Chapter 33: State of Affairs
I snapped my fingers for Ser Criston to bring me a leather scroll while my sister discovered hitherto unknown depths of her tear ducts. The relief of knowing my mercy for herself and her children hit differently than the pain of fresh death amongst them, already so weary and numb of it by now.
"With this," I began as I unfurled the patent and slid it across the table, "The matter of your bastards is finally settled, for now."
Rhaenys's sharp intake of breath preluded her reaching a slightly shaking hand to the document while my sister's hands remained full of her progeny clutched tightly to her teats and skirts. Our aunt's eyes darted across the document as an angry tremor played across her jaw. She put the scroll down none too gently, but gave no further sign of her fury than the cold side eye she cast upon my sister. The infidelity in this family harmed her greatly, robbing her of her legacy beyond the two young slips at her flanks. Another so far removed from her own shame hardly pressed upon her ego beyond the old pain of Ser Laenor's humiliation. The slips saw the contents for themselves and to my surprise, the older crumbled under the blow and the younger rose in her rage.
"You gods damned whore!" she shrieked with great lung capacity and high vocal range, "I hate you! You ruin everything!"
My sister recoiled from the furious youth while I raised a brow in shock. I'm not used to hearing young girls of my blood screaming that at someone other than me. I gave the girl a nod, then left the room for my next meeting with my cask and cup.
Ser Criston followed me out of the room, those inside no longer eligible for the protection of the Kingsguard. Kin they be, but they are no family to me. I traversed the drab halls of plaster and tile, glad to soon be rid of this place once and for all. I thought myself contemptuous of the Red Keep before my years as master of the Blue Keep, and now that contempt has blossomed into a true hatred. I will tear down this palace to the very foundation and build something far greater in its place.
I entered a cozy chamber and found my beloved servant Larys standing near a pair of chairs facing a fireplace. I nodded to him as he bowed and the pair of us took to the chairs, the cask placed on a small table next to mine, and my cup refilled for wetting my mouth and keeping away both the parchedness of speech and the bitterness of sobriety.
"How comes my workforce, man? I've had enough of this wretched city." I inquired of my Master of Whispers and the corners of his mouth rose faintly with fond remembrance of harm-joy.
For the crime of rising up against the House of the Dragon, and slaying our mounts, I sentenced the entire city above the age of toddling to a life sentence of penal labor. Thralldom with extra syllables. Of course, many fled the city since the time of the crime, but my beloved servant had long since placed men amongst the crownlands to keep track of those from the city, and all those who sheltered them after the proclamation of my judgment.
"Well, Your Grace, very well." Larys began his report, "Lord Baratheon and the Stormlanders have arrested those remaining in the city, driving them out of their homes and into the holding pens. It shall take many days, but they are shearing them all, bathing them with harshest soap, and dressing them in roughest wool according to your command. Meanwhile the army of the Reach moves through the Crownlands with aid of Prince Aemond, rounding up the runners and those hiding them, as well as enforcing the King's Lots."
The King's Lots, my punishment for all those who sided with Rhaenyra. All those above the age of toddling from lands that declared for her are grouped by tens and forced to draw lots. Short lot takes a life sentence of penal labor, and the rest are passed over by the grace of the King. The King's Lots are enforced all the way up the social hierarchy, so even the Lords and Ladies of Westeros shall become thralls if their luck turns sour. Fire and Blood for all those who stand against the King's Law.
"And my sons?" I inquired.
"On their way, training up their whipping arms." Larys grinned at the prospect.
"We'll make proper Valyrians of them yet." I laughed and he joined me.
Hundreds of thousands made thralls soon to enjoy the lash and mastery of my sons. We'll work the men hard on not but a strong gruel made of fish from the bay and fruits and vegetables from the Reach. Nasty business of fish, roots, beans, and apples boiled long and soft in great pots. Slop meant to nourish the body and break the spirit. They'll tear down the city and rebuild it by my design while the women folk are kept barefoot, pregnant, cooking, mending, and rearing. My days of degrading myself with every smallfolk woman I see are behind me, now my sons will take up the burden of enriching the populace with my greatness.
"Enough of pleasure, let's get down to business. What news of our friends from the Triarchy, and Rhaenyra's from Pentos, Braavos, and Lorath?" I asked and refreshed myself with a long and satisfying draw from my cup.
