal wedding. It cut an impressive figure, with the city itself almost dropped over a climbing cliff and its borders marked with tall walls. The Red Keep in particular stood proudly at the heart of King's Landing, looming over it. The sea of farmland around the city, however, was co-opted by an army of people setting up camp outside the city's gates. For miles in about every direction around King's Landing, except for the sea, was an ocean of tents from where nobility and knights alike were forced to take refuge.
To say nothing of the smallfolk who didn't even have so much as a tent to their name.
"Not enough southern perfumes to drown out that stench, aye," Ned replied. "How many people are outside the city, do you reckon?"
"Has to be a hundred thousand. More, probably. Two hundred thousand?" Brandon mused, his lips twitching even as his nose crinkled. "Gods - odds are they've shoved half of the North's whole population in that city. What a nightmare."
"A nightmare we'll be much acquainted with over the next month," Paul noted, seated upon his own horse some men down. "Provided that we all don't die of disease."
Next to him, Jon Umber snorted at the remark and he didn't look happy that he found it as amusing as he did. "This lot would be better served by treating it like a siege than a fair. Fuck me, do they not know what a latrine is?" He groused under his breath.
"That many people? Bet they're full and shits flowing like a river," Brandon remarked, and Ned realized he was probably right.
It also didn't help that they would only be adding to the sum. The whole of the North mobilized in ways it only managed during times of war - every house sent a representative with the Stark party. Sons, brothers, uncles, or they even brought the whole of their family. Each nobleman brought servants and guards. Ned wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but over the course of a month, their party had swelled to number in the thousands.
And, from where they sat, they could see a steady stream of men still trickling up the Kingsroad, setting up new tents as the sea grew even larger.
"Suppose we'll find out," Ned remarked before he urged his horse forward. There were precious few times that Ned was ever grateful that he was of the highest nobility in the Seven Kingdoms, but this was one of them as they pressed on into the camp to find a sea of squalor.
Almost immediately they were under surge by smallfolk that begging for alms. The guards kept them at bay, letting them push on towards the city itself. A tourney and wedding like this didn't just attract knights and lords, the desperate also came in droves. Their procession did start to break up as they neared the city, and that was partly why he was glad to a Stark in this situation.
As a Stark, he and his kin were entitled to quarters within the Red Keep. The lower nobility would struggle to find lodgings within the city, especially when the Northern party would be amongst the last to arrive. There would be a separate district for the nobility in the sea of tents around King's Landing, for those that either couldn't find lodging or weren't important enough to be catered to. Ned didn't envy them as the dirt roads of the tent sea was a thick mud that reeked of waste.
The city itself wasn't that much better, Ned noted as their party was led through the large gates. The roads were made of cobblestone, the buildings of stone, wood, and clay - it was a unique sight. However, it was marred by the people. King's Landing was full to the point of bursting. Moving through the winding roads was slow simply because there wasn't enough room to shove people out of the way.
"What a shithole," Brandon summarized his thoughts, thoroughly unimpressed with the city. "I couldn't imagine living in this place. What a nightmare."
"Keep your thoughts to yourself, Brandon," Their father rebuked lightly, a tension in his voice that set Ned's teeth on edge. "This place is a den of snakes of the worst sorts. The only privacy you'll have here is inside your own mind, so always be aware of that. Any action you take, every word you speak - all of it is being watched, and someone can use it against you. Always."
Brandon offered a small nod in response, his expression tightening. The warning was for Ned and Lyanna, who was in the carriage behind them, as it was for Brandon. Their father had harped on the fact insistently the entire trip down - they were stepping foot into a world unlike the North and he did his best to prepare them for it. In a fit of irony, Ned himself was likely the most prepared for what they would encounter.
The Red Keep was impressive in its own way, Ned could admit when they eventually arrived at its gates. It lacked the weight of history that you could feel walking through the halls of Winterfell, but it was a castle worthy of a king. While it couldn't build wide, it instead built up with tall walls and towers.
They were greeted by a servant, who ushered them into the castle and towards their quarters. And, as nice as it was to wash away the road, Ned was hardly feeling relaxed as they once more gathered, now dressed in their lifestyle clothing. Lyanna wore a dress of their house colors, a blue rose in her hair that was preserved for the occasion. Both he and Brandon both dressed similar to their father.
Within the hour, Ned found himself trailing alongside his brother and sister behind their father through the halls of the Red Keep. Their party was small, only their highest lords joining them… alongside Paul Atreides, as he had received a personal invitation. There was a tension in his father that Ned had never seen before, and it was hard to not feel the same. Even as none of them broke stride towards a double door that began to crack open at their approach.
Ned glanced at Brandon, who was staring straight ahead, but he caught Lyanna's gaze. He offered her a quick reassuring smile to help put herself at ease. It helped some. Just a bit. Enough so that she could return the gesture with a thin lipped smile.
"Presenting Rickard Stark, of House Stark, Warden of the North! Along with his family - Brandon Stark, heir to the North, Eddard Stark, and Lyanna Stark," a presenter announced as they strode into the throne room and Ned fought to keep his expression blank.
He had heard the tales about dragons growing up - it was impossible not to - but seeing their skulls and bones adoring the throne room was something else entirely. Hanging above them was a completed skeleton of a dragon, complete with a head the size of a wagon that was curled to look over the Iron Throne, and it was almost as eye catching as the dark dragon bones. It was a hideous mass of jagged edges, hundreds of swords carelessly melted together with a rough seat hammered into the mess.
Upon the throne was Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms. He… looked… off. Even as they approached, Ned could see the touches of make up that hid how haggard he was. How his violet eyes were sunken in, gazing upon them with almost naked hostility.
Before the Iron Throne were lesser thrones - in them were those of a more noble bearing. The Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, almost looked like he stepped out of a story. He was almost beautiful in his handsomeness with silver white hair, violet eyes, dressed in his family's colors. Next to him, Ned reasoned, was the future queen. She was a peerless beauty. Similar features to Rhaegar, almost as if they could be related…
They weren't. At least not in the closeness that Targaryens preferred. Still, the similarities were striking.
It was because he was looking at the pair that he noticed their reaction to Paul's name being announced. Rhaegar immediately shifted in his seat, his gaze growing intense as it slid over himself to turn upon Paul, who brought up the rear of their procession. Ned felt like that was a hint at who had sent Paul the invitation, but it was a question of why.
Ned's thoughts came to an abrupt end when his father dropped to a knee and Ned followed suit without hesitation. His father bowed his head low, "My king. It is an honor to be here once more, and for a far more joyous occasion than a pretender's war. Your family has my sincerest best wishes for the union, and my prayers that it is fruitful."
"We are pleased to receive our vassals of the North. So rarely do you venture south," King Aerys began, saying the words expected but Ned was surprised to hear a lack of… sincerity in them. They sounded like words he had repeated a thousand times before, and he couldn't muster the effort anymore. "Your arrival is a most timely one, my lords. The festivities shall soon begin, and as is your right, you shall have a place of honor."
