A New World- Chp- 40 (Patreon)

"Mounts' pride, long strong arms,The King was most devout,On his head, crow's nest,His face a mask of stone.

One of the Seven, the vast and grandest prize,The fire rose for him,The snow quelled beneath his boot.

The King stood unblinking-A dragon came, two warriors trailing,One turned the castle black,One claimed the sky-dark.

The King was wise,He heard the reaper's steps,He was the last king.

He bent, he knelt,The North became the Seventh,And no blood followed."

The bard's voice drifted through the rafters of the Great Hall, a low tune that most chose to ignore in favour of the roar of the hearth and the slosh of ale. The song was an old one, treading on the edges of history and myth, retelling the tale of the Last King in the North, Torrhen Stark.

Many in the North still held a bitter edge in their hearts for his ancestor; they called him the King Who Knelt, viewing his sacrifice as an act of cowardliness before foreign invaders.

They saw a feeble man terrified by the shadow of dragons and the steel at Aegon's heel.

Yet, as Eddard Stark watched the flickering light play across the faces of his bannermen, he saw the truth Torrhen had likely learned. The assimilation of the North into the Seven Kingdoms had been bloodless—an accomplishment not even the willful Martells of Dorne could claim.

Torrhen hadn't knelt for himself; he had knelt so that the men in this very hall wouldn't be ash, and their ancestors wouldn't be a small footnote in history. It was a burden of leadership that Ned understood all too well.

His gaze swept over the assembled lords. The nearest houses had arrived first, their banners snapping in the harsh wind that howled outside Winterfell's age-old granite walls.

The lords of the deep North, those whose lands brushed the very gift of the Night's Watch, remained at their posts. He had sent word for them to wait; they would swell his ranks as he marched toward the Wall.

House Karstark would join the vanguard at the Lonely Hills, while the Umbers and the fierce Mountain Clans would meet him at the edge of the Haunted Forest.

Winter was no longer coming; it was here. The march would be a gruelling, slow crawl through snow that threatened to swallow horses whole. Survival in the North during such a season was a calculated science of mead and salted meat.

Fresh greens and fruits were a memory of autumn, substituted by barrels of pickled vegetables and dried grains. They were rationing already, for every maester and woodsman agreed: this winter promised to be the longest and most difficult in the recorded history.

To his left, Ser Wendel Manderly sat, a man as vast as the harbour he hailed from. He had travelled from White Harbour with a contingent of eastern lords, bringing with them the scent of salt and the wealth of trade.

Conspicuously absent was the Lord of the Dreadfort. Roose Bolton had sent word that he would march alone, a week's journey behind the rest. It was a classic Bolton move—maintaining a cold, calculated distance that bordered on the edge of insult without ever quite crossing it.

The Flints, the Glovers, and the Tallharts filled the benches, their faces etched with the hardness of the terrain. Beside Maege Mormont, who looked as fierce and indomitable as she had in her youth, sat Howland Reed.

The Crannogman was small of stature and quiet of voice, but he carried an aura of wisdom and unspoken knowledge that made even the most boisterous lords give him a wide berth. It was no new news that the man was one of his closest allies; he was a worthy man, wise, brave and quite adept at what he did.

The only loyal supporter missing from the immediate circle was Robar Greyiron, Lord of Greyice. Robar was a creature of the sea, choosing the deck of a longship to the saddle of a horse. He and the Skagosi lords would meet the royal party at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

Ned preferred it that way; the Skagosi were as wild as the unicorns they supposedly rode, and keeping them away from the more "civilised" lords of the central North for as long as possible was a mercy to his patience.

Robb sat at his father's right, his jaw set in a line of budding authority. Across the hall, Benjen sat in a shadow-drenched corner with his black-clad brothers.

They sat with three cups of wine and three plates of salted meat, looking like three ravens perched on a limb.

Ned had promised Robb he would command a significant portion of the host. His son had shown his willingness to lead and his excellence with that. When he had marched south for him, he would hold on to his promise.

