King's Landing, the Red Keep, the Small Council chamber.
The tall, fat King of the Seven Kingdoms, Robert Baratheon, sat on the Iron Throne, arguing with the Small Council about the war that looked set to break out.
Robert Baratheon's huge frame sank into the throne, his face flushed with drink. His thick black beard trembled with every oath. "Those damned iron whores' spawn! Thirty ships? And I'm supposed to outfit them with swords and spears? If I'd known, I should've had Balon and his stinking sons' heads put on Pyke's battlements years ago!"
Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, rubbed his temples wearily. "Your Grace, we actually have enough ships. The royal fleet is working round the clock to repair the warships, and Lord Redwyne's fleet is ready. We can muster at least four hundred warships. But the real problem isn't that…"
Jon Arryn paused, looked around at the other lords seated before him, and said solemnly, "We must consider the cost of this campaign. This time…"
At the word "cost," Robert's jowls quivered like a rattle. "Seven hells, Jon, don't talk to me about money. I know—you'll sort it out. Maybe you'll send men to the Iron Bank across the Narrow Sea, or go beg Lord Tywin at Casterly Rock. By the Seven, Tywin's shit's made of gold… You could flog the crown's debts to the High Septon. Anyway, I trust you, Jon. You'll find a way…"
Bitter memories rose in Jon Arryn's chest as he thought back to the days in the Vale.
Back then Robert had been tall and handsome, his eyes bright—half the kingdom's maidens' dream.
Now Robert was lost in drink and women, his step unsteady, neglecting the realm's business and shirking the duties a king should keep.
He had overthrown a mad king only to place a drunken one on the throne.
Robert left the court to brothels and hunts; the work of ruling fell on Jon's shoulders.
As Hand, Jon had to carry the Seven Kingdoms. Faced with crushing debts, he had to swallow his pride and beg favors and loans.
And every time money was mentioned, Robert's flippant attitude made Jon feel the burden grow heavier.
"Your Grace, let us return to the matter at hand. This campaign will likely require you to remain in King's Landing…"
Jon cut off the debt talk and steered the conversation.
Robert interrupted at once. "Hide me away in the castle like a coward? I'd rather die."
Jon frowned. "Your Grace, the battlefield is too dangerous. We cannot let you risk yourself."
Robert's eyes went wide. "I won my place on the battlefield! I smashed Rhaegar Targaryen on the banks of that cursed Trident and took the Iron Throne. Now you want me hidden behind others? No, Jon—you'd make me a laughingstock."
Jon urged, "Your Grace, those days were different. Now you are King of the Seven Kingdoms. Your safety determines the realm's future."
Robert bellowed, "No! It's always the same! If a king can't win respect on the battlefield, he can't win it from his vassals. I must go. It's a king's command."
Jon had no words left.
Watching Robert's stubborn, bloated face, a thought slid into Jon's mind: Robert might be a fine warrior, but he's no good king. Putting him on the Iron Throne could have been a mistake.
Jon dismissed the chilling idea and stopped arguing. "Your Grace, if you insist on leading the campaign, at least have the vanguard land first. Sea battles differ from land. Once you're in the water, no armor—no matter how strong—will save you."
Robert snorted and seemed to agree. "Either way, I'll smash that Eastern sorcerer's skull. A sorcerer without a head is still a dead sorcerer."
With the decision for the king to go set, the question turned to who would command.
Robert chose bluntly: "Bring Ned Stark. He won for me before; he'll win for me again."
Jon sighed inwardly and hastened to answer, "Ned may be a fine commander on land, but he's unfit at sea. Wolves don't do well in water…"
His gaze fell to two empty chairs.
The king's two younger brothers were not in King's Landing.
Renly had left half a month ago for Storm's End to muster the Stormlands' vassals.
As for Stannis…
A few nights before, Stannis had angrily confronted the king at Small Council about the royal fleet's neglected upkeep, blaming the crown. He left that night for Dragonstone to ready his forces.
To rebuild the royal fleet, Jon Arryn had had to borrow funds from the Faith to pay for the ship repairs.
Pycelle spoke in a trembling voice, "Perhaps… Great Lord Stannis could take command. He is Master of Ships, his seat is Dragonstone, and he knows naval warfare."
The king roared, "No—he shall not command! That bastard Stannis only knows how to oppose me…"
The memory of his brother's iron-faced scowl sent a hot, unnameable rage through Robert.
Jon replied patiently, "Your Grace, Lord Stannis is the best choice, unless we want to put an Iron captain of the Iron Fleet in charge."
Robert turned to the Master of Whisperers, Varys, who had been silent. "What of Tywin?"
Varys, in his slick, silky voice, answered, "Your Grace, Lord Tywin has sent his brother, Ser Kevan, to lead the Westerlands' host. He remains at Casterly Rock."
Robert scowled. "What's he doing, hiding in a pile of stones?"
He paused, then looked to Jon with hopeful eyes. "Any other able men in the Vale?"
Jon shook his head helplessly, then offered another feasible option. "Your Grace, perhaps Lord Redwyne should command. He has the Arbor fleet and knows naval warfare—ideal for an expedition to the Stepstones."
He knew Robert would never appoint Stannis—the brothers' feud had become almost overt.
As for Renly, he was too young; when Robert rose in rebellion Renly had still been a boy, untested in war.
Counting options, only Paxter Redwyne of the Reach seemed qualified to lead.
Though Paxter was a vassal, his strength on the water rivaled that of many great lords.
House Tyrell had sent their second son, Garlan Tyrell, to the Stepstones campaign, while House Hightower dispatched their heir, Baelor Hightower, along with Moryn Tyrell, the former commander of Oldtown's garrison.
From that perspective, Lord Redwyne could hold the line—he could serve as commander.
Robert considered briefly, then lifted a silver goblet and gulped. "Very well. May Lord Paxter's skill in war be as fine as the golden wine his house brews."
He belched with satisfaction.
Varys slid in, honeyed as ever: "Your Grace, my lords, Ser Jorah writes he will prepare the intelligence for our fleet's landing. He is striving to learn the Eastern Sorcerer's future tactics. Once the Seven Kingdoms' armies are assembled, an attack from within and without should crush the Eastern Sorcerer in a single stroke."
Robert wiped wine from his beard and nodded. "Tell Jorah that if he brings me useful intelligence, I will pardon him in the king's name."