Ned caught a subtle glance from Brandon, his expression giving nothing away but it was clear to Ned that the… lack of respect was getting under his skin. Not terribly so. But enough.
"I am honored, my king," Father replied as if he had somehow missed the king's tone. "My children are eager to drink in the sights of the South, as are my vassals, I suspect. As you said, we so rarely venture to the lower half of the Seven Kingdoms, and such opportunities come but once in a lifetime."
"Then I shall not keep you, my lords. Be well, with this gift of bread and salt," King Aerys said and, with a gesture, servants approached with bread and salt. It was almost alarming how relieved Ned felt once he had partook in the ritual, placing him and his kin under guest rights. With the granting of hospitality, regardless how the King might feel about them, he wouldn't endanger their lives.
Which was a dangerous thought to have about your own King.
Thankfully, the reception was a brief thing. Almost to the point of being an insult, but only saved by their father subjecting himself to the king and finding an excuse to dismiss the rest of them. Which was how Ned found himself walking next to Brandon as they left the throne room.
Brandon let out a long breath that betrayed how he felt, but he said nothing else. Instead, he turned to the small group of lords that were had followed them - Jon Umber, Roose Bolton, and a few others. He plastered on a smile Ned could tell was a brittle thing, "This is meant to be a celebration. Let's go introduce ourselves, shall we?"
Brandon managed to be convincing, though Ned found that he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. With how things were set up… odds were that those at the Red Keep would be amongst the highest nobility of the Seven Kingdoms.
And that brief encounter with the king already proved to be exhausting.
…
"It's him. It's undoubtedly him… but…!" Rhaegar uttered in a fierce whisper to Arthur and Jon, both amongst the few that knew of his dreams. The few he could trust without reservation. They walked through the halls and Rhaegar was glad to be dismissed by his father as Rickard Stark was pulled into a small gathering of the Small Council, likely to question him about the influx of trade coming from the North. A small matter, but his father would love to lord it over one of the Great Houses.
"But?" Jon prompted in a quiet voice as they walked by a balcony that overlooked the gardens. Within, he saw a private party belonging to some of the Great Houses. Willas Tyrell stood out, sitting on a bench as he had a shockingly amiable conversation with Prince Oberyn Martell, the man who had crippled him. The Prince of Dorne was laughing at something Willas said, offering a toast in agreement.
Something to pay attention to, but at the moment his thoughts were consumed by one man.
Paul Atreides.
"His eyes were wrong," Rhaegar answered. Paul possessed the same intense blue eyes, but that color didn't bleed into the whites. It was still him. The man that haunted his dreams. But, it was a question of why was that different? What did that difference symbolize? What had he missed?
"You've said it yourself that the details are often lost or misattributed in prophecy, my Prince. Perhaps it would be best to put that detail aside and focus on the fact that… Paul Atreides is who you've seen in your dreams," Jon advised, sounding almost unnerved.
He had believed, Rhaegar knew, but it was different seeing proof. He wouldn't begrudge his friend any doubts - it was better to have someone doubt him and still help than to have someone enable him down the wrong path out of blind belief.
There was a weight of tension had settled on the center of his chest. "You're right. I mustn't be overeager. For now, I want him watched. I want to know everything he says or does. I'll approach him subtly to take a measure of him," he said, knowing that was the plan but… it was different, Rhaegar knew and why he couldn't begrudge Jon. It hardly felt real.
A man walked out of his dream into the waking world and all he knew was that Paul Atreides was dangerous. How or why wasn't entirely clear, but Rhaegar could never forget the sight of Paul bringing the storm to the Wall.
Jon bowed his head, breaking off from the group to carry out the order while Arthur lingered. "There's an opportunity now, my Prince. Your presence is expected in the gardens."
Yes. That would be perfect. It would make Paul enter his orbit rather than forcing Rhaegar to make the approach. That was good. The nerves were clearly getting to him, he admitted quietly to himself. "Then let us go," He decided, almost feeling like he was marching off to war instead of a garden party.
A servant opened the door for him as he left the castle and entered the gardens of the keep - an immaculate and carefully curated garden of flowers and hedges, all carefully shaped to be pleasing to the eye and to give the illusion of privacy. His presence was like a stone being tossed into a still pond, the ripples spreading across the surface as everyone turned their attention to the source of the disruption.
Rhaegar could almost feel the factionalism in the gardens. The clear divide between insider and outsider. Noble ladies coalesced in small groups, gossiping with other groups of a similar noble rank. The men were more divided but naturally fell in the orbit of the highest of nobility, where they rubbed shoulders and curry favor with one another. Naturally, most stuck to their respective kingdoms and they halfway divided the garden between them.
It was an exhausting state of affairs.
"Ned!" Robert Baratheon, in his own way, was another stone that disrupted Rhaegar's ripples. His cousin broke away easily from his own retinue of followers to approach the second son of the Stark family, and embrace him in what looked like a rib shattering bear hug.
"Robert. Our reunion will be short lived if you don't let go!" Eddard Stark protested, sounding like the air was being squeezed from his lungs.
With a loud boisterous laugh, Robert let go, clapping Eddard on the shoulder. Rhaegar was thankful for the disruption, and it even provided an opening to approach, letting catch some of the budding conversation as he did. "- I can't compete in everything! The bastards doubled up on events to keep me out of some of 'em. Too afraid I'd take first place for them all!" Robert boasted with an easy laugh.
"I wasn't aware you were a fan of poetry, cousin," Rhaegar announced his presence, making Robert's head swivel to him while the rest of the Northern nobility eyed Rhaegar with a cautious unease. Not suspicion or distrust - only with a keen understanding of who he was.
Robert, however, had no such presumptions. "I knew a lewd limerick or two. Want to hear a verse?" He questioned, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows with a grin.
"I wouldn't want to deprive you of your best material," Rhaegar replied dryly, making Robert laugh as he clapped Rhaegar on the shoulder. Arthur stiffened behind him but made no move to correct the gesture.
Largely because he knew Rhaegar found Robert… refreshing. He treated everyone the same, from highborn to smallfolk, and that was as a trusted friend. He was an easy man to like.
Turning his attention to the heir of the North, Rhaegar knew him to be a popular man in the North. Rowdy, fierce… rough, for lack of a better word. But, what he found was a guarded man looking back at him, waiting him to make the first move. So, he did, "A pleasure, Lord Brandon. I hope I didn't intrude upon your conversation."
The caution faded ever so slightly as a wirey grin tugged at Brandon's lips. "More like you saved my brother's life," he remarked idly. The tension had been broken, however slightly. And that was part of why Rhaegar found Robert's willful belligerence so refreshing. Every conversation that Rhaegar had felt like it was filled with trepidation, with the other party feeling as if they had to walk on eggshells to avoid making some offence.