If this were a simple border skirmish or a petty rebellion, he, himself, might have stayed behind, letting Robb lead the force. However, the threat was twofold: the great Others and the desperate wildlings trying to cross the Wall for survival.

Robb was not yet experienced enough to steer the perilous political waters of the Wildlings, nor the existential terror of the Others. Not even Benjen's presence could bridge that gap.

The lords of the North, especially those like the Umbers who had bled for centuries to keep the Wildlings out, would never accept a peaceful resolution. They considered the people beyond the Wall as stealers and rapers, and not human at all.

He had kept his true intentions close to his chest; he wasn't going North merely to reinforce the Wall, but to negotiate. He wanted to bring the Free Folk south, to settle them in the Gift and the New Gift, to turn enemies into a shield against the Long Night.

Assimilating them would be a tremendous task, but the alternative, to leave them beyond the walls to become the slaves of the white creatures, was no less daunting.

Most of his lords still considered the Others as nursery bogeys used to scare children. Only Howland Reed could truly comprehend the stakes; the Crannogman had a habit of uttering disturbing truths in the most inconvenient moments.

Ned realised with a heavy heart that his words wouldn't be enough. If he wanted the North to stand united, he would need physical proof. He would have to capture one of those creatures and bring it back in chains to show the sceptics.

His daughter was lost in the clutches of god knows who, his realm was staring into the maw of an eternal winter, and he was being forced to prove the presence of monsters to men who had forgotten how to believe.

Olenna Tyrell sat in her private solar, the heavy velvet drapes partly drawn to keep out the damp chill of the Reach's evening. A cup of golden-leaf tea sat on the table before her, steam curling lazily into the air.

Across from her, Margaery sat with practised poise, though the faint stress in her jaw betrayed her calm.

Standing by the hearth was Alerie, her daughter-in-law, whose eyes were fixed on the dancing fiery embers of the firewood.

The Lady of Thorns nursed her teacup, feeling the warmth seep into her aged fingers. While the winter in the Reach was a mild affair compared to the icy nightmare the Starks endured in the North or the biting winds of the Riverlands, it was still cold enough to justify a roaring fire and a constant supply of hot brew.

However, the atmosphere in the room was far from cosy. It was thick with the suffocating anxiety of a family caught between a grindstone and a hard wall.

"Two sides. We are stretched thin on two sides," Alerie said, her voice brittle with a frustration that had been ascending for days. She began to pace the width of the room, her silk skirts swishing against the stone floor.

On Olenna's desk lay a letter, its wax seal broken but its essence untouched. The seal was that of House Martell—a red sun speared by a yellow lance.

It was a sigil that she found as damning as it was comforting.

Comforting, because it confirmed that her grandson Loras was not rotting in a ditch somewhere, but was alive as a guest in the city of Sunspear.

Damning, because it meant the Dornish held a knife to the Tyrell's throat, and the price of moving that blade was a treason of the highest order.

The Martells were pressing a rebellion. They wanted the Reach to unsheathe its swords against the Iron Throne, against the spawn of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister, who now sat on that throne.

Olenna had no particular fondness for the boy who now sat upon the throne. Their previous agreement, the marriage that would have made Margaery a Queen, had been rendered null the moment Joffrey's heart ceased beating.

The crown had passed to Haridon, a man already married to a Stark girl. Even if that Stark girl had been captured, likely by the very same Dorne who held Loras, it changed little for the Tyrells' immediate standing.

The Martells, for that was how she would anoint them. The letter was unsigned, a shrewd bit of cowardliness. It bore neither Oberyn's signature nor Doran's, yet the message was clear.

Dorne possessed an advantage over the throne that they were prepared to use, and they expected Highgarden to fall in line behind the dragon banner.

"They are banking on the Granddaughter of Aerys," Olenna murmured, tapping her finger against the rim of her porcelain cup. "They have the King's wife, though he likely doesn't know it yet. They have Loras too. And the problem, my dears, is that while one of my grandsons is a hostage in the south, the other is a hostage in the capital."

She had sent a polite, grandmotherly letter to the Red Keep requesting Garlan's return to Highgarden, but she had little hope of a favourable reply.

