Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners. I'm just playing with them.
Betad by Priapus, Malcolm Tent, Mike God of Lore, Beans
The Unbound
Chapter 32: The Day After
— King Orys Baratheon —
"…You know what the best part of this morning is?" I mumble into Margaery's breasts as she giggles.
"Not having to get up far too early for the overly-grand wedding?" Margaery guesses, entirely correctly.
"Gods, yes. I know I should be focused on the fact that you're officially my wife, but by the Gods am I glad to have a lie-in," I laugh, rolling over.
"I tried to get up at sunrise, before remembering that I don't actually have to for the first time in a week," Margaery agrees. "I know I shouldn't start my first day as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms so… lazily, but I have zero motivation to actually get up."
Today is the final day, the Day of the Stranger, but there is no specific event going on as the Stranger isn't worshipped in the same way. It would be more disrespectful to the Stranger to throw some festival in his name, as the worship of the God of Death is often private and personal. The Stranger is often seen in a negative light by the smallfolk as he represents death and the unknown, fearful things.
"Given the mess that's awaiting me, I don't even feel bad about taking a lazy day," I mumble, kissing her shoulder as she giggles.
"You're set on going North, then?" Margaery asks, a hint of concern on her face.
"I am. My powers will be invaluable against the Boltons, and I need to take stock of the situation in The Vale myself," I agree with a frown. "And the highborn houses won't respect a King who sits on his ass while wars are fought in his name, powers or not."
My father built an entire dynasty on the foundations of a single war. His deeds won him a throne and kept it despite almost two decades of lazing around drinking. Westeros is a martial kingdom, and thus they need a martial king.
"Swear you'll come back to me," Margaery demands, rolling so she's mounting me, sitting just above my cock.
"You know I can't," I admit. I won't lie and say there's no chance of things ending poorly. "I will do everything in my power to win this, with as few losses for our side as possible. The rest is in the hands of fate."
"Part of me wants to tell you not to go, but… damn it all, you're right," Margaery sighs, stroking my face. "Don't take chances. You're the King, the most important person by far."
"Believe me, I'm not eager to die chasing glory. I've got a blessed life, that's only getting better. Fuck dying. If I'm going to die, it'll be when I'm old, grey, fat and surrounded by family, not freezing my ass off in the North," I snort shamelessly. "But even if the worst should happen, my son is already growing in your womb."
"I know. I felt it too, though how do you know it's a son?" Margaery asks, her hand resting on her stomach with a soft smile.
"It's both. Twins, a son and a daughter," I explain. My blessing from Lady Mara is stronger than hers, so I'm not surprised that she can only sense so much. Margaery's eyes widen before she gives me a beaming smile.
"Grandmother will be pleased. She insisted that I give her some great-grandchildren before she goes to the Stranger," Margaery giggles.
"She told me as much. Now, she just has to hold on for nine turns of the moon. For a woman so old, she doesn't act like it. Can't picture her wilting so quickly," I agree with a snort. "I'm considering letting her drink from the chalice. It won't turn back the clock, but it should deal with some of the issues that come with age. Might give her an extra year or three. I'm letting Lord Tully do the same."
"I can't picture old age taking grandmother," Margaery admits, laying back down as she rests her head against mine. "I think she's planning to stay in King's Landing, but she's currently undecided. With Willas healed, a lot is changing in Highgarden and he's getting back into the public role as heir."
He's always been the heir, but no house wants to put a cripple on display as their heir. It's crude and unfair, but it is a simple truth. An heir that appears weak makes the entire House, and therefore the entire province in the case of a Great House like the Tyrells, seem weak. Willas is seemingly an intelligent young man, but his crippled leg meant he slipped from the public attention into the shadows. Which only made Olenna's control of Mace seem all the more prevalent, now that I think of it.
If Willas is taking the stage once more, and Olenna stays out of Highgarden, it's setting the foundation for his strong rule of Reach.
"…wanna go back to sleep?" I ask, shaking my head. It's too early for this.
"Wanna have sex, then go back to sleep?" Margaery counters.
"Yeah, I can go with that," I agree, kissing her with a grin.
— Next Day —
"I was starting to think we'd never see you two again," Mother drawls in amusement. We ended up having breakfast and dinner in bed, enjoying the moments of marital bliss before I have to trudge to the frozen north to fight fucking vampires.
