章 32: Chapter 28 - The Fox's Due, Part II
Chapter XXVIII: The Fox's Due, Part II
1 BC
Highgarden
The atmosphere in the throne room of Highgarden was excruciatingly tense and stifling, the air thick and heavy with anger, denial, sorrow and uncertainty. The courtiers' politicking and arguing was at an all-time high, their voices so loud and cantankerous that any who listened in close proximity would be prone to deafness in a matter of minutes.
Many courtiers present had red eyes puffy from weeping, others behaving like chess players losing valuable pawns.
The Reach, soundly defeated in battle with many soldiers and commanders killed, Theo Tyrell and King Mern IX Gardener among them.
Sitting upon his throne, the hastily-crowned King Edmund Gardener leaned his head into his hand, massaging his forehead, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. Young and spry, his chiselled masculine body was concealed beneath fine clothing, his eyes burning with sorrow and fury in equal measure, his blue eyes shining like sapphires.
Heavy was the crown on his head, even heavier was the sorrow weighing down on his heart.
Yet time waits for no man, and time was a scarce commodity swiftly depleting.
"Silence!" Edmund bellowed, hammering his fist on his armrest.
The courtiers were silenced, the thunderous power in Edmund's voice radiating Mern's authority of yore.
"This bickering will do us no good when the threat of the Targaryens looms over us like a headsman's axe! What we should be doing is securing the release of our captive army in preparation for the conflict to come!" Edmumd roared, red-faced and narrow-eyed, "I will have order in this court, or I will forcibly evict you all if need be!"
Edmund's thunderous edict had its intended effect, and the courtiers were silenced like naughty schoolchildren. Taking a deep breath, Edmund calmed himself as he sat back down on his throne.
"Harlan, has there been any word from Dorne yet?" He asked the old man.
Harlan, the everdutiful Steward of Highgarden, had visibly aged a decade after learning of his son Theo's demise, his wrinkles more pronounced and his grey hair increasingly white, thick black bags under his eyes. Still he carried himself with pride and dignity, ready to perform his duty.
"Not as of yet, Your Grace," Harlan said, his eyes focused and his voice soft, "It has only been four days since we last heard of the defeat at the Eyarha Plains, and for a messenger to reach Highgarden from Dorne he would need at least two to three days on horseback; the enemy would need at least a day or two to take count of their dead and the hostages in their care."
"Meaning that any time today, we should be receiving a messenger from Dorne?" Asked Edmund, his eyes hovering between cautious and hopeful, his eyes dancing around.
"Hopefully. If not, perhaps tomorrow, Your Grace," Answered Harlan, outwardly failing to react much, "I'd rather they come today rather than tomorrow."
"Today is a time not too soon," Edmund agreed.
"But Your Grace, what about Dorne and the Black Fox?" A noble lord asked, "What should we do about them? We cannot leave them be! They are a threat that must be neutered!"
Edmund resisted the urge to punch the noble's face, instead settling for muted grumbling beneath his breath.
"Well, thank you for reiterating to us the obvious fact, good Ser. Why, I feel like you should be King of the Reach instead of me, for that matter."
Edmund's dripping sarcasm instantly had the other nobles casting glances towards the lone man who spoke, and he quickly mouthed an apology towards him before retreating towards the back, his face burning with shame and fixed on the floor.
"With all due respect, Your Grace, I am honestly worried about the Black Fox. What if he has a nasty surprise waiting for us? Specifically with the hostages, for that matter?"
Edmyn Tyrell, Second Son of Harlan Tyrell, spoke with impetuousness mixed with heartfelt concern. Like his elder brother Theo he tended to lean towards arrogance and was impetuous, tempered only by his father's wisdom and caution.
"No, he will not be trying anything with the hostages, you can be certain of that," Edmund reassured resolutely, "He will not forsake the opportunity to ransom them for hefty sums; Brandyll Tarly is an especially valuable hostage for Arin."
"I despise the fact my son is treated as leverage, but we have little choice save praying for their safety and wellbeing," Lord Samwell Tarly said, his voice a rumbling volcano, "The only question is how much the Black Fox will charge for their ransom - an eye-watering amount, no doubt."
Just then, a guard came and saluted King Edmund, saying, "Your Grace, a diplomat arrives from Dorne, accompanied by a bard. They say they come with both an offer for ransom and a gift for you."
"A gift? Of what kind?" Edmund cautiously questioned.