King Haridon was not his mother, and he certainly was not his brother. She had heard the tales of Joffrey's cruelty and his impulsiveness; a boy like that could be handled with the right application of flesh and flattery.

A woman's touch could drive most men to madness, and Margaery was the finest instrument of that art she had ever polished. Not the first, though.

She had held high hopes that Margaery would wrap Joffrey around her finger, advancing the Tyrells to the pinnacle of courtly influence, a place they had been denied ever since they stood on the wrong side of Robert's Rebellion.

The Martells were likely counting on that old Targaryen loyalty, reminding the Reach of the days they fought for Aerys. Now, with a Targaryen princess named as a rallying point, Dorne was inviting, no blackmailing, the Highgarden to stake its future on a restoration.

"If I were to advise Mace," She said, her voice gaining a sharp, dry edge, "I would tell him to send a token force. A few thousand men to see if the Dornish actually have the stomach for a fight or if they are just rattling their jewellery. But with Garlan sitting in the Red Keep, that looks like treachery. The news of a Dornish mobilisation won't stay hidden forever."

"Tyrion Lannister has been appointed Hand," Margaery noted, her brow furrowed. "The Imp is said to shrewdest of his siblings."

Olenna adjusted her shawl. She had never met the youngest Lannister, but the tales of his whoring and his wit were legendary. More notably, she knew he had overseen the sewers of Casterly Rock and turned a literal pit of filth into a marvel of efficiency.

Lord Lannister had personally seen that all of his offspring were taught properly, be it the late queen, the Kingslayer or the Dwarf. The Imp was said to be close to his King nephew, even before the boy had inherited the throne.

"The King will know soon," She said. "If he is smart, he will not free Garlan. He needs a buffer. He knows someone snatched Loras, and he knows that whoever has the Knight of Flowers has a leash on the Reach. Garlan is the only thing keeping us from barking at the throne's command."

"The Dornish want us to rise for the dragon, and the crown has Garlan," Alerie stressed, her pacing becoming more frantic as she neared the window. "We are stuck."

"The King doesn't know the Martells have Loras," Margaery suggested, a spark of her usual cunning returning to her eyes. "We could use that."

Olenna shook her head, the movement slow and deliberate. "No. The man is smart, Margaery. Unlike Joffrey, he listens to that dwarf. They will find out."

"How?" Her daughter-in-law challenged, stopping in her tracks. "The Spider has tucked his tail and vanished. The King's ears are gone. If he allows Garlan to return under the guise of family business, we could strike a deal with the Martells and free Loras before the throne is any the wiser."

"He will not let him go," She replied. "Simply on the principle that a missing Lora and a missing Queen suggest a conspiracy larger than a few brigands. The Stag king will keep Garlan close because he cannot afford to lose the Reach."

"He appointed a dwarf as his Hand; he can't be as formidable as you fear," The Hightower said, moving toward the table.

Olenna raised a single, arched brow. "Never judge a book by its cover, Alerie, and never judge a Lannister by his height. He might be half a man in stature, but he is still Tywin's son. Lord Lannister was many things, but a poor teacher of his own blood was not one of them. He has taught his children the value of a hostage."

She set her teacup down with a definitive clack. The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire.

"What then?" Her Granddaughter asked, her voice sceptical and tinged with a rare touch of fear. "Are we to sacrifice Loras by staying loyal to a King who offers us nothing but a seat in the gallery?"

"I never said that," She replied.

"Then we side with Dorne? And watch the King execute Garlan on the steps of the Sept?" Her Daughter-in-law asked, her hand shaking as she leaned against the table.

"Calm down, woman. I never said that either," the Queen of Thorns said, her voice regaining its pensive cool.

"Then what?" Alerie cried. "What is left for us?"

Olenna looked at the flickering shadows on the wall, her mind spinning through a dozen different betrayals and alliances.

"Yes," she whispered, her face settling into the mask of the Lady of Thorns. "That is the issue. What is to be done when every move leads to a grave?"