I am going to do unholy things to the Boltons for pulling this shit. If it was just Lysa being a mad bitch I could have sent someone to grab her and drag her crazy ass back but here we are.
"If I had my way, you might not for another week but the world, cruel as it is, has other plans. Has the Small Council gathered?" I ask, properly dressed.
"They have. Lord Redwyne has arrived to take the position you offered, so the entire council is in the Keep for once," Mother agrees.
"You both are to attend with me. Margaery as my Queen, and you as I intend to announce your position while I'm in the North," I command, getting nods from them both. I don't miss them sharing an almost challenging look, but it fades quickly enough. Much like Arianne, Mother has accepted that Margaery isn't going anywhere and she'll have to work with her, not against her.
"Good morning, Your Grace," Varys greets as I enter. I've moved the council chambers to another, formerly unused room that is larger to make space for a larger table, and has several connected rooms I intend to be used at a later date. On his chest, the Valyrian Steel emblem of the Master of Whispers is proudly displayed. Each Council member has their own now, a mark of my trust and their position.
It's an easy thing to do, and they aren't at risk of being stolen because they're too unique to be passed off as anything else. Anyone who had one without being appointed to my council would be obviously guilty. It just adds a little more prestige to the positions at no real cost to myself.
"Thank you all for gathering so early," I greet as I take my seat at the head of the table, Margaery seated beside me. There's never been a seat for the Queen at the Small Council table, but nobody questions her presence.
"We serve at your pleasure, your grace," Pycelle replies instantly, eager to kiss my ass with the upcoming restructuring to the Small Council. He's safe, amusingly enough, but only because he's Grandfather's man and it was part of my deal with my Grandfather. He's competent enough, despite his age, but with the Court Chronicler, I've already begun to slowly move more power away from the position of Grand Maester. "Congratulations on your marriage. I think we were all surprised by how quickly you got back to work."
"Unfortunately, the Kingdom isn't willing to wait," I reply easily. "The sooner the situations in the North and the Vale are settled, the better for the entire realm."
"Indeed. Word from the Eyrie has become increasingly dark and depraved," Varys half-whispers. "Tales of blood sacrifices and dark rituals, an infectious madness taking those who remained loyal to Lysa Arryn. Songs from the North are equally dark."
"Lord Stark. Have the banners finished gathering?" I ask, getting a grateful nod from my current Hand.
"They have, Your Grace. Your Father's banners have finished gathering, as have the men from the Riverlands and Westerlands," Eddard agrees. "It will be getting them all North that will be the main issue. The snow is becoming increasingly deep."
"We don't need to get them all North the slow way. Dealing with the situation in the Vale will not call for the entire force we have raised," I point out, looking over the map I had carved into the centre of the new table. It only has the basic borders and the main cities and strongholds, but it is a good visualiser. "Lord Redwyne, I want you to have the royal fleet ferry most of the men up to White Harbour, as the Boltons have failed to take it so far and Lord Manderly remains loyal to us, does he not?"
"He does. He managed to save several members of Winterfell's staff, and the members of House Hornwood after Hornwood Castle was taken," Eddard agrees. "I don't see him taking issue with us using White Harbour as our staging grounds."
"He'll be rewarded, either way. I intend to make him my Master of Trade upon the restructuring I previously mentioned," I announce. "And the Crown will pay for the supplies we'll no doubt need to requisition from him. I am no pauper king."
"Is such a job not the role of the Master of Coin, your Grace?" Pycelle asks worriedly, barely hiding the way Grandfather holds his leash.
"I have spoken at length with the King on this matter, and agree that separating the position into two will be for the good of the realm," Tywin cuts in, instantly getting Pycelle to back down. "I am not a young man, and we cannot risk another Littlefinger in my successor, or his successor, or their successor's successor."
Tyrion seems surprised to hear his father willingly lessen the power of his own position, but he doesn't know just how much work Littlefinger left in his wake. Besides, the Royal Bank will increase his power so in truth he loses little while passing off the matter of trade deals to a competent man.
Besides, Wyman Manderly isn't young either. He's fairly old and known for his… size. The man is infamous for being too fat to ride a horse, so his longevity is in question.
