Chapter Text
Method and Madness Across Seven Kingdoms
Ch. 11 – Oh, The Places You’ll Go
King’s Landing
My. God.
The stench was unimaginable. I would hazard to say that it was nothing short of legendary.
We could smell the city more than an hour before it appeared on the horizon ahead. I was told that the winds were kind, and we were fortunate that it hadn’t been three or more hours before the fragrant scent reached our unsuspecting nostrils.
Well, at least mine were unsuspecting. It appeared that the rest of our traveling party was well prepared for the olfactory assault that had me struggling to hold down the lunch we’d eaten hours earlier. Other than the younger Northmen among us, everyone else sported little more than a grimace or frown against the blanket of stink that now clung to us.
Fuck me if that city didn’t reek.
People bathed here. Probably more often than did than their historical Earthbound counterparts. The church here didn’t have any problems with it nor had the people made any connections between bathing/water and catching illness. Which had happened back on Earth, I recalled from my old history lessons. Dummies.
And the city still smelled like every single soul within was covered head-to-toe in donkey shit. It was horrendous. You could taste the air of the city while you were still miles away.
Not gonna expound on that last thought any further, for all our sakes. <Gak>
If I was gonna be stuck here for any length of time, there would be a reckoning about the sewer systems of this goddamn kingdom. Or I might have to burn the place down.
At least it made me forget about the damned snail’s pace we’d been crawling south since I’d caught up with the caravan.
We had been on the road for an entire month… moon… whatever. It was infuriating. Coming from a world of relative technological marvels like Earth, travel on Planetos was slow. Skyrim had additional options as well due to magic and the Dwemer’s hubris. Here, horses or ships were the only means of travel beyond a man’s own feet. And living creatures like horses could only travel so far on any given day before they needed to rest.
An average day's travel in a medieval-type world like this was about 30 or 35 miles per day. One could, or should, only travel during hours when it was light enough to safely walk. It also took time to break camp in the morning and more time to set it up again each night, and there were meals and water breaks for man and beast scattered in between.
Unless you wanted to kill your pack animals and mounts, you would only move at a walking pace for them when you did have time to move.
The distance between Winterfell and King’s Landing was something close to 1500 miles, give or take, I’d been told. Darry was near the quarter mark of that distance, so we had to go only about 350 miles to get to the city from where we started. Again, there weren’t super accurate measurements in everyday use here (apparently that wasn’t true of the Citadel, who kept a uniform system of measurements and weights), so it was an estimate only.
But that still should have taken the average traveler only about ten to fourteen days to cover.
Not us, oh no. First, the party was fucking huge. Hundreds of knights and retainers, servants, tradespeople, and “camp followers” had attached themselves to the king’s party and gone up and down the road with him. That slowed things down considerably. Then there were constant stops for provisions along the way. Gotta be able to feed those people and all the animals, and you could only carry so much before it wasn’t worth the trouble of lugging it.
If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together!
And then… there was the carriage.
Except for this bitch!
Or wheelhouse, I should say. Holy shit, was that thing a monstrosity! Two stories tall, it was as wide as the entire Kingsroad we traveled upon, and it required forty… yes, forty… draft horses to pull the damn thing along the road. I was pretty sure it had more square footage than the house I lived in (both on Skyrim and on Earth). It needed an elaborate braking system that had to be deployed on each downgrade of the road so that it didn’t run over and kill the herd of horses that pulled it. Fifty men had to help the horses and push it up any inclines, and there was a winch and pulley system that was stowed in a wagon in the baggage train if the uphill was anything remotely daunting!
And it broke axles constantly. I’m not exaggerating; we had to stop and replace axles and wheels no less than a dozen times after I joined the entourage.
I just stared at it in open horror the day we left. Robert caught my expression and laughed for a moment before grumbling at me.
“This whole gods-forsaken trip has taken twice the time due to that menace. I didn’t want to bring the damn thing, but Cersei demanded it. Woman wouldn’t agree to go without it, can’t be without her luxuries or whatnot,” he said with a disgruntled look about him.
