A Golden Path: Framework 4.4 (ch. 50) (Patreon)

“Lord Atreides,” Paul corrected Ned, catching him flat-footed when they finally got a moment to speak. Paul’s time was in high demand after he became a Lord Paramount, so Ned hadn't wanted to press the issue, but his Father's commands weighed heavily on him. What he didn’t expect was to be- 

Then there was a ghost of a smile tugging at Paul's lips, telling him in was a jest. 

Ned allowed himself a laugh, “I thought the title really went straight to your head.” He hadn't thought Paul would be the type to lose themselves in their position. Ned had seen it only once himself, during his time in the Vale, when a lowborn man was knighted for his bravery in fending off a mountain clan raid. 

He hadn't known the man well, so he had little experience with the extreme change. But, as others told it, almost overnight he transformed from a mild-mannered man to one who abused his power and new standing so thoroughly that he was dead within a year. 

“Not yet,” Paul said, gesturing for Ned to take a seat. “But I take it you aren’t here just to catch up,” he prompted. Ned took the offered seat and thought about how best to approach the conversation. Paul had always been… disruptive, if Ned had to give it a word. When he arrived to the North, he changed things irrevocably. 

Now, he did so again, only in the far south. A new kingdom had been forged, and as shameful as it was, Ned hadn’t considered Paul as a potential candidate to lead it. More than that, it would be a lie to say he hadn’t considered himself a possibility, even if he was uncertain if he wanted such a burden. 

“I’m not,” he admitted, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t.” Ned reasoned with a small shrug. “Or speak of what is to happen next with the war in Essos.”

“The war will be on hold until summer,” Paul started, sounding as if he had already given it a great deal of thought. “Once it arrives, I expect three things to happen -- Pentos will throw off his shackles imposed by Braavos, Volantis will march, and the cities of Slaver’s Bay will form a secondary Triarchy.”

Ned’s brow creased. “That sounds like our worst-case scenario.” Paul having such a pessimistic view did make sense, as his kingdom would serve as the front lines for any such battle. 

“It will come to pass because King Aerys has decided that his kingdom has accomplished its goals,” Paul replied, as if that wasn’t dire. “It wasn’t a war he wanted in the first place,” he pointed out, making Ned shift uncomfortably in his chair at that. There was never an official condemnation or rebuke from the monarch.

Or, if there was, it was reserved for his son Rhaegar. 

“As far as he is concerned, the war is effectively over. He expects seasonal raids into my lands, a few reprisal killings, but for things to settle into a new… normal, for lack of a better word, over the winter.” Paul continued, making Ned's lips thin. “I suspect he will not understand the severity of the misconception until and army lands in Westeros. Likely in the Reach.” 

Ned leaned into his seat, mulling over the possibility. It didn’t feel particularly outlandish. They would face no greater hurdles than Westeros did in landing their armies into Essos. Only… “What if the Stepstones?” 

“I expect for them to become contested,” Paul answered. “However, for an invasion of Westeros to work, they will understand their is two approaches they can take -- securing the Stepstone to secure their logistical lines, then push into Dorne.” At Ned's tilt of his head, Paul offered a small shrug. “It's possible, but Dorne being largely a desert works against any invasion plan.” 

“Particularly when there is a more fertile field elsewhere,” Ned said, seeing the logic. “They'd be wise to take the Arbor Island first.” The home of the Redwynes of the Reach. 

“It would serve as a base for them to operate from,” Paul agreed. “But they know that a series of landings will leave them exposed. More time for Westeros to react, more chances that a sudden storm will sweep away their navy. Instead, I suspect they will land with a massive host.” 

“Myr was able to muster a force a hundred thousand strong,” Ned remarked, wondering exactly what Paul meant by ‘massive.’ 

“Volantis, and the cities of Slaver’s Bay could muster one a million strong,” Paul replied with a cold certainty. “They would be foolish to do so, of course. Setting aside the logistics, it would leave them exposed to the Dothraki. Or each other. While they are unified in a common cause, they have a history as fracturious as the Daughters did.” 

“You speak as if you have a number in mind,” Ned pointed out. 

He did, evidently, because he didn't need to mull over what that number might be. “Between Pentos, Volantis, and the cities of Slaver’s Bay? I suspect we will face a divided force of five hundred thousand.” ned blanched at the number, wanting to deny it as unrealistic, but the words died in his throat. It had taken Myr scraping the bottom of the barrel for manpower, but they had managed a force a hundred thousand strong. “Divided, of course.” 

