38: D I R E C T R U L E F R O M K I N G ' S L A N D I N G or, how Joffrey Baratheon imported totalitarianism to Westeros by Neptune1(ASOIAF)
Fic type: Si
Si proceeds to go full hitler but without all that Nazi brutaility.
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D I R E C T
R U L E
F R O M
K I N G ' S
L A N D I N G
or, how Joffrey Baratheon imported totalitarianism to Westeros
Link:https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/d-i-r-e-c-t-r-u-l-e-asoiaf-si.573995/reader/
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I was sorely tempted to make like one of those divers you see in the Olympics and jump from the window, but you know how we Singaporeans are, we're risk-averse. And death was an unpleasant experience that I'd rather not repeat. Why, I didn't even know if this was a one-off or a two-off or even a three-off- there were no numbers hovering above my head or blazing on my forearm to tell me how many lives I had left.
Also, I was a pussy.
"Good day," I told Clegane. "Tell the servants that all the water I use from now on has to be boiled." After a beat, I added, "Please."
Clegane raised a burnt eyebrow.
"New nameday, new habits."
Clegane snorted and lurched off to the kitchens. I shut the door behind me and attempted to plot. There was an awful lot of words and ideas swirling around in my head. I wondered what I should do.
...hmm. Maybe I should jump off again, to see what sort of ideas would come to me in the blackness.
...nah, too risky.
Clegane went down again and came up with a cup of hot water. I drank two mouthfuls, splashed some of it on my face, and the rest I gargled and spat onto the cold stone. Clegane raised another eyebrow.
"Oral hygiene."
Another eyebrow. Clegane rarely spoke, but his eyebrows were very expressive. I wonder if Martin had included that in the series.
-----
Back at the tourney. Through the dark arts of asking politely and using my elbows to dastardly effect, I found myself sitting beside Baelish. Funny how he seemed less scary when he had nothing to hold over my head, eh? Same for Varys. Same for Uncle Renly; and, by the way, his proclivities were blindingly obvious once you knew what to look out for. I exhaled softly and fondled the wooden armrests on my chair. I figured I'd do a bit less uplifting this time around; I'd try to find the little things in life that made it worth living. The sun in the sky, the scent of perfume on the wind, pretty servants, pretty ladies…
"Hah! Show the fucker!"
And my father. Joy.
I'd avoided him all the while, in my previous life. He tolerated my presence; I think the cat incident was still fresh in his mind. Once it had faded, perhaps I could lure him out from his stupor by proposing a father-son bonding trip. Hunting, perhaps, or touring the Crownlands. I needed to get out of King's Landing; for all its potential, the city could be awfully claustrophobic.
Somewhere on the tourney grounds, a warhammer flashed.
I blinked, slowly, and waited for the churning in the pit of my stomach to subside.
"So, Lord Baelish," I asked, casually, swilling the wine in my goblet, "how do you make so much money?"
"Shrewd investments," Baelish replied, equally casually, "and prudence." He sighed theatrically- perhaps he considered this query a brief display of curiosity from the boorish, brutal Crown Prince. "The Crown spends altogether too much."
"Oh, I agree completely."
"You do? Interesting."
I'd like to think it was a companionable silence, but Baelish had effectively dismissed me. Well, fair enough; I was young and green. Baelish didn't strike me as the sort of person to trust anyone, and he had good reason not to do so, anyway. I settled into my chair and watched men in suits of armour batter each other in the scorching sun. Time was all I had.
-----
"Seven bless you, Prince Joffrey!"
"Long live!"
"Joffrey!"
"Joffrey!"
"Joffrey!"
Nothing I hadn't heard already. I squinted, tilted my head, and put my hand to my mouth. "You!" I shouted.
Roys jerked. "You! Roys!"
Roys gave me a startled, slightly terrified look. "I've been watching you for some time, Roys! You're a talented young man; King's Landing has nurtured your skills. I'm here to make your acquaintance, Roys!"
A roar went up. The Prince on his horse, doling out food from the tourney to the crowd with his red-cloaks, singling out a young man from the teeming masses? Almost a tale fit for the songs. I could see a dozen flinty stares as Roys advanced timidly through the crowd (doubtless envious, ambitious young men who saw an opportunity for advancement); I gripped his forearm and directed him to one of the red-cloaks. "Hop on, my friend," I murmured to him, "and tell your father you shall return as the sun sets. He has nothing to fear."
He'd have nothing to fear, all right. Tomorrow, I'd drop by Roys' family hovel and string his father up for beating his wife and family. All part of the plan; I'd done that in my other life, too. Defending the smallfolk and whatnot. His sister was fetching enough, anyway.
...why was I still a virgin after spending a couple of months in King's Landing? Must've been the smell.
I repeated the process with the other nine boys whom I'd recruited at random in my past life (wasn't so random now, not when I knew all about them and could feign familiarity convincingly). I knew enough about them from long conversations in the training yard… ah, right. Qyburn. Well, this time I knew he'd already taken up residence with the Brave Companions. But what was the point of fetching the man? Well, I wanted my own pet maester, unlike Pycelle, who had his own duties as Grand Maester. I needed someone to teach these illiterate smallfolk, the burgeoning seeds of my grand, continent-spanning bureaucracy.
I turned to look at the Great Sept of Baelor.
Well, if the maesters weren't at my disposal, the Faith was. I could pull off a Baelor the Blessed fairly convincingly. Hadn't tried it before, but I was fairly confident it'd work.
-----
I shoved the hatch aside and emerged into the sunset. The ten boys- I'd started referring to them in my head as the Decade (sounded awfully pretentious, but it was less clunky)- clambered up soon after, blinking hard and opening and closing their mouths as they took in the view.
"See that?" I pointed. "The Blackwater. Just outside the city limits. If only it were within! Then I'd be able to use the water for all sorts of purposes."
I spent some time talking vaguely about my plans. Far above the city, above the peasant rabble, the Decade listened to me raptly. They were lapping it all up. The Red Keep was elevated some distance above the rest of King's Landing; it provided a sort of geographical divide, a tangible, physical separation between the great and good of the Crownlands and the hoi polloi below. Now ten members of the hoi polloi had been brought to the centre of power in all Westeros- physically and economically elevated. One would have to be extraordinarily humble for the honour not to go to their head. I hoped they were susceptible to my entreaties.