"They say they have a song to sing, of your father's talents in battle and valiant last stand in the Battle of the Eyarha Plains, Your Grace," The guard answered, his eyes reflecting bewilderment, "They also say the song is a gift from the Black Fox himself, as a means of paying his final respects to your deceased father and all those who fell before his might."
The Reachmen courtiers were taken aback by this news, shocked and perturbed and utterly dumbfounded by this unexpected 'gift' from Arin, if any could call it that. Suspicions ran rife, none daring to open their mouths lest they prematurely embarrass themselves in public, some genuinely curious as to the song's contents.
"...Let them in," Edmund ordered after a pregnant silence.
The Dornish delegates who entered carried themselves with measured confidence and politeness, never baulking in the face of an army of angry, hateful and suspicious glares they received the moment they stepped inside the throne room, Harlan Tyrell foremost among them.
Both diplomat and bard were fair-skinned with a dark olive shade, the diplomat herself a beautiful woman who walked with a natural elegant grace befitting a debutante. Her diamond-shaped figure was clad in flowing gossamer silks of crimson and mauve, accentuating her sensual figure and her ample bosom and leaving little to imagination. Her brown eyes glittered, piercing yet gentle, her silky black hair adorned with an elaborate yet simply designed headdress of immaculate silver.
The bard himself, skinnier than most men, had a roguish charm and a playful smile, though he had a scar marking his upper lip. His sandy yellow eyes shone brightly, his cheekbones wide and his nose straight. His curly black hair was kept short and meticulously groomed with a bright sheen, and he wore a single red Zud [1] with a black tassel atop his head, his Westerosi-styled clothing made with fine silks of the same colour and tailored with fine inscriptions and Rhoynar-styled flowing patterns.
The Dornish delegation bowed respectfully before King Edmund in the Reachmen fashion, showing nothing but strict politeness and deference and heavily schooled masks of amicability.
"We bid you good afternoon, Your Grace Edmund Gardener, Third of your name and King of the Reach," Began the debutante, her voice a gentle and soothing falsetto, "I am Nymeria Rada, thirdborn child of Arris and Aimelia Rada and diplomat in service to my brother Lord Arin Rada of Dorne. I come to you bearing a gift for Your Grace and an offer of ransom for the captive Reachmen. Accompanying me is Felix, my personal bard and paramour."
The gathered courtiers looked upon them with no small amount of disdain, most especially at Felix the moment his status as paramour was revealed. The Dornish delegates noticed this but showed no outward reaction or indication, simply focusing on King Edmund.
"I greet you, Lady Rada, and welcome you and your paramour to my homely house," Edmund greeted back, cautiousness masked behind politeness, "I am curious; why prepare a song of all things as a gift? Is this a Rhoynish tradition we are not aware of?"
Nymeria giggled softly in good-natured amusement, "No, Your Grace. Is it not a Westerosi custom that ballads of great battles and mighty warrior kings are composed to remember their deeds, so they may be passed down and retold for future generations?"
"That it certainly is, Lady Rada," Edmund nodded in agreement, "Though I admit, I find it strange that your brother would compose a song about his greatest adversary in battle; we Westerosi compose ballads only to humiliate our enemies and praise our own deeds in battle."
"In this case, Your Grace, Arin had this song composed out of greatest respect for your father and the countless Reachmen who served in the Dornish expedition," Nymeria explained, her smile fixed in place and never fading, "He says he holds no resentment for your father or the Reach in general for your invasion of Dorne; that if he were His Grace King Mern IX Gardener, he would have done the same to the Red Mountain and Desert Dornish. In fact, his true and most terrible enemy has always been his fellow Dornishmen."
The courtiers present flew into a fit of whispering, further confounded by Nymeria's words. Was this a plot concealed beneath a gesture of goodwill, a trap to convince them to lower their guard before the Black Fox comes to deliver the final blow of retribution?
"This is… intriguing," Edmund spoke, his voice just loud enough to be audible amid the heated whispering and thus silencing the courtiers, "Is it safe to assume he treats the captives well, then?"
"Most certainly, Your Grace," Nymeria reassured, "After the Battle of the Eyarha Plains, the survivors have all been placed under great care; the wounded and sick have been tended to, and the dead being prepared to be returned to the Reach for proper burial according to Andalic rites."
