Brandon I
11th Moon, 46AC
The warm glow of the hearth did little to warm Brandon Stark's cold expression as his eyes never left the paper before him. Two wax seals were broken and scattered across his desk, red and gold, faintly illuminated in the dim light.
He sat alone at his desk, his cold grey eyes scanning the words of the two letters before him once more. The words were troubling, to say the least. He had previously been content to merely brood on what action he should take before, but then the second letter arrived.
Now he was at a loss for what to do. Most of his nobles had already left for back home after he hosted them to celebrate the end of winter. So he was now forced to rely on his most loyal vassals, and the only ones he could call upon quickly, his sons.
Walton, his eldest and heir to all of House Stark, was busy in the yard with his younger brother Alaric. They should be arriving in his solar soon enough, but that did not particularly ease Brandon's thoughts.
His teeth ground softly as his hand brushed over the first letter. Merely a curt statement from his king, outlining yet another reform, His Grace was eager to see imposed on his loyal vassals. The words weren't impolite, but their meaning was iron, and this one in particular had been especially troubling.
The letter almost made him want to scoff. It almost seemed as if his king was trying to get him to revolt. Honestly, it was a wonder how he had managed to retain any loyal vassals with all of his eager stripping of rights and privileges.
This was most certainly not the first such decree Brandon had received, a simple letter declaring that rights that his family had held for millennia were now forfeit. King Aenys seemed determined to continue hacking away at the rights his forefathers had possessed since time immemorial.
His family had been rulers of the North for millennia, even before the dragons made landfall eight and forty years prior. For thousands of years, the North had been ruled with relative peace and prosperity, not even the Andal invasions could shake the might of House Stark. But now, the dragons were seemingly determined to see it all burned down.
The first to arrive had been a series of new taxes on all manner of things. Glass, spices, clocks, gemstones, fine silks, perfume, rare wines, and any other trinket the nobility might prize. Those, at the very least, he could understand, given the war waging in the south. His Grace had even been wise enough not to levy a tax on grain, fish, or livestock, ensuring that no more smallfolk starved than was necessary.
Of course, his lords were not pleased by the newly increased prices on their favorite goods. But the taxes were not raised so high as to be crushing, merely an annoyance. An annoyance that Brandon was more than happy to ignore until more letters began arriving.
The next to arrive was a decree on the taxation of the repair or construction of new castles. A sizable price was put on the repair or construction of existing fortifications based on the number of crenelations the structure possessed. This only annoyed his nobles more, especially with the damage to the castles of the north that the winter was bound to cause.
That was the first worrying sign to arrive. Albeit one he could understand at the very least. King Aenys was fighting rebels south of the Neck, nobles and smallfolk alike. So limiting the construction or repair of castles was in his interest. Even still, he could not help but feel a little betrayed that the North was paying the price for the rebellious nature of Southern Lords.
King Aenys's reforms seemed to lose more and more sense after that. A decree on the rights of widows was tame enough, even if it caused even more grumbling among his vassals all across the North. But the next decree that King Aenys unilaterally passed had been the most troublesome by far, until this latest letter at least.
Aenys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Declared the right of the first night, a right that all lords in Westeros had held since time immemorial, was to be revoked.
The thought of that damned letter still angered Brandon to this very day. He personally had not taken part in the tradition. He was faithful to his wife, and she to him. But the ruckus it had stirred up among his nobles had caused him a major headache.
The smallfolk of the North rejoiced at the decree, but his lords were even more livid than they had been when the taxes were levied. Many lords continued to abuse the now-illegal practice openly, all but challenging him to punish them. In the dead of winter, that was easier said than done.
It had been a humiliating scandal for his house. Several of his nobles had been sentenced to death for it. Ordinary smallfolk did not have the bravery to accuse their liege lords. But the merchantfolk of the city had the influence to force his hand. Just three moons before, he had been forced to order the execution of several small lords under House Manderly's control.
His nobles were not happy, and several had even been bold enough to blatantly state their complaints when he hosted many of them a few moons ago. It was only through careful promises and his own natural charm that he was able to soothe their nerves. If only to avoid the catastrophe that was currently befalling those pitiful regions south of the Neck.
But how was he to deal with his latest decree from his king? Unilaterally declaring that the rights of pits and gallows were no longer theirs to possess? King Aegon the Conqueror had deliberately reaffirmed these rights when House Stark bent the knee to him six and forty years before. He had even used these privileges to uphold his king's recent laws. Now he wanted to take them away?
His fist pounded against his desk loudly, his irritation flaring once more. He had been brooding for almost two days after the letter had arrived, desperately looking for a solution to this crisis.
Should he abide by this? This letter made it evident that King Aenys had no love for those who had remained steadfast in their loyalty to him. If their fate was the same as those who had rebelled, why shouldn't they fight?
If they were going to be stripped of everything they owned and cast out into the world. Why shouldn't they fight for their rights? That had been his thought process for the first day at least, until a second letter arrived in Winterfell, a letter from his fellow Warden. Lord Lyman Lannister, Lord of the Rock.
Brandon's eyes drifted briefly over toward the second letter on his desk. Written in beautiful, if hasty calligraphy. The letter was a strong contrast with the one from his king. Flattering and dignified, the second letter had clarified his brooding, but now he needed more opinions than his own. Thankfully, his sons had just arrived.
A few swift knocks on his door got his attention before he could study the words he had read countless times any longer. Quietly, the Maester of Winterfell, Maester Toman, peeked his head in the door.
"My Lord, Lord Walton, and Lord Alaric have arrived," he said quietly.
Quite a few of his nobles disliked the Maesters, but he himself did not. He let a small smile touch his face as he nodded toward his helpful aide.
"Let them in, I will see them now," he declared, sitting higher in his chair and squaring his shoulders as his sons arrived dutifully.