"...and the smallfolk, of course, the smallfolk- I have plans for so many of you! There are more boys like you, boys with talent and ambition. I would raise all of you up- teach you to read and write- we need more boys like you, smarter and sharper." I cultivated the impression of importance- as though I was bringing them into grave matters concerning the Realm with a capital R.
"...tell your friends, your family. The smallfolk in King's Landing. No more will you be abandoned and trod underfoot by the nobility who rampage through the city. I'll stand up for you."
Put that way, it was hard to disagree. Renly fulfilled his capacity as Master of Laws, of course, but the multitude of little indignities that King's Landing suffered daily were beneath his notice- he'd probably inflicted a few of those little indignities himself, too. In any case, I made sure to remain vague.
We headed down soon after. Clegane spent an hour beating the crap out of us, and then I ferried them out of the Red Keep to cheers and dumped them back at home. Winked at Roys before leaving. I'd be back the following day.
-----
"Tommen! Tommen, come over."
Tommen gulped. He took one step forward, looked at the kitten in his arms, then at Joffrey, and set the kitten carefully on the ground.
Joffrey had stripped to his waist. Sweat glistened on his back as he rested on the handle of his great hammer. The ten other boys who accompanied him everywhere swung hammers of equal size at large pieces of stone fished from the seaside. There were a few large tubs of an odd grey slurry- he glanced at it, nervously, as he passed. Would Joffrey drop him into one of them? Tommen looked over his shoulder; Mother was facing the sea, eyes closed. She looked oddly relaxed; and then the moment was broken. Uncle Jaime put a hand on her shoulder.
"Tommen, take this."
It was a glob of that grey stuff. Tommen turned it to and fro in his hands, entranced by the thing. One of the boys whispered to Joffrey, "He's just like my little brother." Joffrey smiled.
"Go on, Tommen, run along. You can shape it however you want- just make sure not to leave it under the sun for too long. It tends to harden if you leave it to bake."
Tommen glanced at Joffrey, stuttered out a word of thanks, and ran back to his mother. The Iron Gate loomed behind them; Joffrey turned back to his lieutenants and gathered them close.
"With these, I can rebuild King's Landing. Starting with your houses. Spread the word. Tell your friends. If we can make sure it's stable enough, we could change the face of the city and make sure that King's Landing never burns forevermore."
He proffered his hand, palm down. Vance laid his hand on top of Joffrey's; then Roys and Qarl and Vardis and Klamm and Penten and Lemnos and Will and Trastam and Mall. "Glory be to King's Landing," they intoned, and pulled away.
-----
"This is the contraption?"
"It is, milord."
The Prince surveyed his face with a squint. "I thought Tobho Mott was doing the forging."
"He was. I just put the finishing touches on, milord."
"Don't call me 'milord'; it's off-putting. What's your name?"
"Gendry, m-"
"Call me Prince Joffrey. Or Joffrey, if you should wish to be impudent."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Prince Joffrey."
The Prince laughed. It was a high, clear sound, rather like the sound of bells ringing. He stuffed two silver stags in Gendry's palm. "You're a good lad, Gendry. Have a wonderful day." He placed the smooth iron balls and odd machine in his basket. "D'you know what this machine is called, Gendry?"
"I don't know, Prince Joffrey."
"Me neither. I'm thinking 'musket'. Ring a bell?"
"No, Prince Joffrey."
"Excellent." The Prince paused, face thoughtful, and reached over to pat Gendry on the shoulder. "Good day to you, Gendry. You're a good man."
The Prince was certainly more pleasant than he'd been a few moons ago. A few moons ago, he'd sent one of the apprentices tumbling into the mud with a kick. He'd laughed. But now- on his nameday, he'd just gone and started throwing food to the smallfolk. And he brought Roys and a few other boys into the Red Keep with him. Roys didn't speak to Gendry much, these days; he'd moved on to greater things. Gendry turned back to his work. He ignored the sound of laughter and hammering coming from Roys' smithy, which had become the centre of the Street of Steel since Roys' father had been sentenced to death by the Master of Laws.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------"If I were queen, the first thing I would do would be to kill all those grey rats. They scurry everywhere, living on the leavings of the lords, chittering to one another, whispering in the ears of their masters. But who are the masters and who are the servants, truly? Every great lord has his maester, every lesser lord aspires to one. If you do not have a maester, it is taken to mean that you are of little consequence. The grey rats read and write our letters, even for such lords as cannot read themselves, and who can say for a certainty that they are not twisting the words for their own ends? What good are they, I ask you?"
"They heal," said Theon. It seemed to be expected of him.
"They heal, yes. I never said they were not subtle. They tend to us when we are sick and injured, or distraught over the illness of a parent or a child. Whenever we are weakest and most vulnerable, there they are. Sometimes they heal us, and we are duly grateful. When they fail, they console us in our grief, and we are grateful for that as well. Out of gratitude we give them a place beneath our roof and make them privy to all our shames and secrets, a part of every council. And before too long, the ruler has become the ruled.
"That was how it was with Lord Rickard Stark. Maester Walys was his grey rat's name. And isn't it clever how the maesters go by only one name, even those who had two when they first arrived at the Citadel? That way we cannot know who they truly are or where they come from … but if you are dogged enough, you can still find out. Before he forged his chain, Maester Walys had been known as Walys Flowers. Flowers, Hill, Rivers, Snow … we give such names to baseborn children to mark them for what they are, but they are always quick to shed them. Walys Flowers had a Hightower girl for a mother … and an archmaester of the Citadel for a father, it was rumored. The grey rats are not as chaste as they would have us believe. Oldtown maesters are the worst of all. Once he forged his chain, his secret father and his friends wasted no time dispatching him to Winterfell to fill Lord Rickard's ears with poisoned words as sweet as honey."
-----
"Fascinating," Pycelle harrumphed, as he examined the wet glob of concrete. His bushy eyebrows frowned at the grey block on his desk. "And you say it cools."