"Forgive me if I come off as overly suspicious, but you must understand the Dornish have a horrendous habit of treating their prisoners of war exceedingly cruelly," Edmund cautioned as a warning to Nymeria, "There have been countless such instances throughout our bloody and bitter history between our two nations and between Dorne and the Stormlands."
"We are fully aware, Your Grace," Nymeria reassured again, unphased yet heedful of the warning, "However, Arin holds nothing but the greatest respect for your father and Lord Brandyll Tarly, who distinguished themselves in battle and who ended the menace of House Wyl, hence his magnanimous treatment of them."
"Pardon me, but if I may speak, Your Grace?"
The dour-faced Samwell Tarly stepped forward, making a very bold request to King Edmund after remaining silent and stoic for the most part. Edmund granted his request with an exaggerated nod, and Samwell nodded his thanks.
"Lady Rada, you said that your brother Arin holds great respect for His Late Grace and my son," Samwell began, his voice inflecting the tiniest sliver of emotion, "May I ask why?"
"You are Lord Brandyll's father?" Asked Nymeria.
"I am. Samwell Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill and my house," Samwell answered.
"Forgive me for not recognising you, Lord Tarly," Nymeria nodded slightly, "My brother respects your son for distinguishing himself, working his way up to becoming one of the Reach's top commanders through own merits in the war. He is doing well, by the way."
Samwell nodded at this, standing a little straighter at the mention of his son's successes, his eyes softening slightly and his lips twitching into a smile.
"Why would your brother respect my son for such a small thing, might I ask?" Samwell said, his voice gentler and more curious, "He merely did his duty for his house and country, as any proud son of the Reach would do."
"Because he is a man who worked hard to earn what he earned, Lord Tarly - his power and prestige," Nymeria explained, "If he was a simple buffoon who cared only for massed charges and idiotic notions of chivalry, my brother would not have afforded him the same respect he does now."
The Reachmen were once again dumbfounded by Nymeria's change in tone to a more lackadaisical one, questioning her motives. They soon found her laughing in amusement, covering her mouth with her fingers like a demure lady.
"I was merely joking, Lord Tarly," Nymeria stated smilingly, to which Samwell and a few Lords chuckled, "Arin respects those who earn their positions and power through their own merits as your son Lord Brandyll did, and in the Battle of the Eyarha Plains, both he and King Mern IX managed to give him an ample challenge; they not only saw through most of his tricks, but also managed to cost him quite a number of his own troops, even coming close to killing him before my brother managed to snatch a victory from the jaws of defeat."
"A general respecting a fellow general… yes, I understand that feeling," Samwell smiled, "And here I thought your brother would resent my son instead; I'm glad to be wrong. Thank you, Lady Rada."
"My pleasure, Lord Tarly," Nymeria nodded smilingly.
"Lady Rada, might we hear the song you are prepared to sing to us?" Asked Edmund.
"Of course, Your Grace," Nymeria smiled, turning to Felix, "Felix, if you would?"
"Of course, my dear," Felix smiled endearingly, preparing his lute and taking a deep breath.
Opening his words, he began singing in a lilting mezzo-soprano, his voice soft yet loud enough to carry itself throughout the entire hall.
When King Mern fell that day,
The green hands no longer sway;
With a sword in hand,
Steel played chorus band,
When King Mern gave battle in fray.
When King Mern threw fire through air,
And all his men could hardly stare;
Pots crashed and they splinted,
Ignited by sparks newly flinted,
When King Mern called forth despair.
When King Mern called for his knights,
The iron horses took battle in flights;
They charged 'cross the fields,
To the sands gave no yields,
When King Mern took the ground first lights.
When King Mern crashed the forward shields,
And gave the Reach control of the fields;
Heavy armour battled in rams,
Blood and water spewed in drams,
When King Mern motioned noble guilds.
When King Mern saw his early grave,
Not an inch of his stance had he gave;
Despite being stuck inside the box,
Charged forth and slashed at the fox,
When King Mern rallied his soldiers brave.
When King Mern breath at last grew sore,
A call to the Seven he did not implore;
Even cunning King Arin's morrow,
Throws his head down in sorrow,
When King Mern's banner sways no more.
Strumming the final tune with a practised flourish, Felix bowed smilingly before the entire court, and for a moment stunned silence was what greeted the Dornish delegates as they patiently awaited their response.
Then Samwell Tarly started clapping as did Edmund Gardener, and one by one the courtiers clapped in applause to which Felix bowed again with a flourish and a beaming smile.