Brandon let the smile creep back onto his face as his two sons stepped into his dimly lit solar. Walton, the bigger of the two, walked in proudly, eagerly moving to one of the open seats in the solar and taking a seat.
Alaric, meanwhile, moved more slowly, taking his seat beside his elder brother quietly. His second son was not nearly as brash or excitable as his eldest was. Alaric was stern and rarely bore a smile, but his taciturn humor was a joy to have when he could get it out of his seven and ten-year-old son.
Brandon steeled himself as his eyes briefly drifted to the dim light emanating from the hearth. He sucked in a deep breath before stating words plainly and clearly.
"His Grace means to strip us of the rights of pits and gallows."
The reaction from his two sons was immediate. Walton's previously disinterested look rapidly snapped to attention as Alaric leaned forward in his chair, his previously stern look now resembling Brandon's own.
Walton leaned forward in his chair, his elbows pressing against the table. "What?" he demanded, having nearly the same reaction as Brandon had two days prior.
Before he could respond, Alaric spoke too. "He… he cannot be serious," he said, disbelief sliding across his previously stony, serious face.
"I am afraid he is," Brandon started, sliding the letter across the table, pointing to the red wax seal that was proof of its authenticity. "In one year's time. All judgements and executions are to be ordered by new royal courts, operating under royal jurisdiction and law."
The silence that followed was deafening. Only the quiet crackle from the hearth broke it before Walton's fists began to shake.
"We cannot stand for this, Father," he began, his voice seething in resentment. "First our coin, then our castles, then our rights, and now our power? The king would make us nothing more than stewards in our own lands."
Alaric, meanwhile, said nothing, his hands clasped in front of him as he quietly stared at the floor. Brandon, however, could not remain silent, especially with Walton addressing him directly.
"I am aware, Walton. This latest decree is intolerable. But we must decide how House Stark will react before the North inevitably descends into violence," he said, repressing a shiver.
Brandon was thankful that he had been the only one to receive such a letter so far. At least as far as he could tell, given that he had yet to be swarmed with letters from his vassals decrying the latest decree and calling for war.
If King Aenys was serious in his desire to strip their powers. Then it would have to be answered with war. His people were hardly ready for it. Winter had not been kind, and their stores were about as depleted as they could get. But if King Aenys was serious, then they had no choice.
"We must prepare the North for war!" Walton exclaimed, stewing in anger.
"And what? Get ourselves burned to death like the High Septon in Oldtown?" Alaric responded with a tired scoff.
Walton whipped his head to the side, sucking in a breath as he prepared to shout at his little brother. "What would you have us do, Alaric? Submit fully like a whore as the Tyrells did, or should we perhaps wait and die like the Tullys?"
Brandon sighed quietly as his sons descended into an argument. They were very different personalities, so he supposed it should not have surprised him too heavily, but he did so deeply hate seeing them fight. Either way, he was more interested in what Alaric was saying.
It was not common for northerners to keep up with most happenings south of the Neck. Even still, the news in the Reach and the Riverlands spread fast. Especially with the handful of northern greybeards and young men who traveled south before the winter became too strong for travel to be reasonable.
The Reach and the Riverlands had both been dissolved as entities, being ruled directly by King Aenys as a part of his greater crownlands. House Tyrell had been steadfast in their support and had been allowed to retain Highgarden, along with receiving an increased personal demesne and a fancy new title. Meanwhile, the Tullys had been exterminated fully, dying in their castle bonfire or the boiling Red Fork around their castle.
Were those the only two routes that could be had now? Were the lords of Westeros going to have to choose between dishonor or death?
"Enough," Brandon said, raising Lord Lyman's letter in the air as he quieted his boys.
"We will not cower in fear like the Tyrells. Nor do I intend to die like the Tullys. Even still, this latest decree cannot stand. Luckily, it seems that we are not the only lords to be dissatisfied with this latest decree. I received a letter late last night from Lord Lyman Lannister, and I would like your thoughts on his idea," Brandon said clearly and concisely, his sons stopping in their argument as they quieted to hear what he had to say.
Brandon cleared his throat as he slid the letter across the table so they could read it as he began to speak. "Lord Lyman shares our same concerns about this new edict. He states in the letter that he intends to seek an audience with King Aenys, and implores us to do the same. He even suggests coordinating, so that we all may appear united in opposition to this most egregious decree."
Walton was the first to respond, his face twisting in disgust as he shook it slightly. "Why bother? His Grace has already made his intentions clear. Just look at the Riverlands and Reach, that is the future he wishes for all of Westeros. You think that he will suddenly see reason if two Wardens appear in his court? He has already killed countless nobles before, and that is discounting his cruel son."
Brandon did not outwardly react to his son's words. But they were troubling nonetheless. His argument was rather convincing. King Aenys did seem to be preparing to outright get rid of the individual regions of Westeros. The Reach and Riverlands had already fallen. Was this merely his next move to provoke another realm into rebellion so it could be annexed?
"You think war is the better path?" Brandon asked his eldest son, sitting a bit taller in his seat.
Walton scoffed slightly. "What other path is there? We ought to be prepared when King Aenys inevitably decides that the North is the next target of his dragon's wrath. Perhaps he will even sic his dastardly son onto the North and let Balerion tear down Winterfell just as it did Harrenhal and the Hightower before us."
Brandon sighed quietly, but before he could agree with his firstborn fully, Alaric finally spoke up.
"I do not trust King Aenys either," he started slowly, his grey eyes looking up from the paper and toward Brandon. "But I think making the first move is a poor decision. Just look at what happened to the Hightowers. I think we must prepare for war, but we must also buy as much time as we can. If Lord Lyman's proposal can at least do that, then I propose that we take him up on the offer."