Lord Monford Velaryon stood upon the deck of the Pride of Driftmark, his silhouette a long streak against the waters of the Blackwater Bay. He was a man in his early thirties, possessing the tall, broad-shouldered frame that had long been the hallmark of his ancient Valyrian bloodline.

His features were sharp, often described as strikingly handsome by his wife and the two lovers who lived at High Tide; yet, there was a hardness in his eyes today that spoke of hefty burdens.

He had risen with Lord Stannis during the recent uprising, devoting the Velaryon fleet to the cause of the man he felt held the better claim, or, more accurately, the man who was not a Lannister.

While Monford had provided the ships, he had not led them into the charge himself; instead, he had entrusted that perilous task to his baseborn brother, Aurane Waters.

Monford's memories of this coast were steeped in a different time-period. He had been but a lad when Prince Rhaegar had visited Driftmark. He remembered standing at his father's side to welcome the silver-haired prince, the heir to the Iron Throne whose seat was the nearby fortress of Dragonstone.

In those days, the bond between the dragons and the seahorses had seemed everlasting. The Silver Prince had ruled Dragonstone with a serene grace, though for many years, the old Ser Rosby had overseen the island's affairs until his death just months before the infamous tourney at Harrenhal.

Rosby had been succeeded by Ser Darkwood of Duskendale, a man who eventually fell at the Trident alongside his prince. Monford's own father had perished in that same fierce battle, leaving him to inherit the ancient seat of Driftmark amidst the ruins of a dynasty.

He had knelt before Robert the Usurper out of necessity, becoming a bannerman to the new king's brother, Stannis.

Yet, when the possibility arose to cast down the Lannister control that had strangled the court, he had chosen the side of the stag. He did not love Stannis, but he loathed the lions of the Rock with a cold, generational fury.

Now, that campaign lay in ashes, broken by a boy who was proving to be a far more formidable foe than anyone had anticipated. Stannis had proclaimed Joffrey-called-Baratheon a bastard born of incest, yet he had never dared to throw such a slur upon the younger brother, Haridon Baratheon.

To do so would have been a fool's errand; the boy was a Baratheon by both his looks and personality, as far as he had heard. Black of hair, green of eye, and possessing a frame that promised to be even taller than the late usurper's.

But the King was more than just brawn. His actions showed a mind that was quick and sharp.

He had moved fast to handle the North; he had forcefully placed himself in the position of Hand, fought a battle with his Kingsguard uncle and then manhandled the King to protect the Warden of the North, not in that order, though.

In one move, he had pacified the Starks and the Tullys, effectively ending a rebellion before it could consume the realm.

Then, he had turned his attention to his uncle Stannis and crushed the threat with alarming efficiency. Roping in the Tyrells with the contract of marriage, leading the forces despite having knights like Ser Barristan to do so for him.

The boy showed himself to be a perfect mix of the Lannister and Baratheon.

Monford looked out at the harbour of the King's Landing.

A moment later, his eyes returned to the Pride of Driftmark, his beloved ship.

Stannis had asked for the ship during the war, but he had stalled, citing extensive repair work. He loved the vessel too much to see its dark purple wood splintered by bolts or rammed by a galley.

Now, it would act as his temporary fortress in a city that felt like a trap.

As the ship manoeuvred toward the docks, Monford noted a small welcoming party waiting on the stone quay. His purple-hulled ships and the seahorse banners were unmistakable, and their approach would have been signalled from the moment they passed Massey's Hook.

His captain, a man of unique skill, brought the massive vessel to a smooth halt against the pilings. Monford smoothed his doublet, checked the set of his sword, and prepared for the negotiation of a lifetime.

He was here to buy his brother Aurane's life and freedom, along with the lives of many war prisoners and the Velaryon men captured in the Reach.

A wide, heavy plank was lowered, the wood groaning as it settled. He descended with a contingent of his most trusted household guards trailing behind him.

The group waiting for him was led by a figure that got his immediate attention despite his small stature: Tyrion Lannister, the Imp.