"Bravo! Bravo! What a magnificent song!" Edmund smilingly praised, wiping a stray tear from his eyes, "Truly, a worthy song to retell my father's stand! I must say, you have outdone yourselves today!"
"We appreciate the compliment, Your Grace," Nymeria smiled, both her and Felix bowing to Edmund.
"With this ballad, I can now wholeheartedly believe the tales of your brother's respect to my father and Lord Brandyll Tarly - the whole Reach does," Edmund declared, "Now then, might I hear your ransom offer?"
"My brother has compiled a list of all surviving and deceased noble officers and the ransom amount for each and every one of the former, and for their Valyrian Steel blades if they wield one," Nymeria explained, her smile fading as she handed the scroll to Edmund to read.
At the mention of the Valyrian Steel blades being ransomed, however, many nobles lost their earlier jubilation and instantly whispered among themselves with worry, hoping the ransom would not bankrupt their treasuries; richer and more powerful lords like House Tarly could afford to ransom both commander and sword, while smaller houses could at best hope to ransom the surviving scion of their house - who was their sole heir for some.
As Edmund read the list, his lips pursed into a pensive frown, and he beckoned Harlan to read the list with him. They exchanged hushed whispers of their own, debating the next course of action as both Dornishman and Reachman awaited Edmund's response.
Edmund was fierce and tempered in his whispering, while Harlan was calm and composed in offering his suggestions, and as minutes passed Edmund grew less fierce and increasingly nodded to his wizened advisor, until they nodded with expressions of satisfaction to each other. Then it was Edmund's turn to address the Dornish delegation.
"After debating with Harlan, I have come to a decision," Edmund declared, and the Dornish delegates grew slightly tense in anticipation, "For any noble house whose scions listed still survive, they must ransom both their own scions and their Valyrian Steel swords if they can afford it. For those who've lost their own sons, I grieve for them, but can only offer condolences. Any who cannot afford to pay for either for any reason may request coin from the Royal Family to settle this, but only if truly necessary. Any Valyrian Steel swords which can no longer be retrieved by their owning houses will remain in the custody of House Rada, to be used or disposed of however they wish. Lady Rada, please relay my words to your brother."
"Of course, Your Grace," Nymeria bowed with a small smile of relief, "Thank you for accepting our offer."
For the Reachmen, the potential loss of Valyrian Steel swords was a bitter pill to swallow; each was worth their weight in gold, capable of slicing through castle-forged steel like a hot knife through butter and incapable of rusting - an eternal testament to Valyrian spellcraft. Yet between an enchanted sword and the heir to their bloodline, there was no choice to be made.
The minutiae of what would be termed the Highgarden Concordat [2] would be further debated in weeks of talks between Nymeria Rada and King Edmund III Gardener, finalising the ransom amounts to be paid by the paying noble houses in exchange for the hostages, all the while Felix and his band of bards walked throughout Highgarden and the Reach, replaying the ballad of the Last Stand of the Bloodhand [3] in every noble court, every inn and tavern, every plaza square where curious listeners would gather and listen.
Some Reachmen bards initially took offence to Dornish bards and singers taking their job and playing a ballad of their greatest defeat, but once they realised it was a ballad celebrating the last stand of King Mern IX, they joined in the ballad's reciting with great gusto and enthusiasm.
Almost a month later, the Highgarden Concordant was signed, ending the War of Roses and Serpents much to the jubilation of Dorne and the reluctant acceptance of the Reach.
Dawn, once the ancestral sword of House Dayne and the once-claimed heirloom of King Mern IX Gardener, would be returned to Dorne and claimed by Arin Rada, as was the victor's right.
IIOII
Rhoyehom
"Husband, are you napping again?"
Belandra's voice awoke Arin as he yawned loudly and got up to stretch his arms and back, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he sat upright on his sofa.
"Yeah?" Asked Arin groggily.
"Come on, I remember you and goodmother always telling me that I should pick up the slack and do my work without complaint, yet I see you here dozing off without a care in the world like you're a fucking bum," Belandra dryly pointed out with thick sarcasm, "Care to explain why?"
"Come on, love! I was working my ass off in the eastern and western campaigns! I also nearly lost my life to King Mern in that big battle and have the scars to show for it!" Arin retorted, though he adopted a more playful expression, "Don't I deserve a break from all that hard work?"