"If I may, Your Grace. The entire realm has been wondering, exactly what other roles do you intend to create? No-one can deny that Lady Mellario and Lord Tyrion have been a boon to the council, but I see that we have several empty seats," Pycelle starts, giving Tywin a look as he compliments Tyrion.
As much as Grandfather doesn't like Uncle Tyrion, he is happy that Tyrion's work on the sex industry has been very successful and profitable. If Tyrion has to exist, he might as well bring glory to House Lannister. Nobody who knows him can't say Tywin isn't incredibly biased against Tyrion, but you also can't say that he can't be brutally pragmatic when it benefits House Lannister enough.
He isn't happy at Tyrion being honoured with a new role and a branch House to rule, but if that's my desire he'll make sure it benefits him as much as possible.
"As I've mentioned, the Master of Trade will be the next seat taken, and I have three more roles picked out, though I haven't chosen the future council members yet," I explain, seeing no harm in it. "The three other seats I plan to make are the Master of Faith, for all matters related to faith as it is becoming increasingly prevalent for multiple reasons, the Master of War to ensure the Seven Kingdoms are never caught unprepared and that our armies are the best in the known world, and the Master of Mysteries because frankly, there is entirely too much going on that we don't know. Our guest in the Maidenvault has proven that much."
"Most wise, Your Grace. I hope the horrors in the night end with the Boltons, but only a fool would expect things to go back to normal," Varys murmurs.
"With respect, your Grace, but such duties should fall to the Grand Maester and the Citadel!" Pycelle blusters.
"The Citadel have spent decades insisting that magic in Westeros is dead and gone," Stannis replies plainly, making the old man fluster but he has no real answer. "I take it the High Septon will not be the Master of Faith?"
"No. The Master of Faith will need to be able to deal with the affairs of all religions under my realm, including the Old Gods and the many found in Dorne such as the Lord of Light. While I respect the High Septon, I do not intend to give him the position," I reassure them. They don't want a second coming of Baelor the Blessed giving the Faith far too much power. "I considered making a Master of Science, but that does fall to the Citadel and I don't currently feel it is necessary as I'm sure the Maesters and our new Master of Development can handle such matters."
Ignoring Pycelle's assurance that he can, despite the lack of usable developments coming from the Citadel in recent memory, I continue.
"Allow me to reassure you all, I do not intend to remove any current council members upon my return. I am satisfied with the Royal Council's current state, or at least I will be once I fill the final seats," I continue, settling the concerns several have had since my announcement. "For now, I am considering Lord Randyll Tarly for the Master of War."
"A fine choice, but I must confess to being surprised. I would have thought your father would have been the obvious choice," Lord Redwyne says. He's pleased, as Randyll is a powerful bannerman of House Tyrell,
"I did consider him, but after discussing it with him we decided against it. While his strength is legendary, he's more of a warrior than a tactician and the Master of War is as much a logistical position as it is combat-focused. Besides, over a decade of Kingship has rusted my father's legendary prowess," I explain easily, seeing the approval on the faces of the council. Some oppose Tarly getting the role, but that's more to do with a fear of Reach growing too strong than anything else. In truth, increasing the strength of House Tyrell is a good counter for the power of House Lannister.
Tywin, Tyrion and Pycelle gives House Lannister three voices on the council. With Margaery, Tarly and Redwyne, now the Reach will have three as well.
Before they can oppose too much, I move on easily.
"Grandfather, how go the negotiations with Marenzo and the Iron Bank?" I ask, turning to him. He gives me a pleased look, clearly proud of the work he's been doing.
The rest of the council pay attention, because the idea of Westeros having its own Iron Bank equivalent is an interesting concept to them. With the agreement to let the Iron Bank handle the Valyrian Steel trade in Essos, the Crown is officially out of debt.
There are some debates over where to put the actual building, which starts Tyrion on his next project: the expansion of the crowded King's Landing. Maps are drawn out of the best area to build a major expansion and the order to demolish the Dragonpit to reclaim the space that has gone untouched for so very long.
"While I understand the decision to give the Iron Bank two of the ten keys, I have to ask what you intend to do with the other eight," Grandfather says, as if he doesn't already know the answer.