Brandon sighed once more as he steeled his nerves. "You make a fine point, Alaric. Even if the chance is slim, we should take up Lord Lyman's offer. Even if the meeting with King Aenys does not reach an acceptable outcome. We should at the very least be able to draw out several moons' worth of time as I travel south, and a meeting place is proposed," Brandon said, his nerves hardening further.
"Father!" Walton exclaimed. "You intend to travel south yourself?" he asked, bewildered.
"Who else can go but me? If we are to discuss the future of the North with King Aenys, then it must be I at the talks," Brandon said, a cold calm descending over him.
"But what about preparing for war? We cannot put all of our trust into this plan working out…" he continued, clearly worried about him.
Brandon smiled slightly at his concern, but he waved it away.
"That is why you will remain here. I will travel south and meet with King Aenys while you discreetly prepare the North for war. Contact only our most loyal vassals for now. Manderly, Umber, Karstark, and Glover. Tell them to replenish their stores as best they can and train what men they have left for combat. We will not fight unless the talks fail, but should they fail. You must lead the North in its defense. Is that clear?" he asked his son, Walton, appearing worried at first before he calmed himself down.
"Yes, Father. Hopefully, we are all wrong about King Aenys and you return to the North safely," he said tiredly.
"Father, what would you have me do?" Alaric then asked, now seated much like him.
Brandon hummed in thought as he looked to his second son. He could remain in the North with his brother, helping prepare the North should the worst come to pass. Or perhaps there was another way.
"Would you be willing to accompany me south? Should I run into any complications along the route through the war-torn Riverlands. I would like to have one of my sons with me," he asked, Alaric momentarily brightening before returning to his previously cool expression.
"I would be honored to accompany you, Father," he said with a light bow.
With those words, a weight was lifted off Brandon's chest. He still feared a war with King Aenys. But some small part of him thought that he might just be reasonable. House Tyrell had managed to survive, after all. And while their situation would be intolerable for House Stark, his house had substantially more negotiating power than House Tyrell had.
Brandon drummed his fingers across the table quickly before addressing his sons once more. "Thank you for meeting with me. Our course is set. I shall write to Lord Lyman and King Aenys now. Then we will prepare to depart. Walton, I want you to begin preparing Winterfell now. But only reach out to our lords after Alaric and I depart, I do not want to provoke a conflict before even meeting with King Aenys," Brandon declared, already calling for the Maester to bring him quill and parchment.
"Yes, Father!" his two sons exclaimed before running off to prepare themselves. Walton to meet with the garrison of Winterfell, and Alaric to go and pack some of his things for the journey.
Brandon reclined slightly in his chair with a sigh. The coming moons would be arduous, both the travel south in the still early spring and the talks with King Aenys. They might even be his last ones alive should the worst come to pass. But some small spark of hope still lingered in his chest. If he could not save his family with talks, he could at least buy Walton time to prepare.
'That will have to be enough,' Brandon thought as he dipped his quill in the void black ink.
Aenys XVIII
11th Moon, 46AC
Aenys briefly closed his eyes as he walked down the halls of the Red Keep. Below him, his feet were moving with a quick pace, his boots tapping lightly against the red stone floors. His mind was filled to bursting with all the recent happenings, and even a few moments to close his eyes and think were a welcome reprieve.
Luckily for Aenys, he knew the Red Keep well enough to navigate this rather simple stretch of hallway until he arrived at his destination. He had lived in the castle for years now, for at least part of the year. So he knew the red walls and pathways well.
The Red Keep had been the dream of his father. The castle he wished for his family to live in and rule from. Of course, there had been some changes to the design, namely an inner redoubt the servants were calling the holdfast. But Aenys was still certain he would be proud of how the castle turned out.
How proud would he be of the kingdom he was supposed to rule over? Probably less so.
Aenys sighed quietly as he rested his hand on the pommel of Blackfyre. He had originally been reluctant to carry the sword around. He was wary of the message it made and the importance of the sword. But Aenys could always retire the blade when peace finally arrived. Unfortunately for him, it was not yet here.
Luckily, on the other hand, it should soon be. Discounting the war his brother was about to wage with three Free Cities back in Essos, the war in Westeros seemed to be almost wrapped up. His forces were still chasing a handful of irregular cells in the woods of the Riverlands, but they were being smoked out quickly. Their preferred type of warfare was much more difficult when there was not much food that could be given to those in hiding.
Aenys wondered for a moment if that had been his father and aunt's plan when they began the Dragon's Wroth in Dorne. If there were no food, water, or supplies, then there would be no support for the cretins hiding in the wilderness, fighting to the bitter end. Aenys doubted it, knowing how distraught his father and aunt were over the death of his mother. But sadly, it was not like he could ask them about it anymore.
He placed his head in his hands briefly, trying to brace himself against the overwhelming weight of everything that had been happening. The previous moon had been unrelenting. Politically, he had been exhausted, with the operation in the Riverlands along with cleaning up the remnants of the rebel forces in the region. Along with quashing some smaller groups that had popped up in the Stormlands. He had been seemingly infinitely busy.
Now he had to work to properly integrate these regions as well. Roads had to be built, new nobles had to be put in place, a census needed to be ordered, and a response to the famine developing needed to be put in place quickly.
The smallfolk bore no real love for him, a tragedy that Aenys disliked deeply. But they were important all the same. If they all starved, then there would be no food for the next year for the few loyalists among them to eat. Westeros was a carriage pulled by the smallfolk, and if they were not properly dealt with, his Kingdom would grind to a halt.
Then his family had run into tragedy as well. His aunt, the rock of his brother's family and the last remnant of his father's generation, had passed. Aenys's heart saddened for his brother and his family. He personally had never gotten along well with his aunt, even after he stopped being such a cowardly weakling. But he knew his brother's pain well.