"Of course, and you're certainly not neglecting anything else during your break time while your army of clerks works themselves to the bone?" Belandra questioned with a questioning glare, huffing and pouting like a little girl, "Not shoving your work to your dear mother or wife?"
"No, I'm not," Arin defended, "I mean, I'm fucking tired as all Hells and I dearly want to rest, at least before I have to deal with the next boatload of work coming our way."
"Sure you haven't forgotten what work you have to deal with next?" Belandra questioned again.
"The Red Mountain and Desert Lords, for one; sending food shipments to help the poor and starving; patrolling the seas to avoid piracy resurgence; making sure the Reach ransoms get through, and so on," Arin listed as he counted with fingers, "Oh, and let's not forget auctioning the leftover Valyrian Steel blades to the Lannisters."
Many minor houses and some major ones were rendered extinct due to their male heirs perishing in battle, and as a result their Valyrian Steel blades were forfeit to House Rada's possession. While Arin would keep a few and have them reforged to be wielded by his closest commanders, the rest would be sold to House Lannister in exchange for hefty sums, which he would use for hefty investments taking years to reap fruit.
"That coupled with the request for food supplies you made?" Belandra questioned, "Though come to think of it, they will want to conserve their coin as much as possible for when they build up their Crownlands, so I expect they might be tight-fisted with their coin shipments to us."
"They will definitely be tight-fisted, mark my words," Arin agreed, "Especially considering we never revealed the existence of our Hydromancers to anyone, not even our allies - making the Targs more suspicious of us."
Belandra simply shrugged, "At least with the Reach and the Westerlands paying good coin, we won't have to worry about bankruptcy for a good decade or two. I daresay we might even earn more than what we spend or lose, making us much richer than before, though I don't think we'll be as rich as the Reach within our lifetimes."
"Definitely no, but we'll definitely no longer be piss poor," Arin shrugged with a playful smile, "Just trust in your dear husband, love. I got everything handled."
"My lazy bum of a husband who loves slouching, sleeping, running away from work and being an overall pain in the ass?" Belandra questioned once more, her lips quirking into a toothy smile, "When he's an otherwise caring and loving father and a lovable husband?"
"Who else?" Arin smirked.
Belandra pulled Arin into a deep, loving kiss that lasted minutes as their tongues intertwined with each other, before they finally pulled away with great reluctance, a trail of saliva bridging their tongues.
Then Belandra abruptly pulled Arin's ear, causing him to wince slightly.
"That is for being lazy," Belandra dryly remarked.
Arin rolled his eyes as he massaged his ear.
"So, your uncle," Belandra asked, her voice soft and slightly hesitant, "I heard he was pulled apart by horses."
"Yes, he was," Arin answered without hesitation, "I gave the order."
Belandra quickly narrowed her eyes at the very thought, and Arin upon seeing this quickly placed a comforting hand on her face, fixing her eyes with his and giving her a look of calm, reassurance and comfort.
"Are you alright, Belandra?" He asked.
"I'm fine, love," Belandra answered, swallowing nervously, "It's just… that was such a cruel punishment to inflict on your own uncle. I know you've given harsh punishments before, but never something like this."
"I know, Belandra. I know," Arin nodded, "Truthfully, his crimes warranted such a thing."
"So the news of his kinslaying, his abuse of his own wife and children… all of that was real," Belandra muttered to herself, "I never thought any person could ever do that to their own flesh and blood."
"Unless you're the special kind of tyrant who treats them as nothing more than useful tools," Arin added, "Or the spiteful kind who's sick and tired of the shit they've received and just want to vent their anger any way they can."
"So it was a warning to everyone else, to warn against the consequences of kinslaying," Belandra voiced the answer, "However, I don't think that's the only reason you did so, did you?"
Here, Arin's expression turned contemplative and he patiently waited for his wife to continue.
"Are the remaining Dornish nobles your concern, then?" She asked.
"Naturally," Arin answered.
"And I take it this is a warning to them, of sorts?" Asked Belandra, "That any and all who threaten the stability of Dorne will be destroyed by your hand, family or not?"
Arin's look gave her the answer she wanted.
"Do you fear for me?" Asked Arin, "Do you regret following me through this path of carnage?"
It was a question she half-expected, and she racked her mind hard to find an answer to him.
"...I don't deny it does terrify me at times," Belandra admitted, "And the more I work with you, the more I see the darker nature of Men."