I side-eyed him before responding. “I think I’d have given her the option to stay behind in the carriage and come without either if I were you.”
He chuckled. “If only.”
But the thing that really ended up slowing us down on the road south was Robert’s good cheer.
After the incident near the Trident with Joffrey, and the subsequent fallout with his queen and her Lannister retinue, Robert had taken every opportunity to stop and feast at castles and keeps along the way south. From Darry, where we had stayed the night of my “presentation”, all the way to Hayford Castle that very morning, it felt like we stopped to celebrate our progress at least every other night.
It wasn’t quite that often, but it was close!
Every minor lord and knight in the Crownlands was honored and elated. In words, if not expressions, when the king’s back was turned, that was one big party to foot the bill for. The Kingsroad south of the Neck was lined with towns and villages every few miles. Their existence increased in both size and frequency the nearer we got to the capital. This was fine by the king, as it gave him the opportunity to stop and mingle with his devoted subjects.
In fairness, they all appeared to love him. His popularity among the smallfolk in these lands was impressive. They’d come out in droves at every stop and cheer as he rode past. Crowds swelled at every collection of huts and houses we passed. They all raised their voices and smiled as “Good King Robert” and “Robert the Mighty” waved from his massive destrier. When we stopped for a meal, they bowed and nearly groveled at his feet.
And, to his credit, he also cared for them. He held court for an hour or two on more than one occasion, shockingly enough, with deference from the local authorities as we crossed through the Crownlands. I was under the impression the man hated ruling and all but the actual trappings of power. But he also genuinely adored the approval of the people he ruled over. I could work with that.
I secretly thought that he just didn’t want to get back to the city and work, what little he did, from what I understood. That would have to change, too.
For my part, the trip had been productive already.
I spent most days riding with the Northmen. Lord Stark, after reading the letters from his family I had brought, slowly brought me into his confidence. The first thing I had pressed him about was the glaring need for more men! He’d only brought his captain of the guards and fifty men in total to defend his family and his person. There were probably four times as many of the Queen’s Lannister men just in the king’s traveling party! We would be sorely outnumbered from the start.
When I brought it up, Stark informed me that there were legal limits as to how many men-at-arms a lord or landed knight could keep under their banners within King’s Landing. He could increase the number of House Stark men, but not by as many as I would have liked.
So, we came up with a way around it. Stark had sent out a call for some of his bannermen to join him. Ravens flew from Darry before our departure, requesting aid in bringing order to the chaotic south. It wouldn’t be all the houses, mind you. Just a handful of representatives from his most ardent supporters from across the North. Manderly, Umber, Karstark, Glover, Mormont. Pretty much all the major players with heirs to spare or sit in the absence of said lord/lady.
Even if they each only brought twenty men with them, that would bulk up the number of loyal swords that would be at Stark’s beck and call. He figured it would take them at least two moons to assemble and head south, so even at our laborious pace, we would arrive in the capital weeks ahead of them. Time enough to prepare the way.
I’d also made inroads with the king personally. He was impressed with my willingness to stand up to the Lannisters at our first meeting – even if it appeared he wasn’t willing to do the same most of the time – and found out quickly that keeping me around had the unexpected benefit of keeping his beloved wife away.
So most days I spent riding with Ned and the King as they remembered their younger days.
I’d seriously ingratiated myself with him when I insisted he down one of my Ultimate Healing potions and a Cure Disease draft. Ser Barristan had been alarmed at first, but when I offered that he taste-tested them, it allayed most of his worries. It also may have been the fact that I sipped each bottle personally. (Not that it would have mattered had they been poisonous… I’d built up a serious tolerance to harmful ingredients from my years of alchemical work.)
Robert Baratheon tipped both back like a seasoned drinker and smacked his lips after. “Tastes like that Stormlander swill that I smuggled into the Eyrie for your six and tenth nameday, Ned!” Robert laughed and roared, slapping his old friend on the back.
A few hours later, he was lauding the energy and vitality that they’d given him. “I haven’t felt this strong for years!” The newly robust and still rotund king exclaimed from his saddle. “Selmy, do you feel it? Like suckling from the teat of gods! I’ll bet you could go another bout against the Monstrous right now!”
