54

Chapter 54: Chapter 39: Bureaucracy IINotes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"The uneducated complain that the bureaucracy is slow and inefficient. Fools, all of them. The bureaucracy is the only reason why the Realm doesn't tear itself apart whenever some idiot gets the crown."

-Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King to King Aerys II Targaryen

110 AC, Throne Room,

The Iron Throne was a deathtrap in my opinion. Steep, railingless steps where a single slip could see someone impaled. A jagged seat and back, which bit into one's clothes and flesh. Armrests made from blades, which could cause the careless to slit a wrist. Swords sticking out at odd angles, where a single misplaced gesture could see one losing fingers. All blackened and burnt and rusted, never polished nor cleaned.

Aegon the Conqueror said that the jaggedness of the seat was deliberate, to warn his successors never to rest easy as a king. I found his taste foolish. There were countless other ways to made such a point that didn't involve a high risk of mutilation.

I'd visited every capital of the Seven Kings whom Aegon warred against, and every single one of their thrones was far better than the metal monstrosity Aegon called a throne.

The Hoares had the Seastone Chair, made of that strange oily black stone, which was eldritch and fearsome.

The Gardeners had the Second Oakenseat, a throne carved into a living oak tree, which was both mystical and wondrous.

The Durradons had the Storm Throne, roughly carved from a solid hunk of basalt, which was suitably impressive and imposing.

The Lannisters had the Gilded Chair, made from solid gold, embodying opulence and wealth.

The Arryns had the Weirwood Throne, made from Heart Trees chopped down by the Andals during their invasion, subtly showing conquest and power.

The Martells had the High Seats, made from the timbers of Nymeria's flagship and inlaid with gold looted from their enemies, demonstrating determination and might.

The Starks had the Winter Throne, polished and carved granite, showing humility and simplicity.

Aegon could have stolen any one of those for himself. Or all of them for the matter!

Heck, he could've used the Dragonglass Throne in Dragonstone, which was both gothic and magical. Or even the Driftwood Throne from Driftmark, that masterpiece of carpentry and carving.

Anything would have been better than that hideous pile of scrap metal he chose in the end.

In my opinion, a realm was only as good as it's throne. What the high seat was made from and embodied was what the realm reflected. With a throne of jagged blades, was it no surprise that the Seven Kingdoms bled every generation? Even the rust on the blades was like my family's madness, slowly encroaching every year, until one day, the iron would be all scrapped and blunt, and my descendants all destitute and mad.

A throne was more than a symbol of authority. It was a reflection of the state of the realm it ruled over.

And yet, I still had no choice but to sit on that deathtrap. A refusal to plop my shapely bubble butt on that heap of rusty metal could be taken as an omen that I wasn't worthy of the damn throne. Septon Eustace, in Canon, had famously wrote that the Iron Throne rejected Canon Rhaenyra as unworthy, when she bled on it. I believe a similar statement was made regarding Aerys the King Scab as well. Such superstitions had a way of spreading, in a realm as religious and uneducated as Westeros.

If I was seen shying away from that hunk of junk, then Aegon's cause got a whole bunch of legitimacy.

Still, I always wore Stormlands clothing whenever I sat on that iron behemoth. Befitting the single most martial kingdom I ruled, their clothing was thick and functional, finely made, but from cheap and durable materials. I was told that the Stormlanders never really saw a difference between clothes they wore to a ballroom and clothes they wore to a battlefield. Everything they wore on a day-to-day basis was subtly padded to blunt blades, be they hurricane winds or steel, which helped assuage my fears of being stabbed by the throne literally made from swords of the slain.

Today, I wore a Stormlands cut dress, essentially a feminized trench coat, with the bottom flaring into a pleated skirt. As it would have been scandalous for my ankles and legs to be visible, I wore long riding boots that nearly reached up to my knee, with stockings beneath to cover the rest. To distract from the austerity, I wore my electrum hair in a braid, looping it around my neck like a necklace. My chain was around my waist like a belt, with Dark Sister and my knife hanging on it as usual. Aegon's Valyrian steel and ruby crown sat on my brow, and the golden Hand brooch was pinned over my heart.

The great doors to the throne room opened, and the herald announced the people whom had arrived.

Maester Runciter, whom had lost a great amount of his paunch while up north. Maester Mellos, whose hair was now more grey than brown. Ser Desmond Manderly, heir to White Harbour, a man approaching his middle age, and slowly gaining girth. Lord Roderick Dustin, a grizzled bear of a man in his mid fifties.

They, and their retinue, all knelt before the Iron Throne.