With that, there were another quick round of introductions. Eddard and Lyanna were both quickly introduced to Rhaegar in a more personal manner. Eddard, to his knowledge, was a quiet and dutiful second son. He was of potential interest, but for the most part someone that Rhaegar could ignore.
Lyanna, on the other hand… was strange to see a woman that he could have married. She had been a strong consideration, a way to bind the North tighter to the Iron Throne in preparation for the Long Night. She was young. Young enough that he could mold her into being the woman that would have stood beside him. She possessed a long face with steel gray eyes, a blue rose in her braided hair - hints that when she fully grew into herself, she would be a beautiful woman.
But what was meant to be meant little. What was and what shall be meant more, and, for better or worse, he was marrying a foreign bride.
There were others of course. Nobles of note that were worthy of his attention, even if only because they would be relevant in the battles to come. However, he found it difficult to focus on them as Paul Atreides remained on the fringe of the conversation that developed around Rhaegar. He was involved in a polite conversation with Roose Bolton, hardly paying Rhaegar much mind…
And it was driving Rhaegar mad. He felt it like an itch under his skin - the man in his dreams was before him, and there was so much he wanted to ask. Answers he wanted to demand. He couldn't shake that image, and there was no small part of him that wondered if he should simply drive his sword into Paul's heart. It would see Rhaegar condemned, but it was better for that than to risk the Long Night come again.
To that end, Robert was an invaluable ally as he controlled the conversation. "It's too late to sign up for the early stuff, so it looks like I won't to get to see you in the singing competition."
"A shame, truly," Eddard responded dryly.
"But there still plenty of time for the real meat of the tourney - the martial competitions," Robert continued, leaving Rhaegar to helpfully elaborate.
"It was decided it would be best to hold off until after the wedding was over. If someone dies in a poetry reading competition, then that can only be the fault of the gods," Rhaegar said and Brandon nodded, accepting the reasoning.
"The melee is going to be the stuff of legends! Paul, you better get in on this! I want to see you try that flipping shite on Stormlanders." Robert half demanded, and Rhaegar noticed how Eddard stilled at the mention. Something he found distasteful, or was that perhaps a secret he didn't want mentioned in public?
Paul offered a polite smile, "I'm afraid that decision is out of my hands, Robert." Interesting. Robert, despite being heir to the Stormlands, cared less than nothing about proprietary, so it wasn't surprising that Robert would insist that any lord title be left off when addressing him. However, it spoke to a certain… closeness that Paul would feel comfortable doing so on such high company, especially with his house being so newly founded.
Robert, predictably, looked at Eddard with the eyes of a puppy begging for a second lunch. Much to the ire of the other Northmen present. The reason was rather simple - there were only so many places in the melee, and granting one such space to a fresh noble, even if this melee promised to be larger than most.
Each kingdom would choose a hundred men to represent them - North, Westerlands, Vale, Riverlands, Reach, Stromlands, Dorne, and the Crownlands. It promised to essentially be a small battle between eight sides with great glory to be found for the victor and those that competed. And lords of the Seven Kingdoms cared for little as much as they did glory.
This was, however, an opportunity. "I would relish the chance to face such stiff competition," Rhaegar added his own opinion, which dramatically changed things. He was the heir to the throne. Even when he didn't wish it so, when he asked, it had the weight of a demand. "Especially against one who Lord Baratheon has such high respect for his martial prowess."
Paul met his gaze, his expression betraying nothing. Rhaegar felt his heart lurch in his chest, uncertainty and determination plaguing him in equal measures. Yet, he said nothing, leaving it to Robert to clap him on the shoulder.
"Respect is a word for it. Bloody terror on the battlefield. I've been taking a look at it myself, you know? Might surprise you during the melee," he said, making Paul offer a thin smile as Robert made it sound like his participation was a forgone conclusion. Which further soured the mood of the Northern nobility around him, but if he minded, then he didn't show it.
Rhaegar wanted to see it. He wanted to know what he was up against. He wanted to understand what could be his enemy that visited his dreams almost nightly.
Yet, all the same, Paul looked to Brandon, saying nothing as he waited for his liege lord to make the verdict. It was unexpectedly… loyal of him, Rhaegar noted, while Brandon wore a wolfish smile.
"So long as no one starts crying when they lose."
...
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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy
Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24
882Chapter 12: Foundation 2-3
The reception was more or less in line with what Rickard anticipated upon their arrival. King Aerys had never hidden his disdain for the North, however undeserved his ire was. In fact, that was about the only thing that Rickard found respectable about the king - he was honest.
At least until he tried to dress himself up like a drowned rat wrapped in silks and given perfumes to mask the stench of rot.
King Aerys was a man of little concern, however. He may still possess the crown, but he had been thoroughly defanged by one of the men that he was bound to meet. That fact was made all the more clear by all the bones and dragon iconography that filled the Red Keep to the brim. To the Targaryens, it was their history. Something to be proud of.
But, to Rickard's eyes, it was a testament to how far the House of the Dragon had fallen. Aegon Targaryen had united the Seven Kingdoms in a single lifetime, yet his dynasty had failed to rule for a mere three hundred years before it began to collapse in on itself.
As the servants led him through the halls, Rickard had to swallow a smirk as his eyes caught sight of something familiar. The gift that Paul had sent to the Targaryen dynasty as an apology for the… trade disruptions.
It was a small statue of three dragons in flight - one carved from dragonglass, another carved from jade, with a third carved from sapphires. All three interlocked in a masterful display of artistry. They were around the size of his hand, but carved with such detail that they almost looked alive.
It brought him some measure of pride to see, even if Paul Atreides was still at fault for what he suspected came next.
The doors swung open, revealing the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms. There were three tables set up in a U formation that faced the door, with the arms of the U having enough chairs for the highest lords and members of the Small Council. The men were having polite conversations amongst themselves, none yet seated as King Aerys had yet to arrive. His presence hardly went unnoticed as all eyes shifted to him.
Tywin Lannister stood, flanked by a young Mace Tyrell and Dorian Martell - young lords, both of whom had only succeeded their fathers in recent years. The conversation seemed to be a terse one as both of the young men in their early twenties had stiff posture and wore forced polite masks for expressions. Though, that was just as likely due to Tywin's looming presence. The Hand of the King seemed well, if a bit older than the last time they had met for the final Blackfyre Rebellion.
Their eyes met and Tywin offered an ever so slightly inclination of his head, his expression carved from granite for all the emotion it expressed. Rickard returned the gesture before a man approached and Rickard allowed himself a small grin.
"Steffon," Rickard greeted an old friend.
"Rickard! Look at you, you mangy bastard - what's that gray in your beard already?" Steffon Baratheon greeted him warmly and Rickard was quietly amused at just how similar his eldest son was to his father. Both in personality and appearance.
Except for one thing. Rickard raised an eyebrow before he made a deliberate look down at Steffon's stomach before looking back up. "Whatever happened to dying before you got too fat for your armor?" He replied blandly, and he could feel the younger of the lords take in a sharp breath.