The situation had been reversed nine years prior. Aenys could hardly believe it had been that long, but he remembered it like it was yesterday. His family mourned his father's death deeply, while his brother offered support, despite his own strained relationship with their father. Now it was Aenys's turn to do the same for his brother's family.
Or at least, it should have been. His brother had been gracious enough to delay the funeral so his family could attend, all of them returning from the Riverlands or Stormlands to attend this most important funeral. Yet here he was delaying it one more day.
Aenys's stomach churned as he thought. 'I'll have to apologize.'
But no part of him truly questioned the choice. When his Master of Arms, Rogar Baratheon, brought word of an emergency Small Council meeting. Aenys agreed to the summons without hesitation. Family grief weighed heavily on him, but the realm's troubles pressed even heavier.
He had been hard at work over the last several years with the kingdom, and the work seemingly never stopped. Whether it be rebuilding swaths of the Reach, or the integration of the Riverlands, or his recent decision to finally begin implementing his royal courts idea. His plate had almost never been fuller.
So he resolved to deal with this emergency meeting quickly, so that his aunt could finally be laid to rest. He did not know if Maegor had decided to lay her ashes to rest within the same urn as their father, or if she would get her own. But he would need to deal with this crisis before he could find out.
The wide double doors of the Small Council chamber opened wide to accept him. His two Kingsguard escorts behind him falling into lockstep as they greeted the one standing guard outside. Meanwhile, the Lord Commander Ser Addison Hill was already seated.
Having four Kinsguard within the Red Keep while his family was elsewhere troubled Aenys. He had only three Kingsguard to divide between the rest of his family. One was assigned to Aegon, if more to watch over him and not protect his perfectly able and skilled son. The other two were assigned to protect Alyssa and Jaehaerys, who needed the protection more than their martially trained children, Rhaena or Viserys. Then Alysanne was under the protection of just one, though she was also under the protection of the guards of Dragonstone, so the concern was slightly lessened.
He had thought of several ideas with his son and the new Hand of the King, Aegon. Everything from expanding the number of guards to four and ten to creating a new organization under them with less strict rules that they could then coordinate. But so far, they had yet to decide on anything.
'Just another thing to add to my plate,' Aenys thought as he finally took a seat, not noticing the pensive looks around the table.
Aenys settled into his comfortable chair as he rested his hands on the table. He closed his eyes for a brief moment before settling into a more kingly stance.
"So, my Small Council, what is this emergency session for?" Aenys asked, his eyes scanning the room.
His entire small council was not here on this day. Daemon was on Dragonstone for the funeral of Visenya, and so were his new Hand of the King and his new Mistress of Whisperers. That left him only with his Master of Arms, Rogar Baratheon. His Master of Coin, Alton Butterwell. His Grand Maester, Gawen. His Master of Laws, Lord Garth Tyrell. Along with Ser Addison Hill, the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard.
It was disappointing not to have his eldest son, his eldest daughter, and his master of ships with him on this day. But he really just wanted to get this problem resolved as quickly as possible. So there was no need to delay the funeral even further by recalling them from Dragonstone. Especially now that Rhaena was pregnant once more.
There was a pause after his words that settled like a heavy stone. None were eager to speak up at first, each member at the table cautiously looking at each other before Lord Garth spoke up first.
"Your Grace," he began, his words spoken slowly, as if he were weighing the merits of each one. "It concerns your recent edict… about the removal of the rights of pits and gallows. We were hoping to get some clarification on your plans," he continued, his outward appearance calm but his eyes a tad too frantic for Aenys's liking.
"Clarification?" Aenys asked as his eyebrows rose briefly in response. He had passed the edict somewhat on a whim while he was on campaign. While he was in the area and dealing with all the criminals and brigands that had taken over the Riverlands. Better to get the process started sooner rather than later, he thought.
He did not really know what there was to clarify. He had been planning this new system with his eldest son for years now. With a little help from his younger brother, too. A series of justiciars and judges had been trained and educated on the new legal code that Aenys was almost finished with. They were already working in his Crownlands, and in one year's time, he would send them out to some of the major towns and cities within the other Kingdoms to administer his justice. What was there to be confused about?
"Indeed, Your Grace," Lord Garth responded with a courtly smile. "It is a substantial change to how Westeros previously operated. Many of my bannermen and even many lords around King's Landing have brought their concerns to me, asking for clarification. I was hoping you could tell me how I ought to respond to them," Lord Garth asked, the picture of grace and courtly excellence.
Aenys hummed to himself for a brief moment. He supposed it was only reasonable for his Master of Laws to be confused. This had been more of a pet project between him and his son, after all.
"What would you like clarification on?" Aenys asked. He was eager to see any complaints resolved before the process started. That was why he delayed the beginning by a year. To give him some time to hear complaints and time for his justiciars to travel the realm.
Rogar spoke up next as he leaned forward, his arms lying against the table. "Your Grace, this edict would strip every lord in the realm of the right to administer justice and law. Without the gallows or the pit, many of my vassals claim that they may as well just be stewards in their own lands..." he said, cautiously eying the other lords in the room who nodded in unison.
Aenys narrowed his eyes at the notion. Just stewards? Hardly. They were still expected to aid the court officials when asked, and they would undoubtedly be the ones who would actually administer the justice. Not to mention their importance in defending the realm. His new royal army was capable, but he was still building just beyond the foundations for now.
Before he could respond, Lord Garth continued. "Lords rely on the pits and gallows to keep the peace, Your Grace. It is what keeps the smallfolk in line, and now that the Faith is in no position to help. It is more vital than ever," Garth said, explaining more than complaining, which Aenys greatly liked.
Aenys hummed in thought as his mind briefly drifted to the new Faith of the Seven that had been born of the ashes of Oldtown. The people still largely rejected the new version of the Faith based out of the Sept of Remembrance, preferring local High Septons that he had to keep hunting down. His lords did bring up a good point. It was a combination of the lords and the Faith that kept the smallfolk down and content. He had already shaken the Faith considerably, perhaps shaking the nobility this soon was a bad idea after all.