"All rise." I declared, allowing them to get to their feet before speaking. "I thank you all for coming here today. The journey was rather long, I understand."

Lord Roderick opened his mouth to speak, but Ser Desmond elbowed him, shutting him up before the Manderly spoke.

"It was no trouble at all, your grace." He smiled, voice supplicating and somewhat oily. "We are honoured that you would honour us in your new government."

"Well met, Ser Manderly. Shall we get to business than?" I asked, descending the steps. There was a murmur of approval from the men, and so Viserra strode forwards, a small box in her hands.

"Lord Roderick Dustin, you have been recommended by Marshal Darry himself as a skilled strategist and inspiring commander. A praise which has been seconded not only by the other three Legion Generals, but many of your own countrymen in the North." I formally recited, Ser Steffon passing me the symbol of his office. "As such, I name you the General of the Fifth Legion. May you serve well and fight valiantly in this role."

"Aye. Thank you for the role, Lady Hand." Lord Dustin gravelled, receiving the Legion Standard from my hands. A long pole of ebony, capped with an eagle with its wings spread. On the eagle's plinth, the legion's name had been stamped onto the metal. Legio V. A space had been left beside the letters, for the Legion cognomen, once they were awarded one. Those used by the ancient Legions of Valyria were made from Valyrian steel, but those wielded by my Legions of Westeros were fashioned from bronze.

I'd read that while the dragon was the eternal patron animal of Valyria, the Legions were embodied by the eagle, as the Dragonlords considered the common soldiers unworthy of bearing a dragon, or even a dragonkin like wyverns, as their standard. Hence eagles were chosen, as the ancient Valyrians considered it to be the finest airborne creature, second only to the dragons and their kin. A fearsome and forceful bird of prey. A predator and master of the skies, the embodiment of resilience, discipline and determination.

As such, upon formation, each Legion was presented a single eagle standard. And back in the days of Old Valyria, legion eagles were considered their greatest treasure. To lose it was disgrace beyond disgrace for the Legion in question. Entire wars had been waged solely to recover these famed standards. And when facing destruction, legionaries preferred to destroy their own standards to prevent the enemy from capturing them. These eagles, to the legionaries under its banner, were as important as Brightroar was to the Lannisters.

It was to the point that when the eagles of the last surviving Legions of Valyria —Volantis' Legion garrison— were stolen from them in battle against Braavos and the Triarchy, the Volantenes beggared themselves buying them back. The sums were massive, and were a large reason why the Eldest Daughter was knocked out of the race for continental hegemony.

"You will report to Legion Headquarters on the Morrow." I ordered. "There, your fellow generals will train you and those you name your officers in Legion tactics and stratagems. Veteran warrior you may be, I imagine that you have little familiarity in the ways of sappers."

"Aye. We'll be there." General Roderick agreed, stepping back to his men.

Once he and his officer corps finished training, he would return North with legionary trainers to set up training and recruitment camps in the North. And by the end of next year, the Fifth Legion should be nearly fully functional, though the sappers would take longer to arrive. Not that it mattered too much. Against Wildlings, sappers were overkill. Heavy infantry and calvary would be more than sufficient to quell the remaining savages living Beyond the Wall, allowing Bael and his Free Folk to bring southern laws and civilisation to the barbarians. It was estimated, that by the next winter, all remaining Wildlings should've bent the knee. Though Lord Bael warned that the Thenns might put up more of a fight than expected.

Alongside securing the new lands in the north, the Fifth Legion was to garrison the Wall. The Night's Watch currently numbered at seven thousand men, and manned two-thirds of the castles. Five thousand legionaries was insufficient to garrison it all.

As such, I'd divvied up the Wall and awarded the castles to my supporters. As part of my bribes, a number of Northern lords were given castles along the Wall for their second sons. House Mormont got Westwatch and the Shadow Tower. House Umber got Eastwatch and Greenguard. The Northern Mountain clans got Sentinel Stand, Greyguard and Stonedoor. The rest were nominally to be assigned to the Fifth Legion, though I intended on handing them off as rewards in the future.

I wondered why House Stark hadn't done such a deed. An abandoned castle on the Wall could have been given to loyal bannermen as a reward. While maybe the highborn younger sons would decline having seat in a locale where Wildling raids were common, would a promoted commoner really complain too much? They could've helped staunch the decline of the Night's Watch.

A possibility was that the Night's Watch stubbornly refused to let House Stark claim the abandoned castles, but I doubted that. They would've taken any help they could get.