"This project is beyond just the crown, and as such it is only logical to bring each province into it. One key will remain with the crown, and the other seven will go to each of the seven main provinces, to the Lords Paramount of each section of my kingdom. With the exception of the Ironborn, of course. Perhaps in a decade or five they may have integrated into our society enough to revisit this decision but due to the recent rebellion, I see no reason to reward the Iron Islands with their own key," I reply.
The best way to get each of the regions to partake in the new bank is to tie them all to it. Having their liege lords hold the keys will go a long way to do just that. It gives each of the Great Houses an incentive to see this project succeed as well.
Tywin, one such Lord Paramount, nods approvingly. Again, pretending we didn't agree to this during our talks over the bank.
"What of the Vale key?" Paxter asks, reasonably given the current mess.
"It will be given to whoever is made regent once Lysa and her supporters have been captured. Given the doubt in Robin Arryn's origin, it will likely be Harrold Harding who will become the next Lord of the Vale but while he is my age, he is rather… irresponsible and I intend to assign Lord Royce as the regent for a couple of years at least. He's to be Harrold's goodfather anyway," I answer.
My theory came true, with Harrold being betrothed to one of Yohn Royce's daughters, Ysilla. It is possible that Lady Mara will reveal that Robin is indeed Jon Arryn's son and in that case, Lord Royce will become the regent all the same, taking the title of Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn until Robin is old enough to take it. More importantly, to make sure his mother's madness has not made him unfit for rule.
Yohn loses little by betrothing one of his daughters to Harrold, and if it ends up not being the next Lord of the Eyrie, then Yorn has granddaughters who could marry Robin Arryn.
"Have you decided the fate of Lysa Arryn?" Grandfather asks, but I shake my head.
"I can't, yet. We don't know the state of matters in the Eyrie, only going off secondhand information. She has to be captured, and order needs to be restored, but until we know the severity of her crimes, any judgement would be far too hasty," I reply easily.
"So, you intend to go to Vale, and the North, yourself? If I may be so blunt, Your Grace, what should be done in the event of your death?" Grandfather asks plainly, causing some uncomfortable reactions but I know he's not asking out of malice. It's a genuine question.
"With my blessing from Lady Mara, I can tell that Queen Margaery is carrying my children, twins. One boy and one girl," I say with such confidence that they can't disagree. Some congratulations are sent our way but I move on. "In the event of my death, Margaery is to be the regent until our son is old enough to become King."
Margaery squeezes my hand, not exactly pleased by my declaration because she doesn't want me thinking about the possibility of my death but it is important to lay down the law for such things to prevent a power vacuum. Or at least to limit such a vacuum, in the worst case.
"Speaking of regents. As Lord Stark will be needed in Winterfell, he will be resigning as my Hand and travelling North with me. Until I return, Cersei Baratheon will be my Hand," I continue. "A more permanent Hand will be chosen once I return."
As expected, some people are not exactly thrilled with the declaration, but the 'until I return' does a lot of work in silencing the complaints. I've made sure that people remember that she has basically run the kingdom for my father, and she'll only be handling it for a few months to a year. The idea that I might be away for the birth of my children is displeasing and another mark against the Boltons.
It will take around a month to get to Winterfell, more with the diversion to the Eyrie. I'll get back faster since I'll go from White Harbour and sail back with the Royal Fleet. So, it just depends how long we are stuck fighting the Boltons.
At the moment, the word is that they have taken Winterfell and Hornwood, with Lord Bolton holding Winterfell itself while his bastard son, this Ramsay, holds Dreadfort. House Umber was forced to abandon Last Hearth and moved into Karhold where the and the Karstark's have been fighting off the Boltons. House Cerwyn was also forced to flee, but went to White Harbour.
"Lord Commander, how are the Kingsguard handling their new armour and weapons?" I ask Barristan.
"Perfectly, Your Grace. Your craftsmanship is a thing to behold, and the armour you have made for us is a better fit than our old uniforms," Barristan reports, clad in blessed steel. "We are ready to protect you, no matter what we face."
"I intend to take the entire Kingsguard and the Knights of the Seven with me. We'll need every edge we can get and Blessed steel takes too long and requires the aid of the Seven, so I cannot clad our entire force in it," I declare. There's a large crossover since Loras and Barristan are in both, so really it just means Ser Bonifer and Ser Brienne join my entourage. "I've also made a suit of armour for myself, Father and Lord Stark. I can't clad everyone in it, but I have enough to at least clad the Lords Paramount and myself."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Eddard says, giving me a respectful nod. It's a very reserved reaction for someone finding out they're getting a custom-made suit of armour that is adjacent to Valyrian steel.