Steffon barked a laugh, "I stopped wearing it so I can pretend that I still can, if the need ever arose. Good to see you haven't lost that bite of yours, mangy wolf," He said as they clasped forearms.
"You two get along as well as ever," Jon Arryn noted, approaching alongside Hoster Tully. The Lord of the Riverlands. Another companion from the war, though one Rickard would hesitate to call a friend.
"Bah - he grew on me, and distance made the heart fond. I reckon I'll be sick of 'em by the end of the wedding."
"That long? I wager I have about a day before the sight of you makes me ill," Rickard returned as they both shared a laugh.
There was a time when Rickard would have meant the words with the entirety of his heart and soul. He had been young during the Blackfyre Rebellion. Young and eager to prove himself. Full of piss and vinegar, determined to make anyone who doubted him and the North swallow their words along with some of their teeth.
Naturally, he ran head first into Steffon Baratheon. Also young, also eager to prove himself, and determined that there wasn't a problem in the world he couldn't solve with a warhammer. They had fought like cats and dogs, coming to blows no less than three times - they fought each other more than they did the petty warlords Maleys brought to his banner.
In the end, it was a particularly dimwitted wager that nearly got both of them killed that ended up forging a powerful friendship between them that endured to this day.
"It's good that you made it, even if it cost me a wager - I was sure that you'd be late," Seffon remarked as the conversations in the room resumed. Rickard kept a broad eye on everyone, noting who spoke with who.
Most interesting was Quellon Greyjoy, who seemed to be having a polite conversation with Qarlton Chelsted, the Master of Coin, despite the lower lord appearing as if he was one mean look away from filling his pants.
"Hm. I nearly was - the further south we went, the larger the retinue we picked up. Most were completely unprepared for the heat of the South. My daughter was convinced she was going to melt into a puddle," Rickard remarked, his gaze flickering to Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully.
Both were older men, Jon more so than Hoster. Hoster still possessed the renowned Tully red hair and blue eyes, though, much like Rickard, his hair had begun to gray and lose its luster. The man was on the cusp of being an old man, just a few short years away from it. "I don't suppose I've missed anything of note, have I?"
The question was an innocent one in nature, only revealing what was beneath to those that already knew what he was really asking.
This was a rare opportunity. The Wardens and the Lord Paramounts were gathered up in a way that only happened in war. Only there was no enemy to fight on this occasion.
"There have been some… developments," Steffon admitted, offering a small shrug as he kept his tone even.
"Talks of marriage," Hoster offered, and Rickard swallowed his reaction. A reminder that it would be best to marry Brandon to his daughter sooner than later. Breaking a betrothal was no small thing, especially between lords over kingdoms, but it could be done. And Hoster was just power hungry enough to do it if he thought he'd received a better offer.
"There has also been a development with the Small Council. A new Master of Whispers has been appointed," Jon informed, and that was a development worth hearing about. He subtly inclined his head to the newest member of the Small Council and Rickard was surprised to see it was a beardless youth. No, not-
"A eunuch?" Rickard questioned, and Jon nodded. He saw plenty of unmanned men during his time in Essos. A strange custom that, one that made a shiver race down his spine at the mere thought of it.
"And the future queen's brother," Steffon grunted, a frown tugging at his lips. "Rumor is that it was his sister that had it done to 'em. But, he's as sharp as the crack of a whip. He reached out to me when I was in Volantis since they were already planning to flee. Knew everything about me down to me shoe size."
Rickards nose crinkled in disgust at the idea of unmanning your own kin to secure your position in the family. He was perfectly happy to take Essosian coin, but he couldn't stomach what they called civilization. But, beyond his immediate disgust, Rickard understood everything else that was said.
Steffon had a direct connection to the new Master of Whispers, who in turn would be related to the Royal Family. It was a relationship that would only last a short time before the new spymaster wisened up. If he hadn't already.
However, before Rickard could reply, the room shifted once more. He immediately felt the tension rise in the room and the cause for it was obvious.
King Aerys had entered the room, flanked by four members of his Kingsguard. The only one that Rickard could recognize by sight was Ser Barristan Selmy, and despite growing older like the rest of them, he still carried himself with a sense of dignity and strength. It made the king look that much more shabby standing next to him.
"My lords," Aerys began, "be seated. It is such a rare… opportunity for the greatest of us to be gathered. Especially in a time of… celebration." He offered a thin smile, trying to give the impression of a gentle bearing, but inadvertently flashed his blackened teeth.
He took a seat at the head of the table, no one seated next to him, save for his Kingsguard. On one side of the table, the highest lords of the realm sat, and directly across from them were the members of the Small Council. Rickard took his place, sandwiched between Quellon Greyjoy and Dorian Martell towards the end of the table, with Dorian being at the end. Which was surprising because that was where Rickard expected to sit.
Dorian didn't seem surprised, however, accepting his place without complaint. Towards the head of their half of the table sat Tywin, then Steffon, Mace Tyrell, then Hoster.
"But, before we begin with the pleasantries… There are urgent matters to discuss. Lord Qarlton, if you would?" Aerys questioned and, tellingingly, his gaze first flickered to Tywin Lannister before he stood up.
"Of course, your grace," Qarlton said and Rickard was already getting a very clear picture of the situation. Aerys was presenting a strong front to the Wardens and Lord Paramounts. To make it appear as if he were a strong and wise king. "The matter is in regards to the trade disputes with Essos, in particular, the three daughters - Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr."
Rickard didn't fail to notice how Qarlton's eyes then skid to him, and he met his gaze with a thin smile that flashed a hint of teeth. "And what is the nature of these disruptions?" Rickard asked directly, posing an open question. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Quellon swallow a smile.
He was hardly unaware of the development. Rickard had expected this conversation since he received the summons. He knew exactly what questions would be asked, what demands would be made, and he knew exactly what answers he would give.
"At first it was the typical raising in tariffs on our goods while levying a tax on any goods coming from the Three Daughters to the Seven Kingdoms. Enough to make the lesser nobility and merchants complain, but hardly anything worthy of the Crown's attention. At least until recently, where reports of piracy on our trades ships have increased by an estimate of… three thousand percent."
That, however, was news to Rickard. As well as several others. Dorian Martel spoke up, "There have been incursions into our seaside villages. Slave raids. When I learned of them, I had men planted in villages to be taken to learn where they were going, as well as who took them."
"They are taken to Bloodstone, under a captain of the name Salladhor Saan. A well known pirate in the region. One who recently found himself in the employ of Tyrosh," the Eunuch informed, interlocking his fingers before him.
Dorian met his gaze before nodding, "Exactly so."
"The Dornishmen aren't the only ones. I've had a few raids along my coast as well," Steffon admitted, making Mace shift in his chair.
"As have I," Mace confessed. "I thought they were being a bit ambitious and I had trusted men to see them to the sea. However… from the sounds of things, this is no mere ambitious pirate! This is an act of war!" He thumped the table with a fist, and he was joined by Steffon.