The white-haired, glorified bodyguard nodded his head seriously. “I do, Your Grace. These old bones feel lighter than they have in many years. I’ll not make any claims as to whether or not I could best any Blackfyre pretenders, though.”
He likely could. I spied some golden threads among the snow of his short hair, but didn’t point any attention to it. Ultimate healing potions could quite literally turn back the clock on a person’s body, but I had a limited number of them in my stock. I’d have to be judicious in their use until I could make more.
The days continued much like that. Robert feasted and drank, testing his renewed health (and starting to ruin it again, to my annoyance).
Yeah, your kidneys, heart, and liver want me to tell you to ‘Fuck off, Robert!’. Should have known he’d just use it as an excuse to go at it even harder.
And I got to know Stark and the king a bit more with each passing day. It was good to have friends in high places, and the more these men liked and trusted me, the more I’d be able to push the limits when it may be needed in future.
Robert officially acknowledged my status as a landed knight, with my explanation of what a thane was and how I’d come by it, and the perks and privileges according to that station. Knighthood in this world was simpler; no papers or patents of office to worry about. Any knight could make another knight, so it was as simple as kneeling before the king and making an oath to protect the innocent, punish the wicked, yada yada yada.
I figured it would come in handy at some point. Knights weren’t technically nobles, but the difference was little enough that I could exploit it if need be.
I’d kept myself busy with other pursuits along the way as well. My custom of offering healing to any in need at each town or village as we passed was less effective than it had been further north. The dominant religion in these parts, the Faith of the Seven, was pretty adamant in their views on magic in general. Many were suspicious, a few openly hostile. Traveling with the king, I wasn’t threatened at all, but I could see that I would need to make some inroads with the Faith once we arrived in the capital. I jotted down some notes on ways that might be possible, and also spoke with Robert and Ned about it when the opportunity allowed. The fact that the local pope, the High Septon, was notoriously corrupt would certainly make things easier for me.
Still, people who were plagued by pain, fear, or desperation were always more willing to look beyond the strictures of their faith if it gave them hope of a cure or relief. And unlike the vast majority of prayers, I delivered. Word spread quickly, as rumor always did, and with each village there were a few more willing souls to brave the looks of judgment from the occasional clergyman among them.
At every stop, I sought out the local blacksmith and bought myself a little time at his forge. Usually, it just cost me a few plain steel ingots for the blacksmith’s stock, as mine was far better quality than most any we would run into. I had a large surplus of iron and steel, thankfully. Some of my other, more rare materials, were far less plentiful.
Lord Stark’s men had ridden south garbed mostly in mail and leathers, which while effective for the most part, didn’t impart the gravitas that I wanted the Starks to exhibit when we entered the city. I had plenty of sets of armor in my inventory that I’d taken from the many Stormcloak officers and soldiers that I’d crossed blades with during Skyrim’s civil war. They would look very smart in this setting.
I spent my meals away from Stark and the king breaking bread with Stark’s men, learning their names and their personalities, and surreptitiously eyeballing them for their armor sizes. Most of the suits I had already handy just needed a little work to get them ready for our memorable entrance.
I also stopped by the local tailor or weaver in each village or town to purchase a new cloak for each and every one of them. The cloaks were all a deep gray, as white would have been a no-no with Kingsguard (thought it would have looked incredible as they rode into the capital, I’ll say). Each glorious velvet cloak came with a silver direwolf-head clasp that I forged in bunches at the smithies when time allowed. Gambesons, arming doublets, linen shirts, and tabards were all appropriately marked with the Stark direwolf, gray on white.
I again paid with crafting items of my own, most often for the work done. Rare dyes that I kept on hand with my smithing materials were worth well more than their weight in gold. I had silver aplenty for when craftsmen and women preferred coin.
The morning of our arrival, just after breakfast, I asked Lord Stark to gather his men and bring them to my tent. He was naturally curious, but I told him it would be worth it.