Regardless, the Night's Watch was gone now. Dissolved and disbanded. As I spoke, Lord Rickon Stark was working his way through the black brothers. The honourable men whom volunteered to defend the realm were offered commissions in the Fifth Legion. The old men and young boys were freed from their oaths and offered homes elsewhere. The criminals were sorted out as well. Those whom committed relatively forgivable crimes were either pardoned, assuming that they had spent years as productive soldiers, or offered years of service in the Fifth Legion, where their crimes would be expunged when they were honourably discharged. The unforgivable, murderers, rapists and the lot, were sentenced to work in the quarries of the Stepstones.

Grey Gallows was rapidly growing into a great penal camp, as criminals from all across the Seven Kingdoms were being sent there to work. I despised prisons, not for any moral reason mind you, but because they were wasteful. What was the point of giving criminals what basically amounted to free room and board? Hoping that they would find remorse and repentance while quarantined among fellow wrongdoers? No, I'd rather make use of them. Penal battalions and work camps were both more productive and useful than mere lockup.

"Ser Desmond Manderly. Many years ago, King Jaehaerys promised your house redress, and offered his daughter, the Princess Viserra, to seal the pact." I spoke, well aware of the irony of Viserra Fyre standing right beside me. "While matrimony might be out of my power, I can still provide some redress.

"Ser Desmond Manderly, I name you Master of Logistics, and charge you with overseeing the production and transportation of raw materials throughout the Realm." I declared, Viserra opening her box and offering me the brooch of office to pin to his chest. "Your duties shall entail tallying the harvest, ensuring that the material demands of the Crown's projects are met and improving on the existing transportation infrastructure."

I'd commissioned brooches much like the Hand of the King pin for the rest of the Small Council, as symbols of office. The individual governmental departments had started growing large enough that I'd commissioned symbols and heraldry to distinguish them. There was a hierarchy to all things though. The Hand wore a gold pin. The Small Council wore silver. The Guildmasters wore bronze. Those empowered to maintain some form of order, like the Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks, the Head Dragonkeeper and the Head Overseers, wore black iron pins.

In the Master of Logistics' case, the symbol of his office was a silver pin in the shape of a scroll.

"I thank you for this unprecedented honour, your grace." The man said, bowing adroitly.

"The Crown's projects are ever hungry for stone and steel." I replied. "I trust you to ensure than they are sufficiently provisioned and without delay."

As part of my efforts to better integrate the isolationist North to the south, my advisors suggested that I name a Northman my Master of Logistics. Ser Manderly was both familiar with economics and raw material production, being a son of both White Harbour and the North. While there were other better choices, from the Riverlands, Westerlands and Reach, I needed to solidly my power base in the North. And so Ser Manderly got the job.

While the Faith had some complaints about the Small Council being increased from the holy number of seven, my addition of a seat for the Faith had quelled all but the most stubborn. I was reluctant to name Eustace Archsepton, but honestly had little choice. The last High Septon had passed away in his sleep, and now Ceril Hightower was High Septon. The man then proceeded to overrule any and every one of my choices, declaring Eustace Archsepton.

Goddamn Otto. Even from Oldtown, he found ways to add his supporters to the Small Council. I had no doubts as to why the last High Septon, a fairly robust man, suddenly died. The man was a supporter of mine, so naturally he'd been assassinated and Otto promptly named a kinsman of his head honcho of the Faith.

"Maester Runciter." I called out, the old man stepping forwards. "Grand Maester Gerardys has resigned his post and is now Master of Health. As such, in recognition of your previous service, I once again name you Grand Maester."

"As you should, your grace." Runciter grunted. My eyes narrowed at his tone.

"But I want you to be aware that the roles of the Grand Maester has been significantly trimmed." I warned chastisingly. "Maester Gerardys is also the Royal Physician, responsible for the healthcare of the Royal Family and the inhabitants of the Red Keep. Your role is that of an advisor. You will counsel the Small Council on matters of history, law and finance. You will help administer the civil examinations and the schools I intend to set up. But you shall not overstep your boundaries."

The Royal Physician was actually a separate, lesser role than the Master of Health. One whose sole priority was the healthcare of royalty. A role which would be especially required, given Viserys' overweight nature. But given Geradys' competence in healing, I saw no need to further beleaguer the issue and simply tasked him with fulfilling both roles.

"There will not be another Ryam Redwyne at your hands." Ser Steffon Darklyn added darkly, and I enjoyed the way the old man turned purple.

"Yes, your grace." He got out between clenched teeth, all but snatching the proffered silver pin with a chain design out of my hands and stepping backwards furiously.