Rogar's voice continued, gruff but calm. "To speak a bit more plainly, Your Grace. Many lords cannot abide by such a decision. The rights of pits and gallows have been held by lordly families for generations upon generations. It is a right that your father affirmed when our forebears bent their knees to him. Many of my bannermen have brought their concerns to me as well. I even had to order Lord Kellington's imprisonment after he suggested rebellion."
Aenys's eyes widened at the words. A lord from the Stormlands had suggested rebellion? Sweat gathered in his palms at the thought. He did not like the idea of more war, especially in regions like the Westerlands, Vale, or the North. Each of those would be considerably more troublesome than the situations he had previously dealt with in the Reach or Riverlands. If the nobles there had similar thoughts to this treasonous lord Kellington…
His mind continued to drift, briefly wondering if his small council might be among these lords who would rather fight than accept his reform. But before he could linger on them, he cast those thoughts away. He could not afford to doubt this moment. This was a problem that needed solving, sooner rather than later.
"House Tyrell will support House Targaryen in any decision you make, Your Grace," Lord Garth Tyrell swore, being quickly followed by Lords Alton and Rogar as they reaffirmed their loyalties. But that only made Aenys's eyes narrow further.
Aenys remained silent, but he held firm. This… had not gone according to plan. But that did not mean he was without options. Nor did it mean he was doomed to fight another decade-spanning war. He knew he could fix this, he knew it.
"Your Grace," the Grand Maester said quietly, stopping Aenys from moving to respond.
"What, Gawen?" Aenys snapped more than he had meant to. His mind was awash with thoughts, trying to find a solution to this mess that he had made. Even more being piled on was the last thing he wanted.
"Letters have arrived from the Lords of the West, Iron Islands, North, and Vale. They all have similar sentiments to Lords Rogar, Garth, and Alton. They are requesting an audience with all due haste," he said with a light bow.
Aenys's eyes widened slightly at the words, his suspicions about their worry confirmed as well. His edict had evidently united many of the lords against it. But that was not necessarily a bad thing.
Aenys smiled lightly as he smelled an opportunity to both solve this crisis and get out of this damned small council chamber and set off for Dragonstone.
Aenys refused to allow this to spiral into another conflict. He and his family had fought enough. It was time for rest and rebuilding, not another endless conflict waged in the frigid north or the rugged Vale or Westerlands. Enough blood had surely been spilled, and luckily for him, his remaining loyal lords had just given him a way out.
Aenys breathed deeply before steadying himself, raising his eyes, and looking as kingly as he could possibly manage.
"My lords, I understand the concern," he began, looking to each of his loyal lords. "I apologize for the miscommunication. My scribes must have misinterpreted my command when I was on campaign. I was merely hoping to truly unite the realm, so that we can all share and abide by the same laws," Aenys began.
He had sent the letters out while he was still on campaign in the Riverlands. His new army of scribes wrote the letters that got sent out to the lords. Perhaps he should be grateful that their words were so curt and unkind, as now he could claim that this was all mere miscommunication.
"So let us set the record straight," he began as his eyes settled on his Grand Maester. "Gawen, I want you to write to the concerned lords. Please invite them all to King's Landing so we may hold a proper dialogue on the future of Westeros. They are my loyal vassals, it is only right that they wish to know my vision for our home," Aenys promised, playing up his charm.
Despite his past weakness and cowardice, he had always been good with a crowd. His eagerness to please had made him quite adept at soothing nerves and calming angry parties. If he could just get all of his nobles in the same room, then he could clear up this problem without issue.
The small council chamber looked more at ease following his words, some apprehension could still be seen in their eyes, but that was apprehension he could remove after the lords gathered in King's Landing. He was glad that his small council had called this emergency session, even if he was desperate to leave it. This was an issue that needed to be resolved. Thankfully, Aenys could see the path forward clearly.
He truly did wish to stay and prepare things here. But he could not ask his brother to delay any longer. "My Lords, I will see that this matter is resolved properly, I swear it on my father's legacy," Aenys promised as he stood from his seat. The faces around the table looked briefly confused as Aenys made for the exit.
"I am needed on Dragonstone. While I am away, send the letters, Gawen. I must attend my aunt's funeral. But after it is finished, I will be right back here to help with the preparations. In the meantime, please do get some rest," Aenys said as he was already leaving the door. It was somewhat rude, but he could not force his brother to wait any longer. It was time for his aunt to rest, and he would not stop her from doing so.
Aenys sighed more heavily than he had ever sighed before as he readjusted his father's crown on his head. He had felt the weight of the damned crown ever since he first wore it. But now it sat heavier than ever. He could not help but feel like he was just a few moments away from a catastrophic war. He considered himself lucky that most of the idiotic and treasonous lords had already been put to the sword. He would have to work hard in the coming moons, but he was ready for it.
Norys Nogarys III
11th Moon, 46AC
The palanquin jostled uncomfortably as Norys changed his position again, his silken robes sticking faintly to his skin in the sweltering, stinking heat. He had been trying in vain to get comfortable ever since he arrived in the disgusting, filthy, doomed city where he was currently residing. But so far, nothing had worked.
The sun was not shining, like usual, but even still, a positively sweltering heat that put even Volantis during the summer years to shame assaulted the city relentlessly. He had been blessed with the same natural resistance to heat that all true-blooded descendants of the 40 families possessed, and even he was still sweating like some unwashed slave toiling in a field.
He fanned himself warily, the motion only really blowing hot air into his face, but he had to do something to stave off the heat. When he arrived in the city, he knew the conditions would be a far cry from his home behind the Black Walls, but he had at least hoped that it would not be this miserable.