She took a deep sigh, before leaning herself onto Arin's shoulder.
"And yet, I'm comforted when I'm with you," She continued, her lips curling into a smile of contentment, "It's a hard path, and one that leaves me doubting much I once believed in, but I know you only do this for your family, friends and people. Of all the lords and ladies I met, I have never met one who cares as much as you do."
Arin gave her a smile of joy and relief, and he pulled her deeper into his embrace.
"Thank you for believing in me, Belandra," He whispered.
"I always believe in you, husband," Belandra whispered back, "You still want to enjoy your break?"
"Just for maybe a few minutes more," Arin answered, "Afterwards comes more work."
Arin rested his head on Belandra's lap as he dozed off, and Belandra softly stroked his head, content and happy to have this moment of peace with her husband.
IIOII
Dragonstone
"So, that Fox really did it; he truly managed to defeat the Reach in a head-on clash."
Visenya's words echoed throughout the Chamber of the Painted Table, moving the tokens of the Fox to encompass the entirety of Dorne and the Reach tokens away. Her expression was one of both bewilderment and irritation, the dragoness scratching her head furiously.
"To think that Arin was hiding water wizards of all people in his employ, and chose to not say anything about them to us until the last possible moment when he reveals them in this grand battle!" Visenya ranted, huffing angrily, "Honestly, I get the fact that he was being cautious, that did not want to risk their early discovery, but he could have at least told us via secret messenger! Or he could have visited us in person to tell us if he feared enemy spies!"
"Visenya, I think you're expecting too much from Arin," Rhaenys gently reminded, "He does not trust us that much, and he definitely wishes to keep his cards close to him."
"Yes, I get that much, but who knows how many more secrets he is keeping from us? Fourteen know they were the only weapon the Rhoynar had which were capable of fighting our dragons," Visenya countered, "Or better still, how long until he starts forming secret alliances of his own? Perhaps with the Iron Bank, for one?"
"On that, you're severely mistaken, Sister," Rhaenys interjected, "Arin may have made a deal to import freed slaves to his country, but he never took a loan from them or even made a contract with the Faceless Men, much less obtain an alliance. Ever wonder why that is?"
"...I still fail to see the reason why, in all honesty," Visenya grudgingly admitted, "Although I do get that his alliance with us would put him at odds with Braavos, considering the Braavosi are descended from freed slaves escaping the Freehold, and that we are the last of the Forty Families."
"Even before he made his alliance with us, he was keeping them at arm's length and refraining from taking any loan or making any other deals with the Iron Bank," Rhaenys added, displaying great patience and calm, "Think about it: Why would he choose to request food, material and financial aid from us rather than the Iron Bank which has all three in spades?"
"Are you suggesting that Arin does not trust the Iron Bank?" Visenya questioned, "That he is deliberately keeping them at arm's length for whatever reason?"
"Yes, exactly that," Rhaenys affirmed, "Though even I don't know his exact reasons why."
While Rhaenys and Visenya exchanged words in hot debate, Aegon remained impassive and simply listened in silence, though he rubbed his forehead to stave off a headache threatening to ruin his day.
Rhaenys sipped some chilled wine as she continued, "It is clear that Arin prefers an alliance with us over an alliance with the Iron Bank, and while I cannot fathom his exact reasons why, this also means he still remains a trustworthy ally for our family."
"In this instance, Rhaenys is right," Aegon interjected, drawing his sisters' attention, "I dislike the fact he kept the water wizards secret from us, yet at the same time, there is no ally more reliable than he, and it is thanks to him that we now have Dorne in our hands. Then there is the fact that he is sending aid requests to us, and that can only mean he is bleeding his own coffers dry."
"Yes, I can see that," Visenya slowly nodded in understanding, "And for better or worse, he will always remain loyal to us. It's just… how long until he feels this alliance is no longer necessary to him?"
"I must share Visenya's concerns as well, brother," Rhaenys added with a deep frown, "Who knows how high his ambitions go? Or rather, will he truly be satisfied with just Dorne and the Stepstones alone?"
"I do not know," Aegon admitted, his voice reflecting just a hint of uncertainty, "What I do know is that through our alliance with Arin, we've gained far more than we've lost; through his victory, he's shifted the power dynamic between the Reach and Dorne, making the political landscape lean more heavily in favour of the latter. As such, the Reach will have no choice but to be doubly cautious of their political dealings with their erstwhile neighbour in the future. Furthermore, the presence of Arin will serve as a deterrent to any restless Stormlords or Reachlords looking to cause trouble for our rule."