We spent the next hour shuffling them by the half dozen into my tent where I handed them a shiny new set of polished full or half-plate, scale, or mail, and then told them to grab a spear, a shield, and their choice of side-arm from the racks of weapons I had moved to the main room – axe, sword, mace, or hammer. They were quite pleased with the offer once the shock of my tent wore off and they could do more than stare about dumbly.
They all climbed into their saddles feeling about twelve feet tall, and I didn’t blame them with how they looked. Even the king remarked upon it when we all assembled to finish the trip into the city.
“Wooooar! Selmy, will you look at this? Ned, I thought good, solid Northmen like you didn’t spend on finery of this sort. Ha! Cersei will have a fit when she sees your men. Tywin would have a conniption, even! Makes him look like a miser! Ha! Well done!”
Renly looked suitably impressed as well. “Indeed, brother. These men would fit right in with the Tyrell retinue like this. Well, not for the colors. A bit drab for the Reach, I say, but other than that, spot on. We shall have to redouble our own efforts with my Baratheon men-at-arms! We can’t have the king's own family outshone by his Hand, now can we?”
Robert scoffed and lumbered off toward his horse. Renly’s words had been a jest, but his eyes were a different matter. I thought he really would use this as an excuse to re-outfit his men. Maybe he had a thing for armor.
Huh. Well good for him. Whatever excuse he needed to beef up his men in the face of Lannister supremacy was good in my books.
We rode hard through the final morning, passing quickly through the last small stops between Hayford and King’s Landing. No more lingering celebrations among the minor lords and smallfolk with the journey’s end before us. Just kingly waves and smiles as we rolled through countryside villages and hamlets as we approached our final destination.
The road into the city was deeply lined on either side with buildings. Homes, shops, warehouses, and more sat in ranks along each side of the Kingsroad as we cruised into the city through the massive gate cut into the strong walls that surrounded it. The Kingsroad fed through the Dragon’s Gate, I was informed, and the reliefs carved into the archway supporting the huge wooden doors testified to the accuracy of that.
Homes and other buildings hugged the walls of the city in both directions, completely surrounding the walls as far as I could see as they stretched to the east and southwest. They’d organically grown away from the city walls over the years, decades, and centuries.
Crowds formed around us the moment we entered the city proper. The now familiar shouts and cries of smallfolk drowned out the noise of the party as iron-clad hooves beat upon the cobbled streets of the city. The looks of joy at seeing their king and his escort quickly shifted to surprise as Ned and his men followed closely at the king’s side. The masses here had obviously been conditioned to expect fur-clad barbarians from the North, rather than the polished steel plate and mail that they proudly bore.
It was exactly the effect that I had been hoping for when passing out the gear. Respect instead of fear or disdain. The more people liked the new Hand, and by extension his men and me, then the harder it would be for certain someone(s) to turn them against him at a later time.
Duabthar, as usual, got a uniquely singular response from the crowds. Women (and occasionally a few men) squawked and drew back in fear at his golden visage once they realized he wasn’t a living horse wearing armor. The children, however, were a different story.
“Ma! He’s riding a clockwork horse!” shouted a small boy in his mother’s arms. Directly into her ear, mind you. Her pinched expression was as much due to that as it was Duabthar’s existence. I laughed and tossed him an apple from my pack.
“You’re not wrong, kiddo!” I shouted back with a wink.
As we progressed, every so often, the king would reach over to his brother riding beside him, and Renly would pass him a small pouch. Robert would toss the pouch to some lucky soul amongst the crowd immediately, and they would clasp it to their chest like their life depended on it.
He was passing out coins to the poorest of his people. It was something that I recalled seeing in media back on Earth, but the Jarls of Skyrim didn’t follow the practice. At least not like that. I’d always imagined it would be a sovereign reaching into a large sack of coins and tossing them out to the crowd by the handful, like candy at a parade!
Which, when you think about it, would be stupid beyond belief. People would kill each other every time the king rode by! The streets would be covered in blood.
No, instead he tossed them small coinpurses filled with either a handful of coppers or a few silvers. Not enough for knifemen to risk themselves against the city watch openly, but enough to feed a small family for a few days.