Slave raids were always a longstanding issue, though for the North, it was their western coast that saw the worst of them. From the Ironborn.
Something that wasn't lost on Quellon, as he now openly wore a smile. A sharp and cutting one that silently dared anyone in the room to make the comparison.
"Is that the answer then? War?" Rickard questioned, cocking his head to the side.
Qarlton looked down at the table for a moment, "I expect that these troubles will subsiste once an… agreement can be made with the free cities." He refused to look in Rickard's direction.
"An agreement with slavers, hm? Allow me to guess - they want things to go back to the way things were, in which the Seven Kingdoms were dependent on slave labor for luxury goods." Rickard spoke out loud.
Trade meant little to the men in this room. Like him until recently, they didn't understand its value. They were ignorant of trade's true power. The people in this room, foes and allies alike, ruled over prosperous lands in which a noble family could easily thrive off the land's incomes. Even he, ruler of the poorest of the Seven Kingdoms, enjoyed an income that was measured in millions.
So, instead, he would appeal to their pride.
"That is…" Qarlton began, but trailed off uncertainly. He was unsure of his place, if he could afford to rebuke the Warden of the North, even if he wouldn't be wrong for laying the blame for this situation at his feet.
"I have kept a close eye on Essos," Rickard began, unbothered by the considering glances that he received. "I am aware of their troubles. The merchants of the Free Cities bemoan the loss of customers in us, and in Bravos. They lash out to bring us to their table so they can save their livelihood of growing rich off the labor of enslaved men, women, and children. Forgive me, my lords, but I can hardly spare concern for the troubles of slavers."
"I imagine you wouldn't," Tywin Lannister uttered, meeting his gaze down the table. "When it is the North that stands to benefit from this… disruption." The words were cold. An utterance of facts rather than a rebuke.
"Paul Atreides, was it? The newest vassal of House Stark," the Eunuch remarked from across the table.
This was where things got… difficult. "Aye, you are correct."
He was keenly aware of everyone in this room. Not a single one of them spared the North an ounce of thought. They were all too keen to forget about the northern half of the Seven Kingdoms. Because they worshiped the Old Gods. Because their lands were vast and sparsely populated. Because they were too poor of a kingdom with too little to offer. And yet, now, it was the North that they had to turn to, for it was the North that had the finest trade goods that not only matched the quality of what could be found in Essos, but surpassed them.
And now he had to fight tooth and nail to ensure that power remained in the North, and only the North.
"House Atreides has assured me that it is up to meeting the task of supplying the Seven Kingdoms with luxury goods while we deal with the Daughters. And we must deal with the Daughters - our peoples have been attacked and enslaved. This requires an answer." The best move he could make would be to attempt to shift the target of the conversation.
It wouldn't work. Eventually, he would be approached and pressed by others, but in more private meetings he wouldn't have to worry about refusing not only the King, but all the high lords of the Kingdoms at once.
Unexpectedly, he received support from Quellon Greyjoy. "The Stepstones are key to the Narrow Sea. So long as Essos controls them, this will always be a problem. Officially speaking, the Stepstones are inhabited by pirates, slavers, and degenerates of the worst sort. I say we deal with these loathsome pirates at the source. Might even get a thank you from the Daughters for it."
"That is…" Qarlton muttered before trailing off, the man displaying a severe lack of a spine in Rickards' eyes. The idea was sound, though it would be no small affair. But, it would be a reasonable response. The Three Daughters wanted to hide their actions behind a curtain, which would make it difficult for them to act openly against the Seven Kingdoms. Rickard imagined there would be a sharp increase in these raids and of piracy in general, but as it was, they needed Westeros far more than Westeros needed the Daughters.
There were some goods that they would have to purchase from Bravos, at least for now. Just as Rickard had seen this problem coming, so had Paul Atreides and the answers he had given Rickard during their talks on the way to King's Landing… they had been revealing. And promising.
"A hasty measure," Tywin uttered, his tone even. "First, let us repay these merchants in kind. Lord Stark," Tywin said, turning to him once more. "How certain are you that the North can provide an… alternative source for our imports from Essos?"
"I have a list prepared for all that the North is prepared for already, and what will take time for production to ramp up." Rickard answered, reaching into his coat to take out a piece of folded parchment that he handed to a servant. He made to bring the list to Tywin, only for King Aerys to raise a hand, and the list was brought to him.
Rickard waited as the room went silent as the King read the list. After a long minute, his violet gaze glanced up from it and beneath the table, Rickard clenched a fist.
This was an important moment. Not just for House Stark, but for the future of the North. This trade war with Essos opened the door to making the North a powerhouse for luxury and common goods. It would vastly increase their incomes and it would make the North of consequence.
However, none of the rulers of the other six kingdoms would be so content to allow the North to rise in prominence. Not when it could be their kingdom that benefited instead. Yet, the North had two natural advantages. They had House Atreides, which already had the production capacity to fulfill demand. They also had the advantage of being perceived as one of the weaker great houses.
If this production went to the Reach? The Westerlands? Or even the Stormlands? That would further empower an already powerful house. The increased income wouldn't matter as much to an already rich house, but it would be a matter of prestige. Influence.
And the king, as paranoid as he was rumored to be, would be all too keenly aware of that fact as he cast a suspicious glance to Tywin, who merely met it evenly. "Arrangements in regards to the North's production can be arranged for a later meeting," Aerys decided, and Rickard wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or not.
There were some things that Rickard was willing to part with. Industries, as Paul called them, that were ill suited for the North due to climate or population. Rickard was loath to part with them even then, but the fact of the matter was, the North stood to gain far more by exchanging the information on how to establish these industries for favors. Concessions. Things that the North needed to have a proper seat at the table rather than a passing consideration.
This would be a battle that would be held behind closed doors for the duration of their stay, Rickard knew. And it was going to be a battle that he would have few allies in, but it was a battle he must win all the same.
King Aerys set the list down on the table before interlocking his thin and boney fingers. "I have heard your thoughts and concerns," he uttered, and Rickard noticed how Tywin's lips thinned. He wasn't happy about something. "Having heard both, I believe the path forward is a compromise of ideas. First, we shall sever trade with the Three Daughters. Completely and utterly, for the audacious arrogance to make demands of us. Of me." The room shifted ever so slightly as Aerys let the mask slip, giving a hint of his real nature when he wasn't pretending to be a competent king.
"At the same time, we shall send an expeditionary force into the Stepstones to deal with these… pirates," he continued, his gaze flickering across the room and he smiled when he saw general approval. He seemed to bask in it, yet his smile took a wicked edge.
Rickard didn't care. That was the best possible news he could have heard, and anything that after wasn't nearly as important. It took all that he had to not sag in his chair in pure relief.