It was a rare and tapered gesture for the Hand of the King to welcome a guest personally at the docks; such tasks were usually beneath the dignity of the office, entrusted to lesser functionaries or knights.

Behind the dwarf stood a phalanx of guards—some draped in the crimson of House Lannister, others in the gold cloaks of the City Watch. The sun glinted off their breastplates, a silent reminder of the power that now held the capital.

"Lord Velaryon," the dwarf said, offering a curt nod. There was no warmth in his voice, no practised smile of a diplomat. His mismatched eyes—one green, one black—scanned him with intellect.

"Lord Hand," Monford replied, keeping his tone neutral. To show open disrespect to a Lannister in the heart of their power would be a fatal stupidity, regardless of his personal distaste for the family.

"Let us return to the Red Keep and discuss our business in the comfort of the solar," the dwarf said, gesturing toward a heavy, ornate carriage waiting nearby. "I must apologise, however. Your soldiers will have to make their way to the Keep on foot, or perhaps ride if they have brought their own mounts from your hold. We cannot accommodate them in the carriage."

The Lord of Driftmark felt the sting of the move immediately. It was a classic show of strength—a tactic designed to isolate him.

By stripping him of his guard, the Hand was turning a diplomatic visit into an unofficial custody. It was a move calculated to sow seeds of vulnerability before a single word of negotiation had been spoken.

"If I may, Lord Hand, I would prefer to travel with my men. We can easily purchase horses at the local stables," Monford countered, remaining rooted to the spot.

The dwarf smiled then, but it was a sharp, crooked thing that did not reach his eyes. "The King would have been pleased to provide horses for your men, my lord, if there were any to be had. It is a tragedy of war, you see. Your last liege, Lord Stannis, waged a rather brutal campaign against this city. The stables of King's Landing are currently quite empty of mature mounts fit for a lord's retinue."

It was a blatant lie. King's Landing was the commercial heart of the realm; its breeders were famous for their extensive stock and their ability to procure any animal for the right price.

But the message was obvious: In this city, you have exactly what we permit you to have.

"I must insist you ride with me, Lord Velaryon," the Hand said, his voice smoothing as he turned and waddled toward the carriage.

Monford had no choice. To refuse further would be to invite a public confrontation he did not desire. He followed the dwarf into the cramped, velvet-lined interior.

The ride through the city was as he expected. King's Landing smelled of its usual corruption—stagnant water, open sewers, and the iron tang of the nearby smithies. Monford tried to focus on the passing streets, but he was acutely aware of the Hand sitting opposite him.

When he turned his head, he found Tyrion's two-colored eyes fixed on him, unblinking and devoid of emotion, as if the dwarf were reading the very thoughts in his skull.

They passed through the massive gates of the Red Keep, the iron portcullis banging shut behind them. His own soldiers were nowhere to be seen, lost somewhere in the labyrinthine streets of the lower city.

Finally, the carriage jerked to a halt in the central courtyard.

The dwarf climbed out with practised ease. "Please, Lord Velaryon, do not be shy. You have visited this Keep many times over the years. Though I suppose, usually under more... favourable circumstances, and to pay homage to a different king."

Monford did not dignify the jab with a response. He stepped out of the carriage and looked up at the familiar crimson stone of the Red Keep. He had come here before to pledge his sword to King Robert, and long before that, he had walked these halls as a boy in the shadow of the dragons.

Now, he was here to haggle with the son of the man who had pulled those dragons down.

The game had changed, but the stakes stayed the same: survival. He straightened his cloak and followed the Hand in the royal corridors.

The halls of the the Keep felt more ominous than he recalled, or perhaps it was simply the unsettling nature of his visit to the capital. He walked a half-pace behind the Lord Hand, the dwarf's mismatched eyes periodically glancing back at him.

It was a clear mindgame to intimidate Monford. It was no new news that the Velaryons had never been an ardent ally of the Baratheons. Even when the King's Landing had fallen, the queen and her son were transported to Dragonstone from the capital on a ship with a flag of seahorses.

And when the Baratheon had tried to seize the Dragonstone and the two dragons there, the same boat had them ferried to Essos.