"Several older houses in the Stormlands already take issue with a relatively young house like Baratheon ruling over them - the house of a baseborn," Rhaenys put forth, sipping her chilled wine with a look of disappointment, "Honestly speaking, they were just as against a woman taking the throne, and here they have yet another thing to moan and whine about."
"Nobles will be nobles, Rhaenys," Visenya shrugged.
"Indeed, and then we have Arin's conquest of the Stepstones," Aegon reminded, "He will have to regularly patrol those waters to ensure other pirate scum or privateers do not reclaim those islands, but in exchange he will keep our trade routes with Essos safe; he wants to benefit, and so will we."
"And not a single one of the Free Cities will lift a finger to liberate a cove of pirates, at least not so openly," Visenya nodded slowly, a devious smile across her lips.
"We should keep a close eye on Braavos just in case, along with Lys, Myr and Tyrosh," Rhaenys suggested, "These city-states are closest to the Stepstones and will keep a vested interest in the Narrow Sea."
"Naturally, we have that taken care of," Aegon smiled a smug smile, "Can mortal men ever hope to match a dragon?"
Both sisters beamed brightly at this, wrapping their arms around Aegon's.
"Speaking of which, how go our preparations for the invasion of the Westerlands?" Asked Aegon.
"We're doing splendidly, although our spies say that with King Mern IX gone, his son King Edmumd is failing to secure an alliance with King Loren Lannister," Visenya informed, "Honestly speaking, while his son is doing an admirable job of holding things together, he simply lacks his father's clout."
"Unless something untoward happens and for some inexplicable reason, the Westerlands and the Reach seal an alliance together, then for some reason chooses to engage our army out in the open rather than hole up in their castles," Aegon shrugged, sniffing at the mention of his Andalic enemies, "Their castles will do them no good, but if they use that as an excuse to fight us in the open, they are even stupider than I thought."
"To be honest, I think at least some of the Reachmen will not be so foolish, at least after being humbled by the Black Fox," Rhaenys offered, "According to Arin's reports, one of their top commanders especially distinguished himself alongside King Mern IX in the Battle of the Eyarha Plains, able to see through a number of his tricks and feints and hold the main camp until their defeat."
"I read the reports," Aegon reminded, "This Brandyll Tarly, do either of you think he is a threat to us?"
"Not truly, but he did give Arin a hard time in battle," Visenya said, "When his side lost, he chose to surrender and preserve the lives of his men after King Mern died."
"A smart man, and hopefully one who will persuade the Reachmen of the futility of resistance," Aegon put forth with a shrug.
"No, I don't think that will be the case," Rhaenys countered, "Arin did win, but he also confesses in his reports that he paid a significant price for his victory, and that Brandyll is confident that should the Reach commit to all-out war against Dorne, he will lose."
"In other words, it falls to the dragons once again," Visenya grumbled, "Honestly, it annoys me sometimes why these nobles will not simply surrender; at least the Valesmen had the good sense to surrender to me and Vhagar."
"Pride and tradition go hand-in-hand; it's just how things are sometimes," Aegon shrugged as he hugged Visenya, her sour expression fading away as she felt her husband's reassuring comfort, "Why don't we retire for the night, and take our minds off things?"
Rhaenys joined in, and soon the three withdrew to their bedchambers, filling the night with much joyous noise.
IIOII
Casterly Rock
"We cannot hope to defeat them in the open field, so we must make use of our mountainous terrain to ensure the dragons cannot simply incinerate our entire army in one battle."
Loren Lannister's words thundered like an ominous funeral bell, lightning striking in the distance as dark clouds obscured the bright blue sky on what should have been a bright, sunny afternoon. The Westerlands prided themselves on fielding one of the best equipped and most disciplined armies in Westeros, surpassing the massed levies of the Reach and any other Andal kingdom, and to hear they were to go on the defensive disappointed more than a few hotheaded nobles.
"Before any of you try to voice your dissatisfaction, let me state clearly that our loyal spies in the Riverlands took great risks to deliver crucial information, witnessing the Targaryens' dragons in action when they burned several castles and smaller armies and even the great fortress of Harrenhal. A towering monument to Hoare arrogance and pomp that took decades to build, melted to slag in mere moments," Loren began, his harsh no-nonsense tone and grizzled face silencing any dissent, "Our armies are more than a match than whatever hodgepodge men-at-arms the Targaryens can throw our way, but they cannot hope to stand up to dragonfire. For that reason, we must focus on bleeding them dry, wear them down through constant skirmishes using the mountainous terrain of our home to our advantage."