"We stand at the cusp of a new era," King Aerys continued. "My son will be wed to a bride of pure Valerian descent. We once more look to Essos for what could be the greatest military conquest since my ancestor conquered the Seven Kingdoms themselves. And as we enter this new era for the kingdoms… I believe that it is best to see those who have granted me diligent service be rewarded. Steffon, my friend, please stand."
Steffon wasn't entirely surprised to be called upon and Aerys offered a mockery of a gentle smile. "My friend. You have labored long and hard in a task that I knew would be no small matter. For two years, you were separated from your family and lands. Yet, you did not return home until you were successful."
"I am yours to command, my king," Steffon said, bowing his head to their king. The air in the room grew tense once more, everyone sensing that something was about to happen, but Rickard never would have guessed what.
"You are. Ever loyal and dutiful. Which is why I name you Hand of the King, effective immediately," King Aerys said, his smile taking a vindictive glee as Tywin stood up so abruptly that his chair was knocked over. Immediately, the members of the Kingsguard went for their swords and, for a moment, no one breathed.
King Aerys had just humiliated the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms before the highest lords of the Kingdoms and the Small Council in what seemed to be an impulse, because everyone, including Steffon, was shocked by the decision.
The silence that followed was deafening as everyone waited for Tywin's response. Anticipating that he wouldn't take the humiliating dismissal well, and Rickard knew that he wouldn't. In some form, in some way, he would have his revenge. After all, Tywin Lannister was the man who slaughtered entire families because they laughed at him.
Instead of lashing out, Tywin Lannister silently reached up and took off the necklace of interlocked hands and slammed it into Steffon's chest. The two exchanged a heavy glance, and though Rickard knew the two were old friends, he also knew that theirs was a friendship that had been thoroughly strained by their King, and it would seem that this may be the last straw.
Steffon accepted the necklace and Tywin began to turn away, to leave the room, but just as he took a step, Aerys pounced.
"I did not give you permission to leave, Lannister," Aerys said, uttering the name like it was a curse. "It would hardly do, I think. This is such a rare opportunity for all the highest lords in Westeros to share a table and meeting. And we have so much to discuss."
Tywin's expression didn't so much as twitch but there was a fury burning in his eyes as the chair was righted and it too was granted to Steffon, with Tywin taking his place a seat down from the king. Steffon took the seat, appearing at ease but any who knew him well would see that he was uncertain. Unsure. And all too aware how deep Tywin's animosity ran against those that wronged him.
One thing was clear to Rickard as he settled into his seat, all too aware of the lingering tension in the room.
This royal wedding would be anything but boring.
...
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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy
Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24
882Chapter 13: Foundation 2-4
Whoever said that Cyvasse had bollocks for brains and not an ounce of good sense, Robert Baratheon decided as he sat at a board with the pieces arranged mid battle with a graveyard filled with pieces on both sides. Even as a tool to teach tactics, it was middling at best. He wasn't sure why people were so obsessed with the game, enough so that it got its own contest at the tourney.
As Robert moved a pawn forward, setting it in motion without much thought, he knew it was the kind of game that made you look smarter if you were good at it. Load of piss that was - he had always been good at the game, and he was an idiot. So, for the life of him, he couldn't understand what the fuss was.
In battle, the pieces didn't snap and have petty rules that they had to follow. A mounted contingent of knights would sure fuckin' destroy a bunch of peasant levies in most circumstances. Big horse, armored, moving forward at a breakneck pace - few things hit harder than a cavalry charge. But maybe it rained the day before and the land between you and the peasants became a quagmire of mud? What if the smallfolk knew enough that a properly wielded pike in formation in the hands of people who didn't lose their nerve at the charge was a mounted knights worst nightmare?
In that case, the knights got fucked and fucked hard. Because the charge was led by some lording filled with piss and vinegar, hungry for glory, who thought that because he played a board game well enough he knew a dawned thing about anything.
"How in the seven hells did I make it to the bloody finals? I hate this game," Robert remarked to his opponent, who calmly moved a rook forward to blame his bishop. And what the fuck was a bishop doing on the battlefield?
"I imagine it has something to do with you being the heir to the Stormlands, and now son to the Hand of the King," Paul remarked idly, flipping over there small hourglass. The games had to be quick to make room for everything else. Robert heard that these games could last days. Weeks even. What a sodding nightmare- wait, what?!
Robert jerked in surprise, "Huh?" They fuckin' wut? They let him win? Oh, that sent fire through his veins. He'd shove this shitty board game down their throat to choke on it, then put his foot so far up their asses, he'd kick it loose.
"You're talented, but you're not that good. Check in three moves," Paul informed him, making him look down at the board. His king was free as a bird at the moment. The fuck he mean, 'check in three?'
"You winding me up?" Robert asked, scratching at his cheek.
"About people letting you win or the check?"
"Both," Robert answered, spying the trap after a few moments of thought. Conniving little bastard. Maybe the trap would have caught him off guard if he hadn't seen that display over on Skagos. That half wildling lord all but placed his head in an offered noose and kicked the stool from out underneath him as if to save Paul the effort.
"I don't believe the thought is unthinkable to you. As heir to the Stormlands, you were already one of the most important people in the Seven Kingdoms by default. Now your father has risen even higher, second only to the king." Robert scowled at the reminder - both that his father had become Hand, and that people had let him win growing up. At least until people wisened up and learned that there weren't many ways to piss him off faster.
Robert decided to switch it up and go on the defensive - secure the king. But, as soon as he made the move, Paul continued. "And yes. Check in two," Paul said, moving a piece up across the board.
"What the fuck?" Robert muttered under his breath, looking down at the board with befuddlement. How had he done a thing like that? He moved a single damn piece, and all of a sudden his king was surrounded. If he stayed where he was, then that was check. He moved forward, that was check. To the sides… "Well, at least someone won't run scared because of my father's name," he acknowledged, moving his king to buy him a turn to deal with the would-be assassin rook. "More the fool you are. I'll run straight to father, you know."
That got probably the closest thing he had heard from Paul that he could have called a laugh. It was, at most, a huff of amusement. "I'll take my chances," Paul replied, moving up a bloody pawn of all things. That little fucker. He bluffed him!
"Hm. Probably wouldn't have the time for my whinging anyway," Robert mused. His father being made Hand was a surprise to everyone, including his father. Though, not as much as he presented to the public. The king had made noises about a reward for finding the prince a bride and, as Paul said, there were only so many things you could give one of the highest lords in the realm. If Aerys had a daughter, then Robert likely would have been betrothed to her. But, as the King only had sons, it narrowed down the list considerably.
What had shocked everyone was the manner in which Tywin had been dismissed. Robert didn't have a head for politics. Wasn't in his nature. He figured he'd leave all that boring shite to Stannis since he had such a hard on for 'Duty.' But, even he, someone who heard the word politics, which in turn had every word that followed go in one ear and out the other, paid attention to the scandal.