"It does," I agreed, "but I'm not sure if it's suited for building."
"Why would you want to rebuild King's Landing?" Pycelle queried. "There's little wrong with it, and what is wrong with it cannot be so easily fixed." He harrumphed again. "It costs coin, and-"
"I'll let the smallfolk know how to make it. It's easy enough, after all. Sand and gravel and water. If they want to improve their own housing, they'll build their own houses."
Pycelle chortled. "Not so easy, Prince Joffrey. It might not be stable." His chambers at the Red Keep were fairly large- I'd glanced around a few times when I'd entered, in hopes of locating the book. I wanted to be able to get to it before he did. Before Arryn and Stannis got to it. Asking for the book would be signalling interest; I wanted to be able to pluck it from the pile and whisk it away.
"I know. That's why I'd like to ask for your help to make it more stable."
"I'm busy," Pycelle began, and frowned when my face went flat, "but I shall send for maesters from the Citadel. Spare maesters. Maesters who won't be missed. With talents in this field." He meant defrocked maesters, or the closest equivalent; maesters like Qyburn, except non-outlaws. He coughed, lightly, and I had the sense that my time with him was over. "Anything else?"
"Actually, yes," I told him, politely. "I've been looking for a book by Maester Malleon. Something about genealogies."
"Oh, genealogies! Yes." Pycelle rose to his feet and tottered to the piles of books littering his chambers. The very same chamber had been home to at least a dozen Grand Maesters over the years; Pycelle had been here since Aerys II, and it showed. He kicked aside a few books and emerged triumphantly with a thick, leather-bound tome. "This is the only copy I have," he wheezed, and placed it in my hands. "Guard it well."
"I will," I promised. "Wait, the only copy?"
"Why, the other copy is in the Citadel! Such that his knowledge not go to waste, should the book be lost." Pycelle's eyes glinted. He probably knew why I was borrowing the book, and it wasn't to read it.
"Where in the Citadel, exactly…?"
"Private vaults of the Archmaesters. We keep records, you know," and with a twinkle in his eye and a tap of his wizened temple, Pycelle made his way to the door and held it open for me. "Off you go, Prince Joffrey."
"My thanks, Grand Maester."
-----
There were plenty of other books on bloodlines in Pycelle's library, or indeed in the libraries across King's Landing. But none like Malleon's; the man had been like a bloodhound, seeking out the oldest, crumbling tomes and obtaining true-to-life physical portraits of the old lords from them. He'd been obsessed with reconstructing history- more so than his colleagues. Rather than just recording deeds- like most history-focused maesters- or even recording the thought processes and numbers behind those deeds- which some peculiar maesters insisted on engaging in- Malleon had gone way deep.
"Nothing else about hair colour in the other genealogies, Arryn," I whispered, as the pages burnt and crumpled. "Eat your heart out."
Once the entire thing was reduced to dust, I took my dagger and sliced the leather into thin strips. Then I tossed the stuff down a latrine.
Waste disposal in King's Landing was truly horrendous. I had no idea where to even begin constructing a sewer system. As Pycelle had said, King's Landing's true problems weren't so easily fixed by a novel mixture of the same old substances.
No, its problems were more of the soul- the same energies that had sapped Fat Bob of his youth and vitality were at work across the city, in Baelish and Varys and Arryn and, yes, my mother. And me, too. Sometimes I really pitied Fat Bob.
And then I got over it and got back to work.
-----
"So, Father," I began, over dinner, "the Dragonpit."
My father choked on his wine. Mother watched dispassionately as he sputtered, eyes burning like embers, before he rounded on me. "What about the Dragonpit?"
"We ought to demolish it."
"What for?"
"It's a remnant of the Targaryens."
Fat Bob's eyes flared again, briefly, before settling into a more manageable stupor. "Never say that word in my presence again. And take that up with the Hand, for fuck's sake." He ignored me for the rest of the meal; I ate my fill, brought my plate outside, and dumped the remainder into a basket. Once the Red Keep was done, I'd go off and make my rounds.
"Prince Joffrey," Arryn muttered, as I stepped out into the cold nighttime air. "You wrote to me about the Dragonpit?"
"Father told me to speak to you. I suppose he didn't know I'd already written?"
"My work is never done," the Hand admitted, softly, and we both laughed. It was rather tentative, that laugh, but I counted it to be progress. I'd been working on warming to Jon Arryn for quite some time- tamping down my bad behaviour, for example, and being extra nice to everyone. Though the latter was rather something I tended to do in general anyway. There was always time to be a dick when I had some real power. "But- yes, the Dragonpit. Gods, I've been so busy that I never once considered that it should be torn down. It's an eyesore."
"I have an idea for a replacement."
"You do," Arryn muttered. "Of course you do. Pycelle told me about your bright idea. Is it connected to that, eh-"
"Concrete," I filled in. "I call it concrete."
"Concrete," he repeated, and nodded. "Is it, then?"
"A short, squat complex made of concrete. For the men of learning who have come to King's Landing, and for the sparrows of the Faith as well." The people about town had started to name the defrocked maesters 'men of learning'; they were clearly below the maesters who moved about in the manses, but they weren't exactly on par with the smallfolk either. And the sparrows- well, true sparrows would protest being given hearth and home, but the vast majority whom I'd spoken to on my strolls through the city felt that they'd be willing to stay put and speak to the smallfolk about my various merits if they were given bed and board and food and whores- the latter on the down-low, of course.
"I understand this 'concrete' is not yet stable," Jon Arryn said, carefully. "I also understand that your friends have been waiting for it to be stable for some time."
"They have other things to occupy them," I said, airily, and started to walk. Arryn kept pace as we moved down the serpentine steps, through the portcullis, and then out the postern. He noticed, and I noticed that he noticed, as the red-cloaks fell in step around us. His men- that is, Arryn's men- rose to their feet and followed us at a distance. My basket bounced beside me. "Pycelle's men of learning are teaching them- and the rest of the smallfolk- to read and write and count."
"I suppose they demand less for their services too," Arryn murmured.
"Just so."