"The King is not happy with your family right now, Lord Velaryon," Tyrion said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "He has a wife missing, a mother to mourn, and an uncle who tried to burn his house down."

"And I made the mistake of supporting my liege lord, didn't I?" He bit back; the sarcasm in his eyes was clear to see.

"Yes, you did." The Dwarf replied easily, not even a frown on his face. "I would advise you to be brief and, if possible, polite. Humility is a rare thing in this city, but it pairs well with a plea for mercy."

Monford tightened his jaw. "I am here for justice, Lord Hand. My brother acted on my orders, and the fleet followed the commands of their liege. If there is a price to be paid, it should be paid in gold and ships, not blood."

"Justice is a treacherous word," Tyrion countered, halting before a pair of oak doors guarded by two knights, one with a yellow wolf on his grey cloak and another with a simple white cloak. "Most men want mercy but ask for justice, only to realise justice is far more unforgiving."

The doors swung open, revealing the Small Council chamber. At the head of the table sat Haridon Baratheon. Even seated, the King's presence was not easily dismissed.

As far as he had heard, the last King, the boy Joffrey, had been a creature of thoughtless cruelty and arrogance. Looking at the King, that particular brand of malice was absent.

King Robert had been a drunken whoremonger whose desires had defined his later years on the throne, neglecting the realm and allowing it to rot under heavy debt. His son, however, appeared to be made of sterner stuff.

Ser Haridon of the Whitesword was a tall man, wide of frame, with a juvenile cropping of a black beard on his chin that couldn't quite hide the sharp, determined line of his jaw. His black hair was unruly, and his green eyes shone with a silent but focused intensity.

He looked like a man who had already forgotten how to smile, his face a mask of sombre duty.

There was no doubt he was a Baratheon; he looked like a true stag of the Stormlands. Which was accented by the massive war hammer placed beside him.

Monford eyed the weapon; it was likely there for intimidation. Why else would the King need a weapon beside him in a council chamber guarded by two knights? One of them was clearly a Kingsguard.

"Lord Monford Velaryon," the King said, his voice somewhat deep, not matured like a man yet, but not young as a child either. He didn't stand, nor did he offer the customary gesture for his guest to sit.

He simply watched, his hands folded on the table before him like stalking predators.

"Your Grace," He said, bowing low. He felt the weight of the King's gaze like a physical pressure against his neck.

The Imp hopped on the chair of the Hand, a cup of wine already there. He had heard that the dwarf son of the Old Lion was more like his grandfather than his father. Smart, though, quite smart.

Under Robert, dignitaries and visiting lords had been held in the open court, amidst the spectacle of sycophants and the smell of mead. Even Aerys, paranoid as he had become in the final years of his reign, had made a show of attending to his lords in the Great Hall. This King, however, seemed to prefer the intimacy of the council chamber.

Monford supposed that he might be more overwhelmed than predicted. Though he didn't have the boldness to look back at the king's face to see if he had bags beneath his eyes.

"Your brother brought your ships to my bay to burn my city," Haridon began, his tone devoid of anger, which somehow made it more menacing. "You gave your fleet to your bastard brother and told him to follow a rebel."

He remained silent for a moment, choosing his words with the care of a man walking on thin ice. He was in the domain of the King, and while Haridon did not look like a monster, he knew that a calm face could often be a mask for a terrifying will.

It was better not to snark back a reply that might end his line then and there.

"Look at me, when I am talking to you, my lord. And tell me if I am lying," The King said. Monford looked up. The boy was staring directly at him, his gaze unblinking.

He breathed out, trying to calm his frantic nerves. "No offence to you, Your Grace. When your father gave the seat of Dragonstone to your uncle, Lord Stannis, I was made to pledge a vow to him. As his vassal, his command was the one I was to follow. When he revolted, I did what was simply expected of me."

"And I am not here to ask for mercy, My lord. I am here to ask for justice," He said out finally.