Especially considering that the king had all but threatened the lord Lannister, the former Hand of twenty years, with accusations of treason should he leave before the celebrations were over. Not in so many words, of course. Something something, 'a loyal vassal would see his future king married,' something something. So, Tywin and his kids were still here. Just silently fuming as they waited for the wedding to be over, and they had a long way to go.
Nothing had happened so far, but even he had noticed how the air just seemed to leave the room whenever a Lannister walked into it. Not so much as hostile, but more… it was like the moments before a fight. There was just a tension hanging over the festivities that was so thick you could choke on it. It wasn't really a matter of if something happened, but a matter of when.
But, bringing his attention back to the board, He decided to ignore the bait of the rook trying to check his king. The only way out of a trap was to go through it, after all.
At least, that's what he thought until Paul moved a knight forward, "Check."
That bloody little pawn was the assassin, Robert realized. If he hadn't moved his king, then he would have been checked by the rook. If he had moved to the side, he would have been checked by the knight in a few more turns. Now, to avoid getting checked by either of them, he had to walk his king into death's embrace by a pawn.
He crossed his arms for a moment, his lips thinning as he realized the prior traps were just bait. A tricky bastard, Paul was. Worse, he played Robert like a damn lyre. "Fuck it," Robert decided, pushing his king into the strking range of the pawn. He wouldn't take the cowards way out and surrender, even in a shitty board game like this.
"Checkmate," Paul said, taking his king with the pawn. The game was over. "And to answer your initial question - yes, I was."
He lost. All that boasting, thinking he was too clever to fall for Paul's tricks… Robert couldn't help it. He threw his head back and laughed, "Easy money for you, eh?" He said, congratulating him with a clap on the shoulder. It was still a shit game, but this part wasn't so bad. Most days, he still didn't know what to make of Paul but, if nothing else, he had a spine in him and that was more than he could say about the lackspittles that started that politely clapped for the winner of the competition.
It was a small one, one that was housed in a tavern that was just barely large enough for a score of noblemen to sit down and play at a time. And almost as soon as the competition was done, another was already moving in before the overseer approached. A short portly man who bathed in perfume by the sound of it.
"Your prize, Lord Baratheon. Five hundred golden dragons," he said while a servant approached and set a lockbox before him and lifted it. It was filled with gold coins, minted with a three headed dragon. Freshly minted too as there wasn't any scoring marks where people whittled what they could from the edges.
"Thank ya'," Robert said, already having plans for the reward. He had already participated in three competitions so far, and he scored in the top three for all of them. The real good ones hadn't started yet - like the joust and melee - so he was going to amass a fortune then put it all on himself winning the melee. He wanted to make some coin counters eyes bugger out when they realized his payout. What he would do after that was anyone's guess, but Robert himself suspected it would involve a lot of drinking.
"And, to first place, Lord Atreides has won a sum of one thousand golden dragons," the overseer said just a bit too loudly, drawing attention to Paul as a servant placed a lockbox that was twice the size of Robert's. Contained twice as much coin as well. Paul received the prize neutrally with a small inclination of his head.
Accepting their prizes, third place was some Reach lording that Robert forgot as soon as he hears his name and, with that, they left the tavern for the busy streets of King's landing. Good news was that, eventually, you did get used to the stench of shit and unwashed bodies, and even the people that all but drowned themselves in perfume. It made everything else about the city far more enjoyable.
You couldn't walk down any street in the city and not see something that wouldn't catch your eye - from a man balancing on a barrel as he juggled knives, whores with their bits and babs all but hanging out as they sought to pay their trade, merchants from all corners of the world hawking wares that were just as likely to be real as they were to be fake. In the space between, you could find competitions both big and small - there were so many that even the nobility had to made do with taverns, inns, and warehouses. The smallfolk competed in their own games where they could.
"Now, where's Ned gotten off to? Poor things probably getting dragged into all sorts of trouble," Robert mused - Ned was thoroughly overwhelmed by the sheer density of people in King's Landing. From what Robert saw of the North, it probably wasn't that far off to say that there were as many people in the city as there were in the North. It was nothing less than madness to think that you could spend days walking up the kingsroad and not see a single village.
"He's likely retreated to the Red Keep," Paul ventured. "It might be wise to join him, unless you want to carry those with you all day." He noted, looking at the other two lockboxes in Robert's hands that contained his other winnings.
He probably was right on the mark, there, though Robert didn't exactly relish the idea of going to the Red Keep. That was its own kind of sniffling tension that put a damper on things. Especially if he saw a Lannister stalking through the halls.
"Aye, likely," he agreed, swallowing a sigh. Maybe he'd get lucky and he could be in, grab Ned, and get out before anyone was the wiser? "Come on then, let's go." He decided easily, beckoning Paul to follow as much as he did his own hanger ons. Guards and noblemen alike. Another unwelcome change since he returned to the Stormlands.
Worst part was, he'd probably get on with most of them but they were too busy trying to kiss his arse all hours of the day.
Still, they were at least a little convenient to have around as with them, they were able to force their way throw the chaotic crowds and head back to the Red Keep. It wasn't a particularly long journey, but the crowd made it take ten times longer than it should have. And when they arrived, the courtyard wasn't much better - just for different reasons.
The courtyard was filled with nobles who were watching a duel and, as they entered, Robert caught a glimpse of red and gold. He almost looked away, wanting to steer clear of that clusterfuck and pretend it had absolutely nothing to do with him, but he found that he couldn't when he saw the bladework.
He wore a helmet in the shape of a roaring lion, hiding his face, but there was no mistaking who was in the makeshift ring. Jamie Lannister. There simply was no mistaking that skill with the blade. He was good. The kind of good that few men were - that perfect blend of outrageous talent honed to perfection with a single-minded dedication. Robert recognized it.
After all, he was the same way. He was born stronger than any other man that he had ever met. And even wielding his hammer, something that most men struggled to even pick up, he was faster than most wielding a blade.
There was an itch in his hands that ached for his hammer, wanting to join in on the fun as Jamie scored a point - his opponent was no slouch, but Jamie made jabbing at the weak points in his armor look easy. Graceful even. Even better, Robert spied Ned in the crowd. And the nobility parted for him the moment they glanced over to see who was shoving past them - he could practically see them swallowing whatever sharp words they were about to say. So, maybe, his father being Hand had some up sides.
Ned glanced at him from the corner of his eye before he inclined to the ring, "Lord Jamie fights well." He noted, his tone serious. He was scoping out the competition for the melee. Robert was hoping that Ned would compete, but he didn't see a point in them and he was running out of time to convince him.
"Aye, he does. But I imagine he'd have a lot harder of a time prancing around like that in a battle," Robert agreed. He was wearing armor, but he still weaved around the attacking blade as if the plate armor would part like butter. Jamie Lannister liked to move in a fight, Robert saw.
But he also wasn't showing off anything that Robert hadn't seen before. The duelist competitions were extensive, with several happening right now across the city. They had been going on for days now, and they would go on for days more until the brackets got smaller. Jamie was one of the favorites to win the whole thing, so Robert had paid attention when he fought.