“Pentos will be preoccupied with Braavos, at least initially. The cities of Slaver’s Bay -- they, I believe, will be the ones who attempt to invade Westeros. Volantis has long coveted the Daughters, so they are likely to make an attempt while the rest of Westeros is distracted.” 

A sigh escaped Ned. “So, we won't be facing one army half a million strong, but several armies several hundred thousand strong?” That was almost worse, in a way. Particularly for Paul, now that he thought about it, giving his friend a concerned look. “Could your kingdom even hope to face such a force?”

“As it is? No,” Paul answered bluntly. “It will be a decade before the Triarchy manages to recover from the war, and that is being generous. To complicate things, there will be a rather natural reaction to such an invasion.”

“The forces in Essos will be recalled,” Ned agreed. His father wouldn’t allow Northmen to fight for Paul when his own kingdom was under threat. Those forces would be much needed by Paul if he were to face Volantis. Alone, by all accounts. “Then, it stands to reason that-” Ned started, only to cut himself off. 

Paul finished the thought for him. “A counter-invasion into Westeros will spur King Aerys into action. All of Westeros. As of now, the war is a distant thing that we have largely won without any difficulty. An army hundreds of thousands strong arriving on our shores will be… quite the revelation.” Meaning that it would be good for the war, but terrible for Paul’s kingdom. 

“Have you spoken to the king about this?” Ned tried, feeling like he was stepping beyond himself. This was a conversation best had between Wardens of the Kingdom and the Lord Paramounts. And the king, of course. He was the second son of the Warden of the North. He had distinguished himself, that much was true, but this… 

This was beyond him. 

“I've spoken to Lord Tyrell. He assured me he would take precautions,” Paul replied and Ned swallowed a groan. That didn't bode well. He would not disparage Mace Tyrell, but it would be a lie to say Ned held him in high esteem. “What precautions those might be…” Paul held his hands apart, wordlessly conveying his doubts. 

“Where does that leave you?” Ned questioned, knowing that Paul must have a plan, but he couldn't see what it might be. Other thoughts swirled in the back of his mind. He learned to trust Paul when it came to these things. He had yet to be led astray by him. 

This conversation felt less like a hypothetical and more of an outline. 

“Building up my kingdom while I still can,” Paul answered, as if that was all there was to it. “And by putting capable people where they would need to be.” There was something in his tone that caught Ned’s attention. “I understand you father has arranged for you to inherit Moat Cailin. Do you know how he would feel about becoming lord of Myr?” 

The offer stole Ned’s breath away. It was a generous one. On the verge of being too generous, really. Enough so that Ned was forced to inspect the offer through a lens he wasn’t used to. What he found was a… plot, though that made it sound harsher than it likely was. Myr was the most exposed of the Triarchy, and the only one on mainland Essos. 

Because of that, it held the most land, but it was also the most exposed. By putting Ned there, Paul would gain a capable steward, Ned would like to think, at least, but it would also put his father in a position where he would feel compelled to support Paul and the Triarchy. 

“I-” Ned started, thinking furiously. He came here to test to see how Paul would feel about being married to his sister. The equation had changed, somewhat. His father would be invested in the success of the Triarchy and Paul himself, it was just a question of which child would be at risk. 

Paul admitted his kingdom would face dire consequences for the war. Myr was the only Daughter exposed, but Lys and Tyrosh both depended on the disputed lands to feed their citizens. Without them, the cities would be forced to import food from the Reach, and such a thing would not only be difficult, it would be exceptionally expensive. Perhaps the kingdom itself wouldn't fall, but would never truly recover. 

There was his own future to consider. For more reasons than one. “I don't know,” Ned admitted. “He sent a letter- I am to return to Moat Cailin to become its Lord, and to marry Ashara.” The thought brought a flutter to his chest, but his lips thinned. “I suspect my father intends to pull me from the war. Myself and Brandon.” 

There was a fear of letting Paul down with the news, but based on his expression, it was within expectations. “While tens of thousands Northmen remain in my kingdom,” Paul observed. It wasn't a rebuke, but it was an uncomfortable observation. The men across the Narrow Sea weren't so numerous that their absence meant no one would go hungry, but it couldn’t be denied that some larders would have an easier time over winter. 

“I-” Ned started, feeling as if he should apologize, but Paul held up a hand. 

“There is no need to give me an answer now,” Paul mistook his hesitation. “There still is time to think it over. As well as consult your father on what he would deem best.” That felt like it removed a weight from Ned's shoulders. 

And he felt like a coward for it. 

Yet, before he could speak, there was the sound of trumpets echoing in the distance. Ned glanced towards the window, uncertain what could be the source. 

“It would seem the Lannisters have arrived,” Paul noted, making Ned frown. 