The ten of them were waiting outside. The red-cloaks opened ranks, and I stepped forward, opening the basket. I looked over my shoulder- five servants emerged, each of them with two large baskets. I opened my basket and the Decade took what they needed to supplement their dinner. "Compliments of Prince Joffrey," I told them, grinning, and they echoed my words. "Compliments of Prince Joffrey."
The maids gave them their cargo, one basket each, and I bade them farewell. They raised their hands as they descended to the city, and I raised my hand to them in silence.
Jon Arryn accompanied me back through the postern, back through the portcullis, and stopped outside the Tower of the Hand. "You're trying to get in on the city," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"Varys and Lord Baelish have their networks," I said. "And their networks stretch further afield than I could ever hope to match. I'm just trying to be someone of consequence outside the walls of the Red Keep."
Arryn stood in silence, frowning, staring into my eyes. I blinked a few times and folded my arms. Then I started tapping my foot on the cobblestones.
"I'll give the order to tear down the Dragonpit," he eventually said. "But don't think it's on your account; it's been an eyesore for a while. If you want to leave your mark on the city- there's your mark. Make the most of it."
-----
Funnily enough, Maegor's Holdfast had no secret passages. I'd searched high and low- with Clegane, too- and we'd found nothing. I had wanted to bring in the Decade, but even Mother put her foot down there. They'd made it to the Lower Bailey, and no further.
"You're sure," Uncle Renly finally said.
"No secret passages."
"Huh," he exhaled, as we stepped out into the corridor and made our way downstairs, "I could've sworn there was one. An escape route."
I shrugged.
Uncle Renly really was rather frivolous. As Master of Laws, he was competent at his job, but delegated a lot. I suppose he didn't have a choice, since he couldn't impel his subordinates to do their jobs- Baelish owned the lot. He spent most of his time with Tyrell retainers… and his dear darling Loras, of course.
"So what do you think of my idea?"
"You brought me into the Holdfast to talk about that?" Renly guffawed as we slowed to a stop beside the dry moat. "Gods, and here I thought my brother was boring." He shook his head, the mirth suddenly gone. "No."
"Why not? Just within the city walls-"
"No. I set the laws. I make the judgement. This- this code-" and here Uncle Renly's voice was derisive- "it would strip me of my power. A Master of Laws has to have some power, some freedom to decide judgement. It wouldn't do to be so inflexible."
"We can make allowances," I told him. "If it works within King's Landing, it should work in the Crownlands. If it works in the Crownlands, it should work across Westeros. Imagine," I continued, waxing rhapsodic, "all Westeros obedient to laws set down by you. One man… to whom the whole continent is beholden. From the lowest criminal to the highest noble."
"Get your hands off my- please remove your hands from Lord Renly."
"Sorry," I babbled, and removed my hand from where it had been thrown around Uncle Renly's shoulders. Loras eyed me suspiciously and leaned back against the wall.
"As wonderful as the picture you paint may seem," Renly replied, finally, "do you think the Crownlands would submit to something like that? Just the Crownlands? These are ancient rights and privileges you're trampling on, Joffrey, scattering like so many autumn leaves. You'd have to be constantly on guard against nobles seeking to take their power back. And you'd have to be vicious, too. Even the Crownlands, loyal as they are, would rebel in days."
I watched him go. Another obstacle. Just like Baelish- he'd resisted my suggestions of a more uniform system of measures. That would have doubtless prevented himself and his men from skimming off the top. And Varys- well- he'd resist making his little birds known to the Iron Throne, obviously. But there was no other way to confirm absolute loyalty.
So. Obstacles, obstacles, obstacles. I thought of a queer slanted metal thing in my room. As his head bobbed into the distance, down the serpentine steps, I imagined a smooth metal ball making Uncle Renly's cranium pop like those grapes he loved to eat.
Once you have a hammer, everything else starts to look like a nail.
Now all I had to do was make sure the proto-musket and its proto-gunpowder didn't go off and kill me.
Simple enough. I ran my fingers through my hair and kicked a rock into the dry moat. Frustrating.
This was an EU4 Ironman game, and I was playing as Byzantium.
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"A long time ago, a time before time," Horin intoned, his shaggy hair masking his brilliant blue eyes, "there was the Blackwater, and then there was the western shore of the Blackwater, where it runs deep into Westeros itself."
The crowd of children listened with bated breath. They were atop the Hill of Rhaenys- it was known by another name, these days, a name circulated among the smallfolk of the city in conversation and tales. The Hill of Learning. Horin licked his thumb and turned the hastily scribbled-out manuscript that he was balancing precariously on his thigh.
"Then, upon the Blackwater, there landed ships. Large ships made of weirwood."
The First Men, the children murmured in awe, and whispers and giggles spread through the group. Horin chanced a glance to his left- there Flea Bottom lay. Somewhere in that dizzying, putrid labyrinth, Qyburn had occupied a freshly emptied-out hovel and would henceforth begin to work his magic. Horin shivered slightly and blamed it on the wind with a smile. He had no grounds on which to attack Qyburn; had he not been expelled from the Citadel as well, for spreading lies?
"The First Men, yes, Alys." He smiled kindly at one of the girls closer to him. "They landed here- where King's Landing stands now- and here, upon the Hill of Learning, and there- upon the Hill of State-" he pointed at the Red Keep, and the children's heads turned dutifully to gaze in awe, "-and upon the Hill of Faith-" he pointed to the Great Sept of Baelor, "the heroes walked. This was their first port of call- their landing-point upon what we now know today to be Westeros."
There were a few rough-looking men on the edges of the crowd, though they smiled at certain children in the mass of bodies seated before Horin. A maester from one of the manses approached, face twisted- doubtless ready to berate Horin for mangling the truth. You lie, swine! Horin could almost hear his self-important whine. The First Men came across the Arm of Dorne, further south than your foul lies! But one of the rough-looking man put his foot out- at least Horin assumed that was what he'd done- and the maester nearly fell into the crowd of children before being rescued by another man, who whispered a few words into his ear before letting him go, white-faced. Horin smiled to himself.