The procession and ritual of coin sharing went on as we slowly marched through the city.
The Red Keep loomed high above us to the southeast on the tallest of the three hills around which the city was founded. Further south still, near the city’s center, I could see the seven white spires and golden dome of the Great Sept of Baelor gleaming in the afternoon light on Visenya’s Hill. But the closest of the three was just to my right, Rhaenys’ Hill. And a grand sight sat forgotten upon its crest: a massive structure of stone that swallowed the top of the entire hill.
As we passed, I could see massive, rusted-iron and tarnished-bronze doors at the end of the main road leading up the hill. The entire castle was the size of a professional sports stadium, perhaps larger! But the most striking aspect of the ruined castle was the collapsed dome that once covered its roof. Only a small portion of the dome was still standing, mostly situated at the northern end of the building, and a few support beams jutted toward the sky like exposed ribs from an animal carcass.
It was glorious, ginormous, and really drove it home to me how the engineers and builders in this world worked on a scale that I was not used to seeing.
A loud laugh snapped me out of my open shock. I turned to see the king nearby as he looked back and shook his head ruefully.
“It’s an eyesore, to be sure, but a grand one!” Robert Baratheon barked as he started up at the ruins. “I should have torn the damn thing down years ago. The last vestiges of dragons and all. Now it's not much use as more than a meeting place for whores and a shelter for the destitute. I suppose that alone has given it better purpose than the dragons ever did! Ha!”
“What the hell is it?” I asked him.
“The Dragonpit. Or it's sad remains, rather,” answered Lord Renly in his flippant manner. “As my brother said, not much more than empty space these days. 'Tis a shame we haven’t the coin to do more with it.”
Plot foreshadowing engaged.
Ooooooh my. Now that was interesting. I put a pin in that thought and tucked it away for later. If I were going to be stuck here for any length of time, having a home base would be of tremendous importance to me. And the nobility here were far more martially inclined than I was used to. Something like that would come in handy.
On we rode, though the king sent his brother ahead, presumably to prepare the castle for his arrival. The Queen’s wheelhouse made it so that only certain streets were wide enough for us to traverse through the city, so our path kept us near the city’s northern wall. Jory Cassel pointed out the Iron Gate to our left as we turned right down a main thoroughfare. This wide and well-maintained street became the Rosby Road once it left the city, though that name meant little to me. Just more reading I would have to do to stay abreast of things here. A quick left had us back on a side street again, and closer to our looming destination.
This part of the city appeared much more affluent than the dingy one we’d just traveled through. Large manses rose above the rooftops on either side of us. I could see the green leaves of tree tops that populated the gardens of these wealthy abodes. It made sense, I supposed, with its close proximity to the Red Keep as well as easy access to one of the main roads leaving the city. Most were four or five floors, and a few could even be called small keeps! Walls, tiny defensive towers, everything that a castle would need, just on a smaller scale.
The wealthy always liked to congregate as close to power as possible in any world. Assholes.
NAZEEEEEEEEM!
The meandering gait and path we took from there felt like it lasted forever, but in actuality was probably only about half an hour or so. (Boy was I glad I had a couple of Dwemer clocks in my bag along with a handful of old magical pocketwatches I’d gathered over the years.) We finally reached the gatehouse of the king’s home: The Red Keep.
It was impressive, I had to admit. The curtain walls that separated the keep from the rest of the city had to be sixty or seventy feet tall. Spacious and well-designed crenellations dotted the tops of the ramparts, allowing archers or crossbowmen easy access to pepper potential attackers with steel-tipped death. Iron spikes decorated the gaps above the gatehouse, making any possible ladder approach more difficult. I counted seven massive drum towers as we approached, all topped with black iron ramparts. Men wearing gold cloaks patrolled every wall and stood at the ready at every gate. Every stone that I could see was pale red, giving the castle its name.
All in all, it was a very inspiring sight. Far larger than every castle we’d stayed in or seen on the way south. It didn’t hold a candle to Winterfell, or even to the Blue Palace back in Solitude, for my tastes, but it was still a stronghold worthy of kings, no doubt.