"Justice, you say," the Dwarf interjected, swirling the wine in his cup. "You might be a vassal of Stannis, but your true allegiance must lie with the Throne. He waged a war without justification, built not on truth but on the frantic claims of a man who couldn't accept his position. And you assisted him with your sails and swords."

The Velaryon turned his focus to the Hand. "Then what should I have done? Revolted against Lord Stannis? He was the Master of Ships, with most of the royal fleet already under his hand at Dragonstone. He would have sacked Driftmark, seized my ships anyway, and moved on the capital."

"So, you chose the easier path," the King replied, his eyes neutral but sharp. "Hand over the fleet to your baseborn brother, make him an admiral to keep your own hands clean, and then sit back to see which way the wind blows."

The Lord of the Driftmark bristled, his pride as a Velaryon finally cracking through his caution. "I pledged a vow to him, Your Grace. We, Velaryons, have always stood by our vows; we have stood with the Throne through countless wars and rebellions."

He had expected the King to rise to the bait, to scowl, to yell, or to reach for that hammer beside him. Instead, he barely raised a brow before shaking his head slowly. "What is it that you deem justice, Lord Velaryon?"

The boy might be Robert Baratheon's son, but he was no wroth idiot. He could remain calm even when snarked at. It was an admirable yet dangerous quality in a ruler. The rumours suggested that even the boy-king had been of short fuse, torturing and punishing servants and maids for little mistakes, his younger brother was not.

"I ask for the release of Aurane Waters and the men of Driftmark," Monford replied, straightening his back to find some pretence of his dignity. "We followed Lord Stannis as his vassals, as was our duty. We acted out of duty to our liege lord."

The King stood then, the movement sudden and fluid. He walked around the table, stopping just inches from Monford.

The Baratheon was a full head taller, his shoulders nearly twice the width of Monford's own. Up close, he smelled of leather, the metallic tang of old iron, and a sharp, cutting scent.

"Duty is a fine shield, Lord Monford, but a poor excuse," Haridon said. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that shook his will. "You hate my late mother's family. I know this. You stayed at Driftmark while your brother fought so that you could claim ignorance if the wind changed. The wind has changed, Lord Velaryon. Stannis is bound for the Wall, and your brother is rotting in my black cells."

He didn't flinch, though his pulse was racing like a trapped bird. "What is your price, Your Grace?"

"Your loyalty," the boy said. "Not the kind you give with a bowed head and a hidden dagger."

The King moved back, creating a space between them that felt colder. "Your fleet will be added to the Royal Navy, commanded by the man I choose for the next ten years. If you remain loyal, if your ships serve me without hesitation, they will sail back to Driftmark in the eleventh year. Furthermore, your son, Monterys, is to remain at court. He shall squire for my sworn shield, Ser Jon the Red Wolf, until he is knighted."

The demand hit Monford like a physical blow. To lose his fleet was to be stripped of his house's ancient power; to lose his son was to have his heart held in a cage within the Red Keep.

He glanced at the Imp, who was observing the conversation with an apathetic, bored expression, then back to the King's stern face.

"And my brother?" he asked through gritted teeth, a pit of dread forming in his stomach.

"Aurane will be pardoned and allowed to return to Driftmark to act as your castellan," Haridon replied. "He is a skilful sailor. It would be a waste to hang a man with his talents. But hear me, Lord Velaryon, if I ever see a seahorse banner raised in rebellion again, I will burn High Tide to the waterline with you and your kin inside it."

In that moment, Monford looked at the King and did not see the ghost of Robert Baratheon. He saw the cold, uncompromising legacy of the dragons his ancestors had once served.

"I accept," He whispered, his voice a ghost of its former pride.

"Good," the King said, turning his back to look out the window toward the Blackwater Bay. "Lord Hand, see to the paperwork. Lord Velaryon, you are dismissed. Try not to let the door hit you on your way out—I'm told the repairs are quite expensive."

Monford turned and walked out.

Ser Belmore shifted his weight, the cold stone of the Eyrie's solar floor seeping through his boots. His gaze flickered toward Lady Arryn, who looked every bit the grieving, fraying figure the rumours suggested.