"There were many heroes, of course, but among them the greatest of all was Durran. Ancestor of the great and good Baratheon Kings who rule with supreme benevolence from the Red Keep."
"Let us thank the Seven for Prince Joffrey and King Robert," one of the sparrows called from the edge, holding an unpolished crystal aloft (it was one of their conceits, appearing desperately poor- Horin had seen that sparrow in one of the most expensive brothels in the city once or twice, in passing). The children closed their eyes and recited their prayers. Horin licked his lips and shuffled his notes and made some half-baked thanks to the Seven.
No one would spit on him again for being cast out from the Citadel. King's Landing was a city of opportunity- that much was clear to him. He could preach his "foul lies" all he wanted, and no one would stop him. If there was one thing Horin knew, it was that there were many different interpretations of the truth. He should know- he'd been peddling many truths for as long as he could remember. And most of the people of King's Landing knew not about the ancient histories, anyway- if Prince Joffrey wanted his ancestors' role in Westeros to be raised up, then who was Horin to argue, when he was getting paid a gold dragon once a moon?
The prayers finished. All eyes turned back to Horin, who harrumphed and ruffled his notes again. "Tell us more about Durran and Lann," one of the children begged. They all looked the same to Horin after a while.
"Right, then," Horin replied, smiling kindly (he'd almost got it down to an art), and continued. "The greatest of these heroes was Durran, but his right hand was Lann. Lann the Clever, the First Men called him, and while Durran was great and strong and good with a sword, it was Lann who would wriggle into the most narrow passes, Lann who had the wit to bargain with the many beasts who would stand in their adventures..."
He'd already written a conclusion to the story- Durran and Lann would settle in Storm's End and Casterly Rock, but they'd return to King's Landing first to swear an oath to fight tyranny. From there, it was easy enough to rewrite all history to cast the Baratheons and Lannisters as loyal allies, the greatest rivals to the Targaryens, held in check only by the harshest brutality. He had ideas for how the Lannisters and Baratheons had persuaded Aegon the Conqueror to establish Lord Paramounts and Wardens. So many ideas!
"The maesters will object," Severin had told the Prince, when he'd spoken of his wishes.
"They have little power in King's Landing," the Prince had replied, green eyes glinting in the dim light, "and once there are enough stories and tales spreading outside of King's Landing, across the Crownlands, across Westeros, your tales will become the truth. They will become folklore, and the smallfolk will cling to your words before they think of the maesters and their Citadel." That was the moment Horin had stepped forward and announced that he would carry out the Prince's wishes.
We will make a second Citadel here, Horin thought to himself giddily. And it will be greater than the Citadel in Oldtown. He blinked, glanced around, and broke into a grin. "Children! Here is the Prince himself!"
Cheers rose up as the children turned to look at the boy standing on the edge of the crowd, clad in a simple black-yellow design. He smiled, winked at Horin, and threw pastries from the Street of Flour into the crowd. Grasping hands rose up to catch them. Horin caught the Prince's eye and was gratified to see him nod in approval.
-----
The iron doors were hacked to pieces in the noonday sun. The Prince delivered a final, earth-shattering blow, and ran the back of his hand over his forehead. "On this day," he shouted, voice cracking as it reached the ears of the assembled labourers, "we cast the final ashes of the dragons away!" Cheers.
"We shall tear down this Dragonpit as we did the Dragons and their foul incestuous tyranny!" Boos at the Targaryens. Wenfors could see faces twisted with rage, spittle flying from their mouths as they cursed the Dragons and the Mad King Aerys. He exchanged glances with Yorick. "Mayhaps we should go off to a tavern instead," he suggested, meekly.
"No, no, hang on," Yorick replied, turning his gaze back to the assemblage, his golden cloak flapping in the slight breeze. "This is interesting, I want to watch."
The Prince held a ragged piece of iron above his head. "On this day," he roared, much like the lion emblazoned on his doublet, "I shall return the Dragonpit to the people! It shall be taken down, and every stone, every scrap, everything used in its making shall be sent back to King's Landing, back to the city that birthed it! The dragons are dead, and the Dragonpit will die as well!"
Roars from the crowd again. The Prince certainly loved giving speeches. The smallfolk were lapping it up.
"He's a fine man," Yorick said, thoughtfully, as they adjourned to the pub and bought themselves a round of fine beer with Baelish's coin. "Me children speak well of him."
As do mine, Wenfors thought, heavily.
His son Penten. One of the Prince's lieutenants. He remembered the day he'd gone on leave, his first in a few moons. He'd gone home and seen that it was grey, a strange sight in a street filled with the mouldy colours of brown and black. Penten had been there, a small dagger in his belt, and the look on his face scared Wenfors.
Your son, your family- they would leave you not out of hate, but out of love, the Prince had told him, in that quiet room, in the presence of Penten and dear Gladys and his infant daughter who had no name then. Renly Baratheon commands you, and Baelish pays you, but they do not know what's best for King's Landing. I do.
There were three kinds of men in the gold-cloaks. There were men like Janos Slynt- men who would choose coin over their wives and family without thinking. He'd cast his sons to the deepest depths of Flea Bottom, where they remained with nary a penny of his vast ill-gotten fortune. Men like him- and there were a lot of them in the gold-cloaks- had given themselves over to Baelish completely and utterly, following Lord Renly's few orders dutifully and with much brutality. They were as covered in filth as Baelish himself. (Wenfors, of course, did not know that Slynt was also in the pay of the Lannisters- but the Crown Prince knew, of course, and arranged for his demise nonetheless. To borrow Matthew 6:24; no one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both Lannister and Littlefinger.)
There were men like Yorick, who was quaffing from his mug happily, who would have nothing to do with Baelish but took his money and provided service if paid for it. They did their jobs well, enjoyed the benefits of their position and thought no more of it.
Then there were men like Wenfors. Men who did their jobs, took Baelish's money and thought no more of it. Except that wasn't true. You couldn't get into the gold-cloaks without Littlefinger's say-so; Wenfors had been conscripted on account of his gambling debts. Littlefinger was pushing him, over the brink, over the line that separated Yorick from Slynt.