“They're here? For what cause?” He asked, unsure what could rouse the Lannisters to return to King's Landing. Their last visit hadn't gone well for them. Tywin was stripped of his position of Hand of the King, while his heir Jaime Lannister had been maimed during the Melee. By Robert. But Paul gave him a pointed look, as if to say he asked a foolish question. When the answer occurred to him, his eyes widened at the shamelessness of it. “They are here to be rewarded?” 

They hadn’t done anything deserving of a reward. They offered no ships, no armies, or any support at all. To come back to the capital with their hand held out in expectation- 

“It would be more correct to say that they intend to purchase an honor,” Paul said with a thin smile. Ned recognized it. 

It promised nothing good. 

…

Tywin never spoke the words out loud, but he had sincerely hoped he would never see King’s Landing again. The city had stolen decades from him. It, and the fool who ruled over it as king. It reeked. It was poorly managed at the best of times, rife with corruption, and overcrowded by half. 

Yet, once more, he found himself riding underneath its gates and through the streets in a parade towards the Red Keep. While he was no longer Hand, he still had agents within the city, keeping a finger on its pulse. And they were entrenched enough that their path was framed by cheering peasants. They threw flowers as they passed, welcoming him back. 

He hoped it would sit in Aerys gut like a poison. 

“A warmer welcome than I expected,” Jaime remarked to him, offering an easy smile, the picture of confidence. Yet, when Tywin looked at his heir, what he saw was a missing arm. 

“Look ahead,” Tywin commanded. Jaime had… done well since he lost his arm. He began training with his left, and while he was not yet as capable as he had been, the master of arms assured him Jaime was making progress. He had taken strides in other matters -- at last, he took his position as heir seriously and opened his ears to Tywin’s lessons. 

He would never, under any circumstances, say that losing the arm was good for his son. Tywin would, however, admit that he had benefited from it. It opened the boy’s eyes to the harsh reality that he was a lord. Not a knight. He was meant for greater things beyond waving a sharpened bit of metal around. 

If only he would cease associating with the malformed creature that tore his way out of his mother. Tywin’s wife. 

“Of course, father,” Jaime agreed easily, still wearing a slight grin. It didn’t dim when he saw the Baratheon colors amongst the crowd. A cold pit of fury opened in Tywin’s gut, but he kept his expression neutral. 

Even when he arrived at the Red Keep and found himself insulted. Again. 

“My apologies, Lord Lannister, but King Aerys and the Lord Hand are attending a Small Council meeting.” The eunuch before him informed, his words sounded genuine to an untrained ear but Tywin saw the mocking laughter in his violet eyes. Lucarys Valis. Aerys’ new Master of Whispers. 

Tywin expected the snub, but that didn’t mean it went down any easier. It was galling. Infuriating. “Then do inform me when the meeting is done. Until then, I have other matters to attend to,” Tywin replied gruffly. The eunuch bowed his head, accepting the words before he went to carry them off to whatever hole Aerys hid in. The coward. 

“It smells better than last time,” his daughter, Cersei, remarked just loud enough to be overheard as they entered the Red Keep. Elbert Arryn would be in attendance, so it would be good for them to familiarize themselves before the marriage. “Though that isn’t saying much.”

They were escorted to their quarters, where they were refreshed. The excuse that the king and Steffon were in a small council meeting ran thin, but Tywin expected nothing else. What he didn’t expect was the first servant to approach him would be a woman in her mid-to-late twenties. Blonde hair and green eyes. 

She looked like a Lannister.

“Lord Lannister,” she greeted him, looking him in his eyes. Not the floor. “I serve Lord Atreides. He requests an audience at your convenience.” Her hands weren’t those of a woman. Rough and callused. She was a swordsman, and the very idea made him want to scoff. 

He knew precious little about Paul Atreides. Far too little, given how high he had risen in so short a time. A Lord Paramount of a new kingdom. The very idea was absurd. All the more so given he came from a barely established house. “I am available now, if he will come to me,” Tywin decided. 

It was a small power play. A test, for lack of a better word. How would the young Lord Paramount react to being summoned by his betters? Had his new, untested power, already gone to his head?

Based on how she narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, the woman picked up on the dynamic, but she bowed her head. “I’ll bring your words to him, my lord.” 

His children made themselves scarce, leaving Tywin to familiarize himself with the solar. It was the same room he had been granted during the royal wedding, after he was stripped of his position as Hand. It wasn’t at all befitting a man of his status, but he accepted the cold reality all the same as he waited for Paul to arrive. 