She was draped in a light blue gown of fine Myrish silk that clung haphazardly to one shoulder, revealing skin as pale and translucent as skimmed milk. She possessed the classic Tully features, the vibrant red hair and the deep blue eyes, but the fire had long since been replaced by a watery, frantic light.

Her face was shallow, her cheeks sunken, and the dark bags beneath her eyes looked like bruises earned from a lifetime of sleepless nights.

He had to admit that the woman looked sick, perhaps even teetering on the edge of a total descent, but she was the mother of his liege. He was only standing in this room because of Ser Edgen's unfortunate folly.

The previous castellan had made the mistake of crossing the young Lord Robert, and at the boy's shrieking insistence, he had been unceremoniously shoved through the Moon Door to find a quick death in the valley below.

Now, Belmore was the new Castellan.

It was a promotion that should have filled his heart with pride, but it felt more like a death sentence. To be Castellan was to be the primary target of Lady Arryn's cynical, spiralling paranoia.

Every shadow was a Lannister assassin; every whispered word in the courtyard was a plot to steal her son.

Lord Robert, Sweetrobin, as his mother called him, sat in the high seat of the Arryns, looking like a sickly bird huddled against a tempest. He was slight and feeble, his skin nearly as pallid as his mother's, and his hair was the dull, muddy brown of a riverbed.

It was a jarring contrast to the pale blonde locks that had defined the Arryn line for generations. The boy looked nothing like the late Lord Jon. He was prone to tremors and sudden, alarming seizures, and he stayed unweaned long past the age of decency.

Even now, his eyes were fixed on his mother's chest with a hungry, desperate yearning that made many of the Vale lords turn away in revulsion.

The current tension in the room, however, was not due to the boy's infirmity. It was centred on the small, square parchment held in the Maester's hand.

The seal was unmistakable: the red sun and gold spear of House Martell.

Ser Belmore felt out of his depth. He was a man of fences and ledgers, not a grand strategist like Bronze Yohn Royce or the legendary Jon Arryn.

He knew how to secure a gate and ration grain, but he did not know how to navigate the murky waters of Dornish diplomacy.

"You are certain this arrived this morning?" Lady Arryn asked, her voice shrill and brittle. She stared at Maester Coleman with mistrust so thick it was almost tangible.

Coleman, a skinny man who lacked the tolerant courage of most Maesters, nodded quickly. His chain rattled with the movement, and his eyes darted around the room as if looking for an exit.

He had served the Arryns through the transition of power, and the pressure was clearly taking its toll on his nerves.

Lady Lysa unsealed the letter with a jagged, impatient motion. As her eyes scanned the lines, her face underwent several emotions. The frown of suspicion melted into deep consideration, which quickly flared into a look of ecstatic elation.

"At last," she breathed, her voice trembling with a mixture of relief and triumph. She raised the letter toward the high window, letting the pale Vale sun illuminate the ink. "At last, I know where he is."

Belmore remained silent, though curiosity burned in his throat. Who was "he"? Was it a lost ally? A secret friend? Or perhaps the man she believed had murdered her husband?

It was not his place to ask.

In the Eyrie, silence was the only way to ensure one didn't take a sudden, terminal flight.

"Who did you find, Mother?" Robert asked, his whiny voice cutting through the silence. He shifted in his seat, his small hands clutching the armrests. "Is it a new friend for me? Can we make him fly?"

Lady Arryn turned to her son, her expression softening into that smothering, obsessive affection she reserved only for him. She stepped toward the throne and stroked his muddy hair. "No one of your worry, my sugar child. Someone who will help us be safe. Someone who will make all the bad people go away."

She turned back to Maester Coleman, the warmth vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. She was the Lady of the Vale again, uncaring and commanding.

"Send ravens to my son's bannermen," she ordered, her blue eyes flashing. "Tell the Royces, the Waynwoods, the Hunters, and the Redforts. Order them all to the Eyrie at once. Tell them the Lady of the Vale has something of grave importance to discuss,"

The Maester bowed low and scurried from the room.