But Wenfors loved his family. He was flawed, and he gambled away most of the bribes, but he loved his family, and to see that they had moved on without him- that they'd changed what little they'd have according to the whims of the Crown Prince- and then to have the Crown Prince challenge him, in his own home, to be a better man- that was the last straw.
He would speak to those like him, men on the brink. The Prince would get in touch with their families. The Prince would give them, men like him, an ultimatum. If they chose rightly- good. If they chose wrongly- the Prince would shelter their families from the abandonment of their breadwinners, give them a home, allocate them a place in the rapidly rising concrete housing along the coastal walls. Very few of the men Wenfors had met had chosen wrongly- how could they choose wrong, when it was a choice between blood and gold? And Yorick- well, Wenfors had fought beside Yorick and men like him for some time. He knew Yorick, and Yorick knew him. They were friends. If Wenfors asked for help, Yorick would be loath to deny him help.
There were two factions rising in the gold-cloaks. Wenfors was not stupid enough to be on the wrong side. And if he got a plum posting at the end of it, when all was said and done- well, all the better for him, then.
So here was Wenfors' list of priorities, front and centre in his mind from the moment he opened his mouth. He was a father and a husband first. Then a man in the service of Prince Joffrey. Then a man in Littlefinger's service, and then a man in Renly's service. He would do nothing for Littlefinger unless the Prince said so, and why not? What had Littlefinger done for him apart from bring him to more and more lavish gambling dens, give him more and more money to throw away? He would continue in Littlefinger's service, as well, of course, but he would not permit himself to be weak ever again. Never again. And neither would his family.
"Say, Yorick," Wenfors said, "what do you think of the Prince? Honestly."
-----
I hissed as the knife cut into my palm. It was burning hot- I'd soaked it in hot water, and now the barrel of hot water stood at my side as blood dripped into it. I passed it to Vardis, who repeated the process, and so on around the circle. The fire lit our faces. It was late at night. The red-cloaks stood at a distance, glancing over their shoulders now and then. They knew when to give me privacy.
The ritual was complete; we clasped hands. I'd seen this in It a few days before I was dropped into Westeros; I counted to ten in my head and broke the circle. Then I lined them up in ranks. Each of them received a stick of wood. They dipped it in the fire. I thought of tiki torches, incongruously, and smiled briefly. It did parallel, to a certain extent, what I was about to do.
"In old Andalos," I told them, quietly and heavily, "the men used a certain method to introduce new lords, to announce their arrival, to declare allegiance and signal solidarity. Here, of course, we have lots of flowery words- Lord here, Lady there, Ser again." I snorted derisively, and the Decade aped my example. "There- back then- it was different."
I was offering something different- remember that.
Now, the Nazis- they were brutal, they were vile, they killed and killed and killed- but why would I kill for hatred? I would kill for my own self-interests, and certainly not in as large quantities nor with such deliberate intent as the Nazis. And, anyway, anyone killed would just come back on their side. Winter was coming, after all. Yet they had managed to capture a strange sort of mystique in their rituals and rallies and proclamations.
And, with that little side-note and rationale provided, I was offering the Decade- and King's Landing- something different, something entirely new from the pageantry that they were used to in the tourney grounds. I was offering them something personal, something primal and dark and old. (Rather like how some thought of the North, actually.)
Or maybe I just liked to act like a real nasty piece of work.
"Back then, it was different," I repeated, face lit by the flickering light from the torch that I held aloft. The Dragonpit was at our backs, slowly collapsing as the builders turned it to dust. Below, King's Landing was dotted with little concrete houses, some of them rudimentary apartment buildings as some enterprising souls tried to build cubicles on top of one another with the city walls as a spine. I'd tied the smallfolk of King's Landing to me with kindness; Baelish was more of a tempter, calling to the baser sides of human nature and promising riches beyond imagination. That's why I'd tied the Septons and the sparrows to me; I was the good guy here. Not him. "Back then, well, there were rituals like this. These rituals- like the one we just performed- are a sign of loyalty. After the ritual the warlord would give the signal and say nothing. But the men would- knights and archers and levies all- and they would shout the warlord's name, bereft of fancy titles like Ser or Lord or Lady or even King- and they would copy the signal, the signal of fealty and obedience, and the roar would echo over the grasslands and the woods… and their enemies would tremble. Our enemies." My lips were pulled back, eyes glittering. The Decade- the core of my army, the future of Westeros- looked back. Their eyes were set. What cause had they to stop now?
I held the torch aloft with my left hand. I raised my right arm at an angle, stiff, palm down, fingers together. A salute- to myself. "Heil," I whispered, out the corner of my mouth, and for one brief moment I was terrified that they wouldn't respond.
Then,
"Heil Baratheon! Heil Baratheon! Heil! Heil! Heil!"
The sound echoed from the Hill of Learning- always rename things, it helps to change people's perceptions, gives them a hint of something new- and the red-cloaks gave me a look. I winked at Roys, and he changed the chant.
"Heil Joffrey! Heil Joffrey!"
And the Lannister men held their swords aloft, their shields neatly upon the floor, and added their voice to the chorus. Smallfolk were spilling out onto the streets, gazing up at the assemblage on the hilltop, little pinpricks of light in the darkness. And, one by one, tentatively at first but rapidly increasing in courage as more and more of their fellows picked up the chant, they added their voices. They raised their arms aloft.
"Heil! Heil! Heil!"
The roar echoed from one end of King's Landing to the other, except for the manses, where a few candles guttered out from an unseen wind. I smiled at that- a good omen.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. King's Landing might not have known it, but it was binding itself to me. It had shown its allegiance. On the morrow Qyburn would start testing gunpowder manufactured by the Alchemists' Guild on volunteers- effectively giving them a torch and standing back- patching them back together if the resulting explosion was too big. The Street of Silk was already pumping daggers out at a rapid pace, urged on by smallfolk eager to serve as foot soldiers in the new order.
Heil Joffrey Baratheon, Emperor and Autocrat of all Westeros.
Heil me.