We crossed through the open maw of the gatehouse, its bronze doors opening wide to accept us, with the iron tips of the portcullis barely peeking out from below the gap above our heads, and into the wide courtyard of the keep proper. The party had already begun to break up before this, as the king had vanished at some point with his white-cloaked shadow, Ser Selmy. Others, such as the free riders and similar low-stationed others who had joined the king on the road, had also departed on their own way– they’d have no chance of being admitted to the keep proper. It was mostly Lord Stark’s retinue, the majority of the Baratheon men, minus a portion that had gone with Robert, and the royal family and their retinue. Our horses were taken from us to be led to the stables. All except Duabthar, whom I claimed I would house elsewhere, which suited the grooms just fine as they goggled at the gleaming metal creature. I’d have to find time to pitch my tent somewhere to stash him, but that wouldn’t take up much space. Royal servants informed Lord Stark that he and his house would take up residence in the Tower of the Hand, as was tradition. The servants and guards would be housed on the lower floors, which were dedicated spaces for that purpose, while the stewards, nobles, and their families would be higher up in the more luxurious apartments. I wasn’t quite sure yet where I would be, along with my steadily growing posse.
Sandor Clegane had ridden not far from me the whole way. His habit of hiding his face behind the fearsome dog helm he’d long worn was forgotten, as his now unblemished face was displayed proudly for all to see. Well, or at least as unblemished as the man could get, he wasn’t exactly what I’d call a looker. Compared to having half your face melted off, that is. He apparently felt the need to do a bit of showing off. Didn’t blame him.
The Hound was also getting used to his own chubby little shadow that I’d saddled him with since we left Darry, much to his annoyance and my delight.
After little Mycah had gone back to his folks in the royal party with the story of how I’d saved him from a spoilt little shit of a prince, the boy’s father had thrown himself at my feet and grovelled in gratitude. I mean literally, too! He was face down in the dirt with tears and everything. I was supremely uncomfortable about that.
After a few minutes of discussion, and a handful of oaths sworn to gods I couldn’t care less about, I found myself with a butcher and his wife in my employ. The woman was supposedly a good cook, which, being the wife of a butcher, I could see sense in, so I now had a staff of three. A mean-spirited but darkly humorous sworn sword, a butcher, and a cook. (Mycah wasn't old enough to count yet.)
Hmmph.
Being of the modern egalitarian sort, I was not a fan of this, but after decades in Skyrim, I had learned to deal with it when offered little choice. I immediately foisted little Mycah off on the Hound, instructing my gruff guard that he now had a squire, since I had several of my own on the way.
“I’m not a fucking knight,” Clegane roared at me.
“I don’t care, teach him how to fight anyway. And whatever else you can think of,” I shrugged at the big man. Sandor was even taller than the king and was used to getting his way by use of unsubtle intimidation. I didn’t budge.
“Pick someone else. He won’t learn shit from me. I can’t or won’t teach the little cunt about honor and dancing and knights and whatnot. He won’t learn honorable combat from me,” Clegane groused.
“Good. Teach him how to fight dirty! I’ll handle the rest. Or find someone who can. Guess I’ll need to find a teacher for his letters and sums. God knows I don’t have the time nor patience for that. Hmm. Something to worry about later.”
So little Mycah, the butcher’s boy, became a squire in all but name to Sandor Clegane. If nothing else, the boy would learn to swear at a masterly level. That had to be a prized skill in an awful place like Westeros. Maybe he could find work taunting the enemies of whoever employed him. I was surprised Clegane hadn’t cornered that market himself. I’d have to put him to work on it when opportunity presented.
My contemplation was broken by the sound of a new voice speaking to Lord Stark.
“Lord Hand, you are summoned to a meeting of the Small Council immediately,” a man in the colors of the king’s house commanded officiously. Stark’s head drooped in exhaustion and frustration for a moment before he snapped out a biting reply to the summons, only for him to immediately apologize to the messenger and tell the man he would need to borrow some appropriate attire to attend.