"I do not wish to accuse you of lying, Your Grace, but none of us have seen dragons in battle. I believe I speak for the majority of us when I say we see little value in a more defensive strategy."
Loren glared at the speaker, Reynard Reyne of Castamere, a slippery snake of a politician who wormed his way into becoming a significant political player through masterful use of marriage alliances, trade deals, underhanded tactics and so on. Many speak his name in fear, calling him by his moniker: The Snake.
His chestnut hair was slicked back and neatly cut, his facial hair trimmed to perfection and a black eyepatch covering his right eye. His good left eye was brown, and reflected playfulness and cunning. His physique was not a warrior's, but even warriors speak cautiously of dealing with him.
"Perhaps so, and I do not fault ignorance of such in any of you," Loren reassured, his eyes watching the courtiers like a hawk, "Yet I say now this is a direct order from your King! We will maintain a defensive stance and wear down the Targaryens, and use guile and trickery to lure their dragonriders into carefully prepared ambush zones where we shall take them down with scorpions! It will not be a quick war, but when we win this war through using proper tactics, we shall make it a glorious victory! Not only will we manage to end the Targaryens where others have failed, all shall hail us as dragonslayers!"
Many courtiers cheered at the top of their voices, easily roused to lend their support.
"Hail, hail!" They chanted.
As the throne room fell silent, Reynard chose to speak again, "In other words, we opt to bleed them dry and make them careless? I must say, I believe the Targaryens are expecting a quick and easy victory with how easily their enemies capitulated. Even the Eyrie was nothing in the face of a flying monster."
"That is what I just said, Reynard," Loren confirmed, masking his irritation behind a twitch of the eyebrow.
"That is not good enough, father. Far too many of us are scraping for a good fight, and I say there is nothing to fear in the face of dragons!"
The chorus of cheers was instigated by none other than Loren's son, Tytos Lannister, who just entered the age of ten-and-eight. Taken by fantasies of knights prevailing against all odds, he was the perfect definition of an arrogant, ignorant braggart of an armchair strategist. His long blonde hair waved in the wind and his unblemished face revealed a beaming, charming smile which easily swooned countless women.
"Damn it, boy, did you not hear me? I said we should not attempt to face the dragons on an open field!" Loren reprimanded, his voice rising with anger and displeasure.
"And that is a coward's way, father, and one that will deplete our people's willingness to fight!" Tytos retorted, "What we should be doing is fighting as true knights of the Westerlands, and swiftly end the Targaryens' ambitions with but a single battle in a single afternoon!"
Seven help me with this boy's delusions…
"Enough! We are adopting a defensive strategy, and that is final!" Loren roared, cowing the entire court into submission, "Do not think to remonstrate with me on this. Dismissed!"
None left the court truly satisfied, save for the most seasoned veterans who knew war and all its horrors, who knew unlike the young ones that war was never about glory and fame like what the storybooks loved to retell. Even then, they were not that many who supported Loren's plan, though none dared defy the Old Lion.
And hidden from the eyes of everyone, Reynard's lips curled into a twisted smile, knowing who to plant his poisoned fangs into.
[1] Zud - A type of cap that has recently taken the entirety of Dornish fashion by storm. Adapted from the ancient Rhoynish Kafrn, a type of hat designed to protect hair from the harsh sun or winds of their ancestral homeland, its design was simplified for easier wear and is popular among both the nobility and the smallfolk.
[2] Highgarden Concordat - The peace treaty signed between the Reach and Dorne that ended the War of Roses and Serpents and forced the Reach to pay hefty ransom to Arin Rada. To the Reachmen it is a mark of terrible shame and an eye-opener to the reality that the Dornish were adapting to become a rising power. To the Dornish, it was a sign of their destiny made manifest.
[3] Last Stand of the Bloodhand - The ballad composed by Nymeria Rada and her paramour Felix which was played to King Edmund III Gardener and the court of Highgarden. It is one of few ballads that remains highly popular among both the Reachmen and the Dornish.
A/N: 17 pages worth of words. That's how much this chapter blew up. Hope you enjoy this rarely long chapter.
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