"Tell the slaves to move faster," his son bemoaned across from him, similarly melting like a pastry left in the sun as their palanquin slowly moved.
"If we move any faster, more slaves will die," Norys explained to his petulant son, Vargos Nogarys, his heir.
"We can just get more, it is more important that we get the hell out of this palanquin," he bemoaned as he shifted once more, leaning back as he tried to air out his robes.
Norys resisted the urge to reprimand his son for his uncouth words. It was so hot that he could not muster the willpower to do so, and so he merely explained the predicament they were in.
"Unless you want our palanquins to be carried by the filthy abominations of this city, then you will do well to put up with it until we arrive," Norys spat quietly, still fanning his face as trails of sweat dripped from his brow and fell off his chin in drops.
Vargos made a sound somewhere between a groan and a huff as he continued trying and failing to cool himself down by lifting his robes up and down. Undoubtedly just blowing hot air into his face, but if his son could not realize that by himself, then he did not deserve to have it revealed to him.
His son had always been somewhat of a disappointment for Nogarys. Not as bad as some of his less fortunate peers, but hardly the heir he was hoping to leave the powerful House Nogarys to. He had been so wrapped up in his political career that he had neglected teaching his son how to be a proper member of the Old Blood.
Vargos was supposed to be more than a mere child of his. He was born to be his perfect reflection. A soul perfectly suited to carrying on Norys's work and will. Norys was still only two and fifty years old, but even still, he felt the strong urge to whip his son into shape.
He had unfortunately slacked when it came to this so far. He had, of course, gotten his son a strategic and worthy match with his first cousin, a proud daughter of the House Endoryen, and also the daughter of his closest friend and cousin, Syrano. But beyond that, he had mostly entrusted his son's education to the tutors and cousins he often relied on to run the family while he was busy rebuilding Volantis. Now that folly came back to bite him.
Vargos was in no way prepared to inherit the legacy that Norys intended to leave behind. He was far too soft, too focused on his own comfort and leisure, and he had no appreciation of the future that was being prepared for him.
Norys sighed as he leaned back once more. He had not spent a moon in this smoking hellhole, learning the darkest of arts and expending fortune after fortune in resources and planning for his son to waste it all on leisure and trinkets. His life's work needed to pass to a worthy heir, one just like himself.
Luckily for Norys, all was not yet lost. His son was still only five and twenty, and thus he was still malleable enough to change. Perhaps not to the perfect heir that Norys so longed for, but one that would be suitable, as long as Norys lived to his intended age of nine and ninety.
'Perhaps I will get lucky and one of my grandchildren or great-grandchildren will be better,' Norys thought as he looked toward his son once more. Unfortunately, his grandchildren were too young to be of use yet. So he was forced to deal with his son for the time being.
Fortunately, he was afforded the perfect opportunity to teach his son. His plans were still years in the making. It would be years before the Old Blood behind the Black Walls were left with no other choice but to kneel to him. Before then, he would ensure that his son was ready to wield the reins just as Aurion should have decades before.
The smile on his face that had appeared once he began dreaming of his future once more quickly vanished as the large palanquin came to a stop. The covered platform was carefully laid on the ground as one of his more useful and well-liked slaves tapped lightly on the wooden roof.
"Master, you have arrived at slave pit number five," she said loudly enough to hear over the wails of anguish but not so loud as to be irritating.
'Good,' Norys thought, glad that at least one of his slaves was still living up to expectations.
His son had been quick to sit up, eager to leave the shaded relief of the stuffy palanquin as soon as possible. Once the cloth was peeled back, he was left with the uncomfortable truth of the city. Mantarys was miserable everywhere, no matter where you were in the city.
No shining sun beamed to meet the two of them as they exited the palanquin. The skies above Mantarys were almost perpetually dark and miserable. It often rained ash in the city, and the sun only peeked through the clouds on occasion. Unluckily for them, this was not one of those times.
Mantarys was well and truly a doomed city, or at least as doomed as it could get without being within the confines of the destroyed Valyrian Peninsula. The city was perpetually miserably hot, the skies were a disgusting dark grey almost year-round, and many of the fine marble structures looked melted and sad from the acidic rain.
Even still, it was to be the wellspring of their power. Ever since it was conquered years before. Before he met with the dastardly Targaryen, who was currently embroiled in the mess back in Westeros. Before they had even marched and retaken Qohor, defeating the small Dothraki detachment that refused to leave. Years of effort had been put into this detestable city, and now it was truly beginning to bear fruit.
From Mantarys, Volanits acquired the positioning and, more importantly, the manpower needed to begin traversing the Hell Road. Tens of thousands of enslaved Mantarys denizens were forced to begin excavating the Hell Road, marching toward their ultimate goal, Oros.
Rumors from some of the disgusting, freakish locals stipulated that Oros remained above the Smoking Sea deep within the Peninsula, and so that was their target.
They had been initially reluctant to rely on the freakish locals of the city when they first conquered the hellhole. Every single citizen of this once-great place bore some grotesque deformity. A mark of the Doom's lingering influence.
It was easy to mistake many of the filthy creatures for demons. Some had too many limbs, and a concerning number of those had more than one head. Meanwhile, others sported mismatched, bulging eyes, with grey, ghostly hair and disgusting purple skin. A few grew freakishly tall, towering like sick trees, while others were stunted to sizes smaller than common dwarves, with twisted spines and brittle bones.
It had taken a great deal of effort not to merely exterminate all of the locals as soon as they arrived. It sickened Norys to even look at most of them, and he refused to have any of them in his direct employ.
'Let them work on the Hell Road,' Norys thought as he looked toward his personal slaves. Perfectly human and not deformed monsters. Some of them were even rather pleasant to look at, most notably his Lyseni slave, who was currently working as his steward after his previous one died from some unknown illness.