At least that was true until Jamie rounded and, through the crowd and his narrow visor, he felt their gazes meet across the field. Jamie suddenly pounced on the man, taking a step into his opponent using his crossguard to hook the grip of his opponent's sword before ripping it from his grasp before following it up with a pommel blow that knocked him off his feet.
The action was met with cheering, people enjoying the show. Jamie's opponent had to be carried off the field while Jamie was allowed his showboating. Robert himself had a duel later in the day against some Riverlander. Jamie made sure to look through the crowd directly at him, making his intent clear. A grin found it's way onto Robert's face - he wasn't one to ever back down from a challenge.
Only before he could take a step forward and accept it, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and leaned in. "Lord Robert, your father has requested your presence."
Ahh, piss.
That wiped the grin from his face and a huge sigh heaved out of him. "Right. On me way then," Robert replied, knowing he had been caught. He offered a small nod of his head to Jamie, telling him that his challenge was heard and accepted… just not here and now.
Leaving behind Ned and Paul, he followed the servant into the Red Keep. It was a different kind of madhouse with drunk lords half being carried by their servants up and down stairs, or just passing out in the hallways. It was easy to over indulge when every day was a celebration, Robert found. Moderation wasn't one of his strongest points, but his love of winning beat out his love of drinking.
Before long, he was led to the Hand's tower where he found his father seated behind a desk. "I've heard about your winnings, son. What in the seven hells had you competing in poetry readings?"
"I was walking by when the competition started," Robert admitted. "I won a hundred dragons from it," he said, setting his three lockboxes on a nearby table. "What's this about, then?" Be asked, taking a seat across from his father.
Robert felt like he was looking into his future at times when he looked at his father - everyone always said that they looked just alike, they had been similar in personality when his father was his age… but then he saw that hand necklace around his neck, and the gut straining against his tunic. That, Robert swore to himself, wouldn't happen to him.
He'd die before he got too fat to fit in his armor.
"Your marriage," His father said, suddenly making Robert regret setting down. It made it harder to flee the room. "Talks have stalled with Rickard - it's no surprise, there. He burnt through some good will by bringing in Atreides, and his lords are short sighted as much as they dislike change."
Robert felt his heart start to drop, "So, I won't be marrying Lyanna?" He asked, feeling… conflicted. Lyanna was a bit young for his tastes, but there was no question that she'd grow up to be beautiful. She was fierce and he noticed the swordsman calluses on her hands. He figured that they could be happy together, but mostly it would make Ned family in law.
His father confirmed it with a shake of his head, "Not likely. Rickard intends to delay her marriage by a few years, and that's longer than I'm willing to wait for you." That wasn't exactly surprising. He was a man grown now. It would be one thing if he was betrothed, but by his age, it was expected that he'd have a wife and a child by now. Well, he had the latter but not the former.
"So… do you want me to guess or are you going to tell me?" Robert said, crossing his arms as he sank into his chair, bracing himself for the worst.
His father snorted at his sulking, "You're acting like I'm going to marry you to a shrew."
That was a good sign, "You aren't?"
"Hardly. You were already spoiled for choice as my heir, but now that I'm Hand…" he trailed off before a flicker of a grimace passed over his face. Tywin wasn't the only one who had a distaste for how his father became Hand. Robert heard the stories growing up, even if it seemed hard to believe now, but the king, Tywin, and his father had all been fast friends once. As close as brothers. "I've kept your request about your bastard in mind when making my choice."
Robert swallowed a twitch at the word bastard. Born out of wedlock she might be, but Mya was his daughter and he'd slap the word out of anyone else's mouth that called her as much. "Do you want me to guess?" Robert asked again, impatient.
"I'm speaking to Doran Martell about arranging a betrothal between you and Elia Martell," his father informed him at last.
Robert leaned back, "Dorne?" He echoed, surprised by the choice. Very surprised. The history of the Stormlands and Dorne was a long one that was written in blood. The marchers at the border still had to deal with the historic raids back and forth as old grievances were renewed each generation.
"It won't be a popular choice with some of our lords," his father admitted. "But the match is good for both our Kingdoms. In particular, Prince Doran understands that Dorne is in a precarious position."
Uh… what? "It is?" Robert echoed, unsure what happened there. Dorne… well, it was a bit like what Skagos was to the North, just to the Seven Kingdoms. It was apart of the Seven Kingdoms, taxes were collected, they sore the oaths, yada yada yada - but, when it came right down to it, the Crown kept its nose out of Dorne while Dorne kept its nose out of the Crown's affairs.
His father held his gaze for a moment, giving Robert the impression that he messed up somehow. Was he already supposed to know that? However, his father just sighed, "There is a budding trade war taking root between Westeros and Essos. Dorne has always acted as the front door to the Seven Kingdoms for the Three Daughters in particular. It's the closest to them so it's ports have always been the most convenient, and even when ships intend to make their way to Old Town or Lannisport, Dorne is what they have to sail around."
Ah - that did sound vaguely familiar. He must have forgotten when he learned that the trade war was between coin counters and not an actual war.
His father continued, "The Crown is looking to make investments in the North. The King has been convinced that the coin that we spent on imports would better be served by remaining in the Seven Kingdoms, so even if this trade war doesn't become a true conflict, Dorne won't regain that lost trade. They'll be weakened, and made vulnerable."
"Will it become a real conflict?" Robert asked, not really caring about the rest. The fate of Dorne wasn't his concern and he left the matters of money to those that actually cared about stuff like tariffs, import, taxes and whatnot- so long as he had enough to buy what he wanted, he didn't care how he had enough.
His father considered the question for a long moment, and that was enough for his hopes to start to rise. "The option hasn't been taken off the table," his father admitted. "Which plays into why I'm arranging your marriage now. You will be joining an expedition to pacify pirates in the stepstones, led by Prince Rhaegar. However-" His father stressed before he jumped out of his seat in excitement. "A condition I'm attaching is that you must be married and have an heir."
"I'll go put one in her right now," Robert agreed swiftly. "Elia Martell, was it?" He said, standing up with a pep in his step.
"Don't let her brother hear you saying that. He has a soft spot for his sister and one of the conditions he imposed on such a betrothal was that she contented to have you as a husband." That was fair, Robert reasoned, and not something he was particularly concerned about. "You have time, son. Use this wedding to woo her. Ask for her favor, give her gifts - charm her. Your head is a bit empty, but you're handsome. Get her to agree to the marriage and the Stormlands will reap the benefits for generations to come."
Robert grinned at the ribbing, not truly understanding how the Stormlands stood to gain from the alliance… but he didn't need to. His father was clever and knew what he was doing, so Robert had no problem just trusting what he said.
Elia Martell? His future wife. He wouldn't be brothers-in-law with Ned, but if half the things he heard about Dornish women were true, then his future was looking bright.
...
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