Larys's grin turned into a wide toothy smile, meaning pain, lots of pain, "Her allies from northern Essos encountered our own friends' combined armada at sea while they clashed with the Velaryon fleet. They meant to sack Driftmark, but instead they found themselves pressed hard from two directions far from home. It was a mass slaughter on the deep water, devastating losses by all belligerents. With the Lannister, Redwyne, and Dragonsreach fleets at your command, only Dorne is left to contend our dominance of the high seas, and while their guard was down against us due to this civil conflict, I managed to finally infiltrate deep into their society, all the way to the very Palace of Sunspear, and what I learned will both amuse and disappoint you. The rumors of strife amongst the desert nobility are rumors no longer. The Martells who by some miracle managed to maintain the unity of their vassals even through the hellish Dragon's Wroth are now defending their lands from huge bands of 'outlaws' equipped with suspicious amounts of castle forged steel."
I expected the Dornish to finally come back over the Red Mountains with Qoren finally dead and his five and ten year old daughter ascendent, "Was the old man truly so hated?"
"Oh no, my King, he merely failed to hide his daughter's proclivities well enough in his final years."
I hadn't expected that. I'd seen enough of the elite to know how deep and dark the depravity pit goes, but for the girl to already be down bad enough to shake the Dornish Houses with the dragons still ruling the skies, she must be a prodigy of perfidy.
"The princess is not like other Dornish-women of her status, no wonton slut spreading her legs for every stable boy and Sand squire." Larys continued with one side of his lips cocked up, "Her lusts only burn for one man…"
He trailed off and I took the verbal bait with a single word, "Who?"
"You, my King." Larys's other side of his mouth turned up briefly.
"How?" I kept my face stoney still, but internally I traversed memories rapidly to discover the source of this happening, and found nothing.
"The portraits you distribute to Dorne yearly, my King, have had a most unexpected response." the amusement dripped off Larys's tone, "You have become the dream lover of many a Lady in the Principality, young and old alike, including the Princess Aliandra Nymeros Martell, who spent her formative and discovery-filled years in front of your portraits, paying insults to all suitors for being your lessers and pleasuring herself with great indiscretion. As sickness robbed Qoren of his wits the girl's audacity grew, and it became the talk of the nobility of Dorne that should you fly to Sunspear the Princess would cradle your balls to keep them from dragging in the sand. They are aggrieved by the development, Your Grace. Murderously aggrieved."
I leaned back into my chair and gazed into the fire, pondering my life choices.
"I have robbed myself of a grand civil war by our adroit scheming…" I sighed heavily in haunted tone, "I have robbed myself of defeating the full might of Dorne by my own beauty… What is left for me, Mountain Clans, Wildlings? Cold campaigns against foes of no worth. My men are numerous, and have only a taste on their lips of blood and glory when they are ravenous for a feast."
I contemplated in silence for a time, then turned my gaze to the east, my mind seeing the target far beyond the horizon.
I announced, "Master of Whispers, I've scheming to do."
Larys bowed his head in his chair, "Ever at the ready to carry out intrigue in your name, my King."
I nodded to the man and felt my lips turn up in nostalgia, "Tell me, spy master, have you ever had the displeasure of experiencing how fully retarded the Master of Slavers Bay are?"
"No, my King. I have not." Larys admitted his ignorance unafraid.
"Hmmm, it won't take long before you and Aemond understand my judgment." I grinned, "Now fetch some ink and parchment, there's not much to these schemes, but I'll not have them forgotten on the long voyage."
After he returned with the writing essentials we moved the meeting to a desk and he watched me draft the campaign beginning with Astapor.
"No, it can't be that simple?" Larys exclaimed in awe and doubt.
"They're sitting on our gold and silver." I chuckled, "We simply haven't informed them of it yet."
Larys experienced much incredulity as I continued to chart and outline the campaign, and beneath the skin deep doubt I saw it, the burning ambition to see this devilry carried out. My spy master completed the greatest assassination plot in history slaying the dragons, and now I have called upon him for the greatest heist in history. My beloved servant shall not disappoint me, and my brother Aemond will take all the credit and cement himself in annals of glory as a great warlord.
The things I do for those I love.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You can support me and my family at
ko-fi.com/jmanm