Norys's ears eventually picked up some of the coughing and wails that surrounded him, and he was reminded of another dastardly affliction on Mantarys. Honestly, how this city had even survived one hundred years after the doom surprised him greatly. It seemed as if every single slave from this city was sick with some unknown illness. He thanked his noble ancestors every night that he did not get sick like most of his slaves had.
On top of that, he had hardly seen any children within the ruinous walls of Mantarys. He had, of course, seen many sets of small bones. But given the sheer number of stunted people within the city, those could just as easily be adults cursed by this city.
Norys eagerly grabbed the offered silk cloth, waiting for his Lyseni's slave's small hands as he wiped away the sweat from his face. It would be back, but the momentary reprieve was nice enough. As he stretched and cleared his face from the salty water, he took a good look at his surroundings.
This was not the first time he had visited the slave pits. He was here almost every day, given the nature of the magic he was practicing. Yet he could never quite get used to it.
Compared to the deliberately constructed slave pits back in Volantis, made specifically of stone and iron. Perfectly designed for ease of use for masters and slave keepers to make sure that all held within remained where they were until they were bought or killed. The slave pit here felt off.
To start, it could be generously described as ramshackle. The rains in this hellscape had melted many of the stone buildings that were not made from the indestructible Valyrian Stone that his forebears once manufactured. So the pens had to be largely repurposed from the best surviving buildings. The current one he was in was formerly a temple to some long-forgotten god.
Luckily for him, and less so for the slaves held within, the roof was made from the indestructible black stone, which meant that it was perfectly suited to house his test subjects.
He ascended the last steps carefully, his son in tow behind him. It was considered ungentlemanly to walk anywhere back in Volantis. But the secrets held within this pit were for his family and his family alone to have, not even his slaves, who never left the city, could be entrusted with such knowledge.
The anguished cries only grew louder as he stepped into the shaded building, the long since looted statue inside toppled over and stripped of the gold which once lined its intricately carved clothes. All around him, countless pens and stone structures lined the insides.
The denizens of this city had once resided here more peacefully. Living their disgusting, filthy, doomed lives as they lived as best they could. Of course, now the building was dedicated to more noble pursuits.
"Vargos," Norys began, addressing his son as he continued to walk toward the center of the room, where the head of the once great statue now lay.
"Yes, Father?" Vargos asked, hot on his heels.
"You are here to learn magic, the source of our future power. Are you ready?" Norys asked simply, the work here would be laborious, and he would not let his son complain or get distracted with flowery words.
"Of course, Father," he asked, following Norys as the two of them approached one of the pits.
"Good evening," Norys japed with a smile as he peered into the dark cage. Inside, a small Mantarys demon slammed against the metal bars, three arms pushing through the gates as it snarled.
"What in the?!" Vargos said as he leaned back in worry.
Norys smiled lightly to himself as he flipped his hooked Valyrian Steel ring around and used its sharp edge to cut the tip of his left index finger.
"Perzys!" Norys whispered, and with a WHOOSH, bright orange flames engulfed first his finger and then his hand as his son stared in awe. Norys was deliberately not showing off most of his newly acquired magic to his peers back in Volantis. They could learn some in the future, of course. But if they were not willing to put up with the conditions in Mantarys, then they did not deserve to learn.
Not to mention teaching them before he secured his and his family's control over all of Volanits was a fool's errand. Once he had mastered magic and had all the tools needed to secure a permanent grasp over Volantis as its rightful emperor. Then he could begin teaching some of the nobles some of the lesser magic he learned. Of course, before that, he had to secure his place. And to do that, he would need his son's aid.
"This is simple fire magic. This was mentioned in the first texts pulled from that Galaeris manse, not far from here. Do you remember that?" he asked, still not looking at his son as he continued to stare at the deformed girl in front of him.
"Yes, Father," Vargos responded dutifully, finally paying proper attention as his discomfort was forgotten in favor of the magic displayed before him.
"The blood in your veins is more than a mere mark of nobility, my son," Norys started, illuminating more and more of the sickly, rabid girl's flesh before him using his orange flames. "It is power," Norys said, a smile creeping onto his face.
"Power?" Vargos asked.
"Yes, or more specifically, a key to power. All you need to do is find the requisite locks, and all the treasures this world has to offer will be laid bare to you," Norys promised as he got lost in the beautiful orange flames, dreaming of the day they would shine with a different, more vibrant color.
Fire magic was perhaps the most basic form of magic that Valyrians could emit. Even the mongrels on Dragonstone could emit this basic orange fire with enough practice. Of course, it all paled in comparison with what those with the blood of the Forty could do.
To start, those with the requisite blood could ignite Valyrian Steel and keep it ignited so long as they had the stamina for it. He had not been given the chance to try it yet, but he knew he could do it. What he could not do was will his fire to be a different shade, not this pathetic standard orange.
Those detestable Targaryens, blessed by cruel luck, had retained their dragons. So their flames reflected the very same flames that their dragons emitted. He had already seen half a dozen tapestries of the vile King of Pentos wielding a flaming green sword for one lifetime. Now all he wanted was to have the same.
Even still, he did have some advantages over the barbarian Targaryens.
"Watch closely," he ordered, his son stepping slightly off to the side to get a better look.
With a heaved breath, Norys pressed his hand forward, the glyphs on his Valyrian Steel ring glowed in the orange fires as he uttered the words under his breath.
"Naejot."
In a flash, the previously small flame on his hand shot out in a quick but ferocious stream, engulfing the monstrous flesh rightfully caged in the pen as its screams overwhelmed the moans and groans from the rest of the slaves.
A brightness engulfed Norys's face and body as an ear-to-ear smile appeared on his face. Before him, the filthy abomination withered and died brutally, just as a monster like it deserved. The orange flames did not spread from there, a benefit of most of the structure being built of iron and stone by the imported slaves. But the rest of the room was soon illuminated.