-----
"There was a book," Stannis Baratheon growled, the bones of his fist grinding against one another. They were atop the Tower of the Hand, discussing in hushed tones the King's Great Matter. "I know it. There was a book- by a noted Maester. Mall- Mall-something." He sounded bitter, angry, frustrated. "Pycelle told me he'd lost it- lost it. How does one misplace a tome as thick as the man's head?"
Jon Arryn felt the same. "Peace, Lord Stannis," he counselled. "We have the bastards. If we were to present the evidence before the King-" and then he paused.
The ground beneath their feet was shaking.
Jon Arryn set his goblet of wine down on the battlements and squinted into the distance. Atop the Hill of Rhaenys, there was a gathering of torches, visible even from far away. Some brave souls were still up there at this time of night (or was it Jon who was old? he'd stayed up later, once upon a time, back when his bones didn't ache so). And yet Jon Arryn knew that it was Joffrey Baratheon, the Crown Prince, who was up there- for none could doubt his ability to sway the smallfolk. Not since his tenth name-day, and certainly not after tonight, a paltry six moons later.
"You know," Stannis Baratheon said, pensively, and with a bit of a tremor to his voice, after the roar had died down, "I used to think that Prince Joffrey was unworthy. That was what had motivated my investigations. Our investigation is not nearly done, and yet-"
He did not need to say anymore.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Off we go," Robert whistled, tunelessly, and Renly exchanged an amused glance with Loras. The only thing that could rouse Robert from his late mornings was a refill of his wineskin or a hunt. Honestly, had Jon Arryn ever stopped treating him like a child? Then again, if Robert didn't want to be treated like a child… mayhaps he had better stop acting like one.
Ser Selmy glanced at him sharply, and Renly had to duck his head to avoid meeting his eyes. The old knight intimidated him, or mayhaps it was just respect at the man's age. He dug his spurs into the horse's flanks. The animal whinnied; shifted forwards.
"Come on, men," Robert shouted, and hiccupped. "Come on, Renly, Ser Loras."
Renly exchanged another amused glance at Loras for the backhanded insult. Then he looked back at the city thoughtfully.
Robert had been spooked by last night's display. Truth be told, Renly had been, too, though he didn't really quite grasp the enormity of the situation. For his part, what he was concerned about was losing the friendship of the smallfolk. His nephew was eclipsing him rapidly- though, from what he caught in passing from his lobster brother and Jon Arryn, there were ways around his current predicament.
Ah, well, Stannis and Arryn could handle themselves. Four members of the Kingsguard were still in the city, and his gold-cloaks had trained longer than some urchins in the city had been alive. His nephew was many things, but stupid he was not… at least, not anymore. The city was gradually settling down, anyway- it was more peaceful, for one thing. Fewer supplicants came to him- only the nobles and the richest merchants, Joffrey's aggrieved smallfolk who'd been slighted (and rightly so) by one highborn or another, and of course those on Baelish's payroll. Not surprising- Baelish's men had always been troublemakers. Mayhaps Joffrey was having a calming effect on King's Landing?
How little he knew.
-----
"I don't trust the pyromancers," Uncle Jaime said, softly, as we wormed our way into Flea Bottom. Last night had certainly been a spectacle for me- it had also been extraordinarily draining. One full minute of chanting and holding a heavy flaming wooden torch aloft had wreaked havoc on my nerves. The smallfolk stood aside, in silence, as we strolled past. The Lannister men had paused on the outskirts- even now, probably, they were milling around and not-so-subtly guarding the perimeter. Flea Bottom was safe. "Men so high in Aerys' esteem are not to be trusted."
I'd eaten one helping of the famed "bowls of brown", to show that I truly cared for the smallfolk. Actually... it wasn't that bad. Sure, it might've contained rats and murder victims, but since Qyburn had set up shop in the bowels of the most bitterly poor section of the city, the quality and sanitation had markedly improved. It was to Qyburn's clinic- and my inner sanctum- that we progressed, now.
I was whistling. The Things We Do for Love. We'd worked it out beforehand, me and the Decade- this tune meant that I was leading the Kingslayer into Flea Bottom. They'd make the necessary preparations.
["The things I do for love" was what Jaime Lannister said in Game of Thrones, S01E01, before pushing Bran Stark out the window. See? I am witty!]
"Regardless, they've performed great services for me," I told him, as Qyburn's clinic came into sight. "We're developing new weapons. Things like you wouldn't believe. Things that'd make the rest of the realm tremble and piss their breeches if they knew of it."
Uncle Jaime looked dubious. "I'd like to see your new weapon defeat my blade," he scoffed.
I could crush your skull like a grape from twenty yards away without you even knowing it, I thought. Don't talk to me about blades, Daddy dearest- blades are obsolete.
I ducked under a sheet of dirty cloth, and Uncle Jaime followed after some hesitation. He'd been down here with me before, to watch me do Renly Baratheon's job for him, the useless pig. Here, it was clean- empty- dry. This was Qyburn's little corner, smack dab in the middle of Flea Bottom. No one would think to look for us here- and if they were to find us, well, the smallfolk of Flea Bottom were the most loyal of the lot. Their lives had improved by leaps and bounds- and it was all because of me.
Qarl nodded at me as he held the door open. "Prince Joffrey."
I took a seat at the end of the hall. There were some scorch marks on the scraped-clean wooden boards, reinforced with metal smuggled from the Dragonpit. Qyburn met my gaze from where he was emerging from a shadowy room; cries echoed from within. Was he conducting experiments, or was he helping to birth a child? It was all the same to me.
"Not quite the Iron Throne," Uncle Jaime remarked, as he laid a hand on the wooden back of my chair.
"It's not the throne that matters," I told him, quietly, "it's the man who sits on it." And then I turned my attention to the supplicants of King's Landing. Above, the sunlight peeked through rags laid from end to end. They'd been dried leathery by the sunlight beating down on them- a rudimentary sort of ceiling, yet with sufficient gaps to let the light and air in.
"Enter," I said.
"Rape," Klamm announced, dragging a man in. He was a Braavosi, I think- flowery clothes, and flamboyant colours, and many earrings. His eyes were filled with fear as Klamm and Will forced him to his knees.
"The victim?"