"This applies to you too, Maester Mellos." I sharply said, turning to face the man. "My mother, the Queen Aemma, died at your hands. I have neither forgiven nor forgotten your role in her death. But I recognise competence, and will offer you the role of Master of Engineering.

"You will help design the Great Projects I intend to build. You will improve the technologies of the Realm and help produce machines like my printing press." I tasked, pinning the gear-shaped brooch to his chest. "And if you ever step out of line and attempt something you are unskilled in one more time, there will be no Night's Watch to save your head."

"As your grace wishes." The maester bowed, suitably cowed.

"Good." I simply said, stepping back and onto the dais which the Iron Throne stood upon. "Your quarters have all been prepared. Take this time to unwind and settle into your new roles. There will be a Small Council session tomorrow morning.

"Dismissed." I finished, the men all bowing before leaving.

———

110 AC, Fyrepit,

"Is it me, or is the Red Keep getting more cramped these days?" Eight year old Aemon Fyre asked.

"No, it really is getting more cramped." Seven year old Naerys Fyre agreed.

"Well, it's my fault. My expansions to the Royal bureaucracy have certainly devoured a great amount of space." I admitted, leaning back in my favourite bowl-chair. "Did you know we now have fifteen hundred employees split between the departments?"

My very first decree as Hand of the King had been to call the banners. But not for knights or footmen. No, I called for the literate. And so they came, younger sons and daughters, bastards and cousins, acolytes with unfinished chains and breadth maesters without a patron. Near two thousand literates had shown up in King's Landing, all hoping to gain an appointment in the bureaucracy.

The very first thing I made them all do was sit the very first civil examination in the history of Westeros. As my Small Council had requested, literacy, calculations, general knowledge and general common sense were tested. We'd performed Mysaria's character examination as well, with trusted maesters and lords sitting as a panel of interviewers. A few corrupt and incompetent souls had to be expelled, but by and large most managed to pass.

In the Seven Kingdoms, with a strong martial culture, being scholarly-inclined was considered feminine and craven. As such most of these men were basically the Samwell Tarlys of my time. Belittled and looked down upon for being nerdy and not outdoorsy. Give them a little praise and appreciate their knowledge, and you'd have their loyalty for life.

And there was no need to elaborate for the women, whom were all desperate to escape their fates as broodmares and trophy wives, given like possessions to men, their husbands chosen for the benefit of their father and brothers, not out of love. I'd actually gotten even more women than I expected, as these ladies could marry, unlike those that became maesters in the Citadel, and didn't need to perform strenuous physical activity, unlike those that joined the Legions. Promise that you'll step in if their fathers or brothers complained and you'd earn their undying loyalty.

"Fifteen hundred?!" Everyone else in the Fyrepit living room cried out in shock.

"How? Why? I mean, what?" Lucerys Fyre stammered.

"Your grace, but that's more than the number of Royal Guardsmen in the Red Keep!" Bell's stepfather Ser Wingood protested. "Surely you don't require so many employees!"

"On the contrary, Ser. We require more of them." Sixteen year old Laenor Velaryon replied. "As my father's assistant, I have been privy to some Small Council meetings, and can confirm that we need more employees."

"Yes, this is true." I agreed. "As it is, one and a half thousand is barely adequate to run the government."

"I confess little understanding to such matters." Rhaella's mother Falyse said. "But in the days of the Old King, House Targaryen employed less than fifty people in the government. Why do you need so many more?"

I silently leaned back in my chair, pondering the best way to explain the answer in layman terms, aware of all eyes in the room on me.

"Think of the Royal Government as a great machine." I finally said, sitting back up. "While I can run the administration with fifty people, the fact is is that it will be slow and inefficient.

"How much time is wasted? Listening to the pleas of the smallfolk, quarrelling over matters of middling import? Counting coppers and writing up budgets? Planning celebrations and events?" I asked, getting up and pacing the room. "In the Old King's day, the Small Council had to run around doing all of these things half by hand. It slowed them down, made them waste time."

"And yours is different?" Daemon Fyre asked, tone more curious than dubious.

"Last time, whenever the King wanted to throw a feast, he, or more likely the Hand, would have to talk to people to prepare the music, the food, the wine… The preparations alone would take days." I disgustedly said, shaking my head before speaking. "Now though, I could demand a feast in the morning, and have suggestions for the menu and wine presented to me by supper. I could say which type of entertainment I wanted for the feast, and Cerelle here would procure them from a list of pre-approved candidates."