Around them, all the other slaves were shown in all their disgusting fullness. One of them had three heads, and another had a leg where their right arm ought to be. But Norys noticed his son's attention lingering on one slave in particular, one not far from the slave that had finally stopped screaming and died quietly.
"Father…" he muttered, seemingly holding back a gag as he looked over toward the ugliest creature in the whole structure.
"Yes, my son?" Norys asked, pride swelling within him.
"W-what… is that?" he asked, his eyes wide and terrified.
"That is my first test subject, hardly what I would call a success, but not the worst outcome, I suppose," Norys dismissed.
"It is hideous! An abomination!" Vargos cried out.
"What creature in here is not, Vargos?" Norys said as he approached his first piece of blood magic.
Unlike fire magic, blood magic was substantially more complicated. He had been forced to wait until more finds were being brought in by the excavation teams to begin properly learning that magic. Not to mention, it was not like he could readily practice it back in Volantis like he could with his fire magic.
That being said, it certainly could not have been the most hideous and disgusting chimera ever crafted.
Norys smiled as his son gagged again, looking at the malformed demon. Hideous red scales from one of the lizards that inhabited this place lined the scalp and back of a deformed child. He was honestly surprised it was still alive, given the death rates among children in this city. Even still, his first creation yet lived, even if it undoubtedly longed for death.
"H-how did you do this?" Vargos asked, backing away from the beast as the fires on his hand died out.
"You will learn that later. For now, you will begin learning how to properly wield your fire magic. Did you place the order with the Qohorik smiths like I told you to?" Norys asked, twisting his Valyrian Steel ring around his finger two times.
"Y-yes…" Vargos said, steadying himself.
"Good, then we can begin with your training immediately. First, cut yourself…" he began before he was rudely cut off.
"Master!" the Lyseni slavegirl from before cried out, panting as she approached him quickly.
Norys's anger flared as the fire erupted on his hand once more, his anger causing the flames to grow more wild than he had originally intended.
"Why are you disobeying orders?" he sneered as he brought up his hand to slap the girl. She whimpered as she crumbled to the ground, as he prepared to burn her to death for daring to disobey him. But he was stopped in his tracks.
"T-the recent shipment! They found them, Master!" she cried, clutching her head in her thin, wispy arms as he prepared to burn her scantily clad body into dust. But the flames never came, instead, he rushed for the exit of the temple.
Norys burst from the temple steps into the suffocating heat, the ash-smelling air instantly clinging to his sweat-slick skin. But he did not mind at all if they found that. Then he did not care even if he broke all of his limbs so long as he made it to his palace.
They undoubtedly brought it there, it was where they brought all shipments pulled from the ruined Lands of the Long Summer. He quickly lost his fine sandals as he ran down the streets of Mantarys. They stretched before him like an unending river, but he continued to run anyway.
Norys did not even care about the pathetic way he was acting. None of his peers were in the city anyhow, and he would just ensure that all the slaves who witnessed it were put to death. But more importantly, he sprinted toward his palace.
Quickly enough, the black stone palace, the former vacation home of a Dragonlord, loomed in the distance as he panted more and more for air as sweat flowed off his face like a waterfall. From a distance, he could see the slaves carrying the goods into the manse, just like they had been taught to do.
He picked up his pace as best he could. Energy flowed through him like never before as he sprinted with all his might. Before long, he was panting heavily as he entered the courtyard, frantically looking around for the correct box.
"Where?" was all he could muster between panted breaths as one of the slaves pointed toward the manse.
'Of course,' Norys thought. Such precious cargo would undoubtedly be brought in first. Even still, he panted like a dog as he climbed up the steps on all fours. He did not even think about what the slaves thought, already deciding to have all of them killed for seeing such a shameless sight. But his shame could be thought about later, first, he needed to see them.
He stormed through the vaulted halls of his manse, his footsteps heavy and labored but continuing all the same. The air inside was only marginally cooler than the streets outside, but he pushed on regardless. The torchlight glinted off the vast spoils of his conquests, wealth beyond imagining to lesser men, but to Norys, they were little more than clutter at that moment.
He passed a full rack of Valyrian steel armor, each suit polished until it reflected like a dark mirror. On the other side, he passed an entire wall of Valyrian Steel Swords. Some of them had slender dueling blades, others were standard longswords, and he even passed a greatsword longer than he was tall. Still, he did not slow, none of that catching his eye in any way.
He continued down the hall, toward the inner sanctum. Passing even more priceless treasures along his path. Slaves bowed and moved out of his way, covering a Valyrian black stone altar from his view along with some more Valyrian Steel trinkets engraved with glyphs he had yet to decipher. But his destination was finally in sight.
The large double doors to the inner sanctum awaited him as he spotted two slaves preparing a brazier inside.
"...OUT!" he ordered as he finally made it inside, collapsing to his knees as he demanded his slaves leave him at once.
They all scurried out like the rats they were. Meanwhile, he crawled toward the box he had so longed for. The one he had dreamed about for decades by that point. The one that held the most priceless treasure of them all.
The slaves had already removed the lid from the box, and so he was able to see directly inside.
"...Perzys!" he stammered as his left hand was engulfed in flames once more. What lay before his eyes caused tears to well up within them.
He could hardly believe his eyes as he looked down at the three gorgeous shimmering stones. They glistened like freshly polished metal as tears and sweat dripped onto them. He carefully ran his right hand down one of the three, feeling the scales.
'Cold,' he thought, but it did not linger. The ear-to-ear smile that was painfully splitting his face quickly cast away his thoughts as he lifted the first one he found. The one that glistened with pure gold into his hands, leaving the blue and purple one behind.
"Finally," Norys muttered, holding the key to the future of his plans. The tools that would make him Emperor of Valyria. That would let him conquer the world.
He had finally found dragon eggs.