Monford Valeryon showed up one day without so much as announcing himself. Jon knew they should have feasted the bannermen before now - he had been on Dragonstone for near on six moons already - but everyone kept saying how he was not ready.
And he did not feel ready. Raised a bastard of Dorne and the North, and the son of a man the realm believed to be King Robert's best friend, he knew none of them were likely to welcome him kindly. Truly, he would be lucky if trying to feast them did not end with a blade in his back.
They barely had time to get ready. Nonetheless, Uncle Arthur sent him to his chambers to change out of his practice leathers. As per Arthur's instructions, he wore black with a red doublet as he raced back towards the courtyard. Uncle Arthur caught up with him outside.
He had changed as well, and instead of the nondescript clothes Jon was used to seeing his uncle in, Arthur wore his own house colours, though the purple seemed to be barely more than a detail against the white. He had strapped Dawn to his side, and Jon felt immediately less frightened when his uncle fell into step next to him. He had no idea where Uncle Benjen and Aunt Dacey were.
They had been disappearing more and more often lately; the servants whispered he would probably have a cousin before the year was out.
They took their places on the cobblestones just as the gate was opened. A small retinue stepped inside. The man at their head was tall and lean, perhaps a decade and a half Uncle Arthur's senior. He wore white and teal, and a seahorse decorated his doublet.
His presence was imposing enough that Jon had to fight the urge to bow like he always had to in Winterfell when they received visitors. But he was not a bastard here, Jon reminded himself. He was the liege lord, and this was his bannerman, arriving unannounced and uninvited. He gritted his jaw and kept his spine straight as steel. "Lord Monford," he greeted, hating the way he had to crane his neck to meet Velaryon's eyes as the man came closer. "Welcome."
Monford Velaryon's bow was not nearly as low as was proper, barely more than an inclination of his head. "Lord Stark," he greeted, and somehow managed to make the very words sound mocking. There was a hint of a foreign accent in his pronunciation. Was Velaryon one of the Houses the maester said still learnt High Valyrian as their first language? Probably.
Before Jon could quite figure out how to move the conversation forwards, Aunt Dacey and Uncle Benjen joined them, Aunt Dacey holding a plate of bread and salt, and Jon had to forcibly bite back a sigh of relief when Lord Velaryon thanked her and ate. He was not sure how much guest rights meant in the South, but it had to count for something.
"Let us retire inside, My Lord," Uncle Benjen said, his voice smoothening and losing some of its brogue. Benjen and Dacey had been here for two years already, Jon reminded himself, if only to keep the surprise at bay. After Velaryon had agreed, Uncle Benjen led the way inside, though not before casting a strange glance over his shoulder at Jon. Jon followed, with Uncle Arthur just a step behind, at his right shoulder.
They entered the Stone Drum, and went through into one of the smaller halls where a pair of fast-thinking servants were already laying out a small luncheon. Once everyone was seated and food had been distributed onto the plates, Uncle Benjen looked up at Velaryon, grey eyes piercing. "What brings you here, My Lord?" Uninvited, he did not say, but the directness of the question, Jon supposed, was enough to imply it.
"I am here," Velaryon said, "On behalf of myself, Celtigar, Sunglass and Bar Emmon, to let the Lord of Dragonstone know that the ships we were ordered to add to our fleets have been built. And to request the promised stipend."
Jon frowned.
Aunt Dacey waved over one of the servants. "Get the Maester, would you?"
Benjen cocked an eyebrow at Velaryon. "I fear I have not been informed of any of this."
Velaryon all but smirked. "When Lord Stannis requested our aid in suppressing the Greyjoy uprising, we could not muster the ships he required since most of ours were on business in Essos and difficult to recall. He told us we clearly did not have enough ships if they were not available to the crown when needed, and to go get ourselves more. When I asked him if he would fund them, he was kind enough to promise to do so. I'm sure your maester can confirm this."
Jon swallowed. He had not truly familiarised himself with the book keeping of the castle yet. It would be nearly six years before Uncle Benjen's regency ended, after all, and his uncles and the maester had agreed it was more important for him to focus on his education for now. But he knew, depending on the number of ships, that they would be hard pressed to pay.
Dragonstone was not a rich holding in and of itself, meant, traditionally, to provide the crowned prince and his family with a bit of spending money and not much more. With the bare number of bannermen, who were apparently very good at withholding taxes without much of a consequence to them, that was unlikely to change. All this sounded more than passing strange to begin with. Why would Stannis Baratheon, by all accounts a stern, clever and near miserly man, agree to something like this in the first place?
"I should like to wait for Maester Cressen and see the papers concerning this," Uncle Benjen said after a moment. "Let us eat."
Maester Cressen, when he finally arrived on staggering old legs, looked horrified when Velaryon's words were relayed to him. He stared at Velaryon as though he would like nothing better than to spit in his face. Then he turned to Uncle Benjen. "I can assure you no such agreement was ever made," he said. "Lord Stannis did order them to get more ships, but if I remember correctly, his response to the matter of who should foot the bill was 'who do you think?'. The Lords deliberately misunderstood his meaning, and now they mean to entrap you, Lord Stark. There are no papers to review, for no promise of payment was ever made."
"Still," Velaryon said, purple eyes flashing. "We have acquired altogether two dozen ships, brand new and of the highest quality. Ships that we ourselves have not set aside the funds for."
"Perhaps you should pay for them, and leave them here," Uncle Benjen said. There was a snarl in the back of his voice. "As repayment for taxes owed."