"It's true. With the new administration, it is feasible to have a feast planned in half a day." Cerelle Rosby, mother of Shaera Fyre and recently appointed Steward of the Red Keep replied. "This, as well as dear Harriet's oversight, has made my life in running the Red Keep so much easier."

As part of my housekeeping, I'd audited the entire staff of the Red Keep. I'd sacked the incompetent and corrupt, and purged the Green appointees using promotions, which conveniently allowed me to name my supporters in their place. Cerelle Rosby was named Steward of the Red Keep, in charge of running day-to-day affairs of the household in Queen Alicent's absense.

Viserra's mother Harriet Stokeworth was Chamberlain, which essentially meant that she was head honcho of the HR department I'd set up. With duties such as keeping track of whom was assigned where and to which duties, remembering paydays, giving proper training to the staffers, managing complaints and if necessary, firing overly lusty guards whom groped maids.

These two ladies now made the Red Keep run like clockwork, with far less internal disputes and arguments.

"This continues on with my expanded administration." I continued. "We can get all sorts of affairs done far quicker than before, with less hassle. The smallfolk pleas are heard by assigned magistrates, such as Adanna here, and have their problems sorted out quicker, and without needing royalty to personally hear it."

Naerys' mother Adanna Celtigar was one of the magistrates I'd appointed to arbitrate smallfolk disputes and pass judgement in the Crown's name. So far, it had proved to be a roaring success, as the supplicants were heard far faster, and I didn't have to waste time dealing with petty issues.

"But fifteen hundred!" Falyse protested.

"Like I said, the government is as a grand machine." I reminded. "To be able to do so many tasks so quickly and efficiently requires a great many more parts than before. While you may doubt me now, in ten years time, every lord will have a similar system in their lands. Mark my words."

"Very well then, your grace." Falyse finally said. "I can see I'm not winning this argument. But I hope you know what you're doing."

"But still, my mother is correct." Five year old Rhaella Fyre spoke up. "The Red Keep is getting cramped."

"Yes, that is proving to be an issue." I mused. Even with a castle as big as the Red Keep, there were a great many difficulties in cramming thousands of people within its halls. Near every spare chamber had been used up, and quite a few of the larger hallways had been filled with desks and transformed into impromptu offices. I'd even opened up parts of the Tower of the Hand for my personal staff to work in.

And that wasn't even getting into the living spaces for the people I'd been employing.

I'd opened up all of House Targaryen's various manses in the city for rental, and many of the local nobility followed suit, leasing out their spare homes in the city to the bureaucrats. To afford the rental, many of my employees had banded together and pooled their salaries, living communally in the manses and packed like sardines. But even then it wasn't enough.

The large draw of literates to the capital, as well as the presence of the single largest concentration of professional soldiers in Westeros, had drawn countless enterprising souls to the city. People were migrating in from the countryside, seeking opportunity in King's Landing. Already, the population was swelling with thousands upon thousands.

As such, housing prices throughout the capital were skyrocketing. Some enterprising residents in the city even begun renting out extra rooms in their houses, to help quarter the growing number of immigrants. Flea Bottom, and the various shanty towns outside the city walls, which had stood empty ever since I sent all their inhabitants south, had been filled anew once again.

"Mayhaps you should think of expanding the Red Keep and the capital." Laena suggested. "The congestion between here and the Dragonpit is absurd."

I let out a truly long sigh at that. If it were me one year ago, I'd have gotten it done immediately, but as it was, now we were struggling with coin and I was trying to cut down on expenditures. But my relatives were correct. We were running out of space. I needed to expand both the Red Keep and King's Landing ASAP.

"Fine. I'll do it." I grumbled, getting to my feet. "I'm taking that debt down."

Notes:

In the end, the final Small Council lineup is this:

Hand of the King: Rhaenyra Targaryen. Symbol is hand

Master of Laws: Lyonel Strong. Symbol is scales

Master of Coin: Lyman Beesbury. Symbol is moneybag

Master of Ships: Corlys Velaryon. Symbol is anchor

Mistress of Whispers: Mysaria. Symbol is lidless eye

Lord Commander: Criston Cole. Symbol is shield

Archsepton: Eustace. Symbol is seven-pointed-star

Master of Logistics: Desmond Manderly. Symbol is scroll

Master of Health: Geradys. Symbol is caduceus (the twin snakes around a staff)

Master of Engineering: Mellos. Symbol is gear

Grand Maester: Runciter. Symbol is chains

Marshal of Westeros: Darold Darry. Symbol is sword

Thanks for all the advice in choosing them.