"The other Lords Paramount will see this as unfair," Tywin, a Lord Paramount, points out.
"They aren't going to war with me," I reply simply, getting an acknowledging nod. "Other suits can be sorted once this crisis is over, but I'm not wasting much needed time making equal suits of armour when we need every ingot for the battle against the Boltons. Besides, Hoster Tully is unlikely to complain, there is no Lord Paramount in The Vale at the moment and you aren't so unreasonable. Maybe Mace would complain if his daughter wasn't the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Doran would have to actually interact with us to complain."
"A fair assessment," he agrees. For a moment, I catch a look of amusement on Mellario's face. She knows I'm not wrong. Doran's current strategy is to pretend the rest of the kingdom doesn't exist. Even if he takes offence, he can't complain without interacting and breaking his current strategy and he'd look a hypocrite if he complained about being ignored after ignoring me.
Arianne is the face of Dornish reintegration. Doran is the face of Dornish isolation. He can't complain without losing face.
The meeting continues onto less serious topics, mostly setting up policy and what I want them doing while I am away from King's Landing. Margaery begins to include herself, now that the topic isn't a war, and she has something of substance to add.
"Speaking of the North, your Grace," Paxter says, getting my attention. "Lord Commander Jeor Mormont has arrived by ship with a large retinue of the Night's Watch to take the prisoners due for the wall. First Ranger Benjen Stark is with him."
"They set off before the news of Winterfell, I take it?" I ask, getting a nod from Eddard.
"Benjen has requested leave to join the forces retaking Winterfell, which Commander Jeor agreed with as the Watch relies on the support of Winterfell during Winter," Eddard confirms. "They sailed from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, not stopping in White Harbour and therefore not learning of the fall of Winterfell until they were already too far south to change directions."
"Have Commander Jeor brought to the Red Keep, I wish to speak with him in person," I order, getting agreements. I won't use the criminals in this war because an unreliable ally can be worse than having no allies at all. I don't trust the Ironborn not to stab us in the back, especially given Euron Greyjoy was said to have the same vampiric infliction. "Margaery, has your father arranged the supplies I requested?"
"He has, Your Grace," Margaery responds immediately, getting a slightly dirty look from me at her tone which she just returns with an impish smile and a squeeze of my hand. "Long-lasting food for the North is already heading to White Harbour to replace what the Ironborn's raiding has destroyed. I'll have him send more to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to feed the increased manpower on the Wall."
"Grandfather. While so many smiths are within the capital after the tourney and wedding, I want you to hire them to make new weapons and armour for the Watch. There are dark happenings beyond the wall, and I won't have our first line of defence ill prepared," I order, getting a simple nod from him.
"With our influx of coin, that is easily achieved. Many have remained around in the hopes of gaining the eye of the Smith King," Tywin replies.
"I do intend to hire some royal smiths to work my forge with me, to speed up my own forging. Feel free to use that to get their services," I agree, knowing what he was going for.
Our forces will begin to move North today, because a smaller, royal retinue will be able to catch up to the footmen rather easily. Most are headed to White Harbour by ship, the rest are headed to Derry, ready to head into the Vale of Arryn.
In truth, I don't anticipate much resistance there. The Blackfish knows how to bypass the Bloody Gate, because it's been his job to protect it for years, and Lysa seems to be killing too many of her own followers to put up a real resistance. The main issue is going to be the natural defences of the Eyrie, but it isn't heavily manned and I have half the defenders on my side, who know the safest paths and best way to capture it without needing to lug siege weapons up the mountain.
We even have the captain of the House Arryn guards in the Vale retinue that came south seeking royal intervention, and he claims Lysa had nearly half of his men executed before her imprisonment. It's likely she killed the rest after being freed. The Eyrie might be seen as being impregnable, but that was when it had more defenders than a couple dozen crazed knights. Blackfish left people watching the roads and they've claimed no true force has entered.
Don't get me wrong, it won't be easy because the Eyrie is probably the hardest castle to siege in the Seven Kingdoms, but at the same time, sending