"She's dead," one of the onlookers choked, his first utterance since he'd entered the chamber (it wasn't really deserving of the name, but whatever worked). "We were to be married." His eyes were red with tears and, I hoped, a bit of anger. "I'm a fishmonger, Prince Joffrey." He met my gaze. "A humble fishmonger. Please be just."
"If I do not return, there will be no more Braavosi ships docking at King's Landing," the Braavosi sneered, though the look in his eye said otherwise. I'd never been put in a position where I'd have to sentence anyone particularly powerful- such as someone of note from the Free Cities. Some crimes had been committed by members of the households maintaining the manses- footmen, for example, and household knights. In such cases, I brought them up to Renly, who processed them accordingly. I think he fancied me his assistant- no. He was my assistant. When he failed to punish Lords and Ladies, I reported the results to the smallfolk and they took their anger out in a more… direct fashion.
"So?" I snapped, flippantly. "Braavos is but one of nine."
His eyes flared, but Klamm and Will were strong, and there were more men on hand to break his kneecaps should it come to that (Qyburn had taught the ruffians of Flea Bottom more than a few things). "You'll regret this," he swore.
"Will I?" I chuckled. "The girl you raped has died. As retribution, you shall die too- but not before adequate punishment is delivered." I rose from my chair, took three large strides across the floor, and delivered a kick to his crotch. As I withdrew, I nodded at the victim's grieving husband, and he, eyes flaming, moved before the Braavosi and started raining kicks and punches down. Uncle Jaime winced.
This was what I did, day after day. Four hours of hearing petitions and meting out justice. Then four hours doing my own thing, with Uncle Jaime at my side.
-----
"Heil! Heil! Heil!"
Petyr Baelish clapped his hands over his ears and glared at Rhaenys' Hill. There the Crown Prince was, again, inducting another group of ten into his little cabal. After a few days, it had almost become mundane.
It was obvious what the Prince was doing to anyone with half a brain. He was endearing himself to the smallfolk, building up to take Petyr down. Well, the smallfolk were weak. His Gold-cloaks- and they were his, not the man-lover Renly's- would strike them down where they stood. He had contacts among the nobility- he knew all of them by name- and a few yet among the upper classes. Sure, some of his gold-cloaks had decided to grow a spine- but it would be a temporary setback, nothing more. One more moon, and he'd be ready to move against the stripling.
-----
The Decade had become the Century, and was quickly becoming the Millennium. One thousand men swearing themselves to me- I was almost giddy with excitement. Or maybe it was the blood loss- I'd cut my palm open once a night. At this rate, I'd eat through Pycelle's linen stores by my next name-day.
Uncle Jaime sat opposite me, eyes hooded. The supplicants had left. The Dragonpit was still being torn down, inch by inch. My Decade- or, at least, half of my Decade- was training about twenty men from the Century in the outer yard of the Red Keep. In the concrete settlements lining the walls, defrocked maesters were preparing the next stage of my plan. I eyed him for a moment and spoke.
"Why did you kill Aerys?"
That caught him off guard. He sputtered for a bit before regaining control. "He- he was mad."
"You're sure?"
"Of course. You know this."
"No other reason?"
His eyes flicked up to mine. Wordlessly, I reached under the table and withdrew a single clay pot. Within was a substance that had more destructive potential than a tonne of gunpowder. Uncle Jaime jerked away. When he finally got himself under control, he spoke.
"How did you know of this?"
"I spoke with the pyromancers," I told him, shrugging. "It wasn't hard to put two and two together. The lead pyromancer, Aerys' Hand? Two others, both fairly senior, dying in the wake of the Sack, in suspicious ways? Aerys must not have been idle in the days immediately preceding his death."
"How many have you found?"
"That's for me to know and you to find out," I smirked, and Uncle Jaime turned purple. He might almost have lunged at me, impulsively, as was his nature, but the clay pot was still between us.
"What do you want?"
He almost seemed resigned. Jaime Lannister, resigned? Never thought I'd see the day.
"I want you to listen to me very carefully," I told him.
-----
There is a tempter at the gates, faithful children of the Seven.
He cloaks his evil in honeyed words, and he offers you all the riches in the world. But do not be taken in! For he is as a dragon, though he take the form of a tiny bird. His eyes are ever mocking, and he- is- everywhere.
Even now his agents crouch in this beautiful, blessed city that we call home, and they are festooned in his filthy wealth! Coin flows through his fingers like water, and those who call themselves wreathed in raiments of gold are covered in this dirty, muddy water- and they smell. Oh, they stink to the seven heavens, to the greatest heights of the Vale!
It is not too late! Repent! Repent! Your hour is close at hand! There will be a great cleansing! Turn away from the tempter, gold-cloaks! Turn away! Turn away!
Sermon of the Sparrow Duram atop the Hill of Faith, six-and-a-quarter moons after Prince Joffrey's tenth nameday
-----
"You're serious. He used the word mocking. Not 'laughing'?"
"No. Mocking. 'He takes the form of a tiny bird that is mocking'."
Petyr had to laugh. "Gods, they're not even being subtle." He was going to take pleasure in grinding the Prince into the dust.
"He also said that there were men within the gold-cloaks who had turned. Er- hinted, more like, but-" the merchant shrugged- "-all the same."
Petyr frowned. That was concerning. He'd have to watch them carefully. Wenfors, for one, and Yorick too. There were others, but Wenfors, according to Slynt, had a son who was one of the Prince's first lieutenants. If he could just get to that son… but the smallfolk were too persistent, too sharp-eyed. And so very loyal.
Well. There would be a reckoning. He'd been in King's Landing since the Prince was in swaddling-clothes; he'd sunk his claws in deep. It would take more than six moons' worth of work to dislodge him.
-----
Tyrion read through the letter. He rubbed his eyes. Then he read through the letter again.
The cypher was a simple enough one, but what he didn't understand was why Jaime wanted him to bring at least a hundred wineskins and a hundred able Lannister men, and then wait in an inn some short distance from King's Landing... for a signal. What signal?
Jaime had seemed excited, though, and it wasn't like Tyrion had anything better to do with his time. He made a note in his calendar and went on with his activities.