Stark was in no condition to handle a bureaucratic kerfluffle that was sure to be a council meeting after the long journey. Hell, I was barely able to stomach one fully rested and sated. And I’d had years of experience sitting in on college business or meetings with Jarls and Thanes from across Skyrim (and beyond). I decided to put my new ‘Advisor to the Hand’ title to good use and let the man get everyone settled in their new surroundings.
“Hold a moment,” I called out. Stark turned to me with both fatigue and curiosity hiding in his gray eyes. “I can go to the meeting on your behalf.”
Stark’s back straightened a bit as I could see the idea of shirking his duty, small as it may have been in this instance, rankled him.
“No, I accepted the position of Hand. It is my responsibility to oversee the Small Council and help the king in ruling the kingdoms. I cannot wave it off,” he responded with deep seriousness and gravity.
I bit back both smile and laugh at how heavily this weighed on him already. He never should have taken the job. I wouldn't have. Probably.
“And I think we both know that if this were anything serious, this council would have sent word up the road to the king directly. He’s still out in the city, probably already dragging Ser Barristan to an alehouse while sending his beloved wife on ahead home. Tell me, man, is King Robert waiting for Lord Eddard with the others?” I raised my chin and brows at the messenger, who colored slightly at the question. Embarrassment, I would guess.
"Ah, well. T-The king usually sees fit to leave the everyday governance of the realm to his appointed lords and counsellors, my lord,” the man stuttered out. Probably felt like he was on the spot and tattling. Which he was.
“There, you see? Robert won’t even be there. Did they say what the meeting was about, my good man?” I asked the messenger another question to see if he could provide any clarity on what was so important that they felt a need to drag a man who’d been traveling for two months to a board meeting.
This answer was more confident than the last. “Indeed, my lord. I overheard the king’s brother, Lord Renly, telling the Grandmaester that His Grace had called for a new tourney. It is to be held in honor of his new Hand!” The man smiled at being able to provide the requested information plainly.
“And there we have it. Games,” I grinned at Stark. “Since you’ve taken me on as an advisor, I feel that this would be a good time to introduce myself to the rest of the lot and take their measures. This isn’t an urgent matter, after all, and we can reconvene them all tomorrow morning to meet with you after some rest and a hearty meal. If something super important comes up, I’ll be sure to bring it back to you directly. Besides, it will be more fun dragging Robert out of bed in the morning to sit through this meeting he's demanded while he's suffering a hangover. That'll teach 'im.”
Ned and I had decided that Robert would be taking a more ‘hands-on’ approach to his throne during our conversations on the road. Stark had been reluctant, but I pressed him that he was literally the only person on this planet who could stand up to Robert when he was being an ass. And that was what was needed most to right this ship of state.
I knew there were serious problems waiting for Stark in that council room, though not the specifics. It would be fun wrangling the information out of the men who had it.
After several long moments of silence, Stark replied.
“Very well. I leave the meeting in your hands, ser. Though I want it known that I’ll have no tournament in my name. Wasteful, I call it, and Robert knows well my thoughts on spending coin and blood on games. If need be, I’ll remind him in the morning, as you say.” He turned to the courier and spoke in his ‘Lord’s Voice’ then. “Let it be known that this man, Ser Nathaniel, is serving in my stead while I settle my house here in the keep. He is well known to the king and has His Grace and my confidence. He may answer with my authority if need be, and has my leave to set a new meeting as needed on the morrow.”
The messenger gave a quick half-bow and turned to me. “If you would follow me, ser, I would be my honor to lead you to the Small Council chambers,” he offered with a short bow, getting my official title right this time after Stark’s little hint. I waved him off.
“Go ahead. I need to tell my own people to get themselves settled in with the Lord Hand’s household. My sworn sword is well familiar with the layout of the Red Keep. He can lead me to the council’s chambers. Best go warn the other members to expect me momentarily.”
The man nodded and spun on his heel in a well-practiced maneuver.
I gave my new patron/advisee a shallow bow and turned to go find my glorified bodyguard to lead me to my unexpected afternoon appointment.
This should be fun.