To his credit, Paul arrived promptly. Enough so that Tywin realized the young man already suspected the command would come. He carried himself well, as much as a boy growing into a man could, with dark hair and eyes, with a thin nose. He greeted Tywin with a respectful inclination of his head, but not deep enough to be called a bow. 

Tywin’s estimation of him that he was not a boy being thrust into an unwinnable situation. Or, if he was, then he hid it remarkably well. 

“Lord Atreides,” Tywin greeted him in turn, gesturing for him to take a seat. “My congratulations on your ascent. Wartorn as it is, your kingdom marks the first expansion of the Iron Throne since the days of Daemon Targaryen.”

“My thanks, Lord Lannister,” Paul replied, unbothered by the prickly remark. “And for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Of course,” Tywin replied. The boy wasn’t a boy. He was composed, his gaze even, and unflinching at Tywin’s looming presence or barbs. Tywin knew what he was. He cultivated an image over the course of decades, starting with the Rains of Castamere. Despite Aerys' every attempt to see him diminished, he was a lord whose shadow stretched far across the Kingdoms. There were not many who could sit across from him, unshaken or uneasy. “I am curious what the newest Lord Paramount might wish to speak to me of.”

“It involves my wartown kingdom, as you’ve likely suspected,” Paul replied with a practiced charming, if self-deprecating, smile. “Daemon Targaryen managed to claim the Stepstones, and yet Westeros still lost them. Even when the Iron Throne possessed dragons. It will not be an easy realm to govern, which is partly why I wish to surround myself with seasoned lords and capable men.”

Tywin didn’t betray his interest. He cared little for the fate of the Triarchy or Paul himself, but before him was an opportunity. He had, of course, assumed Aerys chose some lickspittle to be made Lord Paramount. Someone without a spine and who would do his bidding because, without Aerys support, he would have nothing. Instead, Paul sat across from him, looking to cut whatever strings Aerys managed to put on him. 

He wasn’t who Tywin expected, but it was a pleasant surprise. After all, he intended to come to buy Paul’s loyalty. 

“How so?” Tywin questioned with the barest tilt of his head to indicate his interest. 

“It's quite strange that there was no valyrian steel found amongst the Free Cities, is it not?” Paul changed the direction of the conversation. In a way that made Tywin go still. “After all, valyrian steel is generally more common in Essos, and the Daughters were quite rich. And yet, when the looting was done… there was none found. Not a blade, nor dagger, nor a simple shaving razor.”

The silence between them was deafening as Tywin understood his meaning. “That’s not possible,” Tywin refuted the very idea. 

“My agents infiltrated the Free Cities even before there was a war, Lord Lannister. Those possessing any of the metal were noted, and before my agents opened the gates to Lys, or Tyrosh, or Myr… everything of value was already secured before the rest of the army set foot in the cities.” Paul stated, and if it was a lie, then it was the most brazen Tywin had ever heard. 

It did, however, line up with what he heard. Paul's men, that woman among them, were pivotal in every assault, every siege, and every battle. 

Every Great House had a valyrian steel sword, except for House Lannister. Brightroar was lost to them when Tommen II, the fool, took it with him on an ill-fated expedition to Valyria. Over the years, Tywin had attempted to correct that injustice. He tried to buy the valyrian steel swords from lesser houses, but he was met with refusals. 

He looked afar, across the Narrow Sea, to the merchants playing lords but was similarly rebuffed. For that reason, he knew there was at least one blade in Lys. Two in Myr. And another in Tyrosh. 

Tywin mulled over the revelation, greed gripping his heart. He wanted them. Every piece of valyrian steel in Paul’s possession until he could forge a dozen blades for House Lannister. “What forethought,” Tywin remarked lightly, uncertain if he believed the boast. He did, at least, believe Paul was in possession of at least one valyrian steel blade. 

“My thanks, Lord Lannister. I do try to be prepared for any possible troubles,” Paul replied. “Which is why I need an able-bodied and proven leader in one of the most pivotal positions in my kingdom. Myr, and the surrounding lands… I shall do all that I can for them, but they are quite exposed by being on the main continent. It is my hope that you could put forth such a man who might steward the city in my name.”

This was… a trap. Tywin felt it, even as he considered the words. Kevan sprung to mind, but he was too useful. Tywin relied on him to manage the Westerlands. The second name that came to mind was Gerion, his youngest brother. He possessed no lands, and he kept chafing under Tywin’s authority…

Valyrian steel and a lordship for his brother. Paul wanted something from him. The sheer scale of… generosity could only be explained by Paul wanting something significant from him. 

“What do you want?” Tywin questioned, casting aside all pretense. His voice came as a low growl, but Paul simply smiled thinly. 

Paul answered. 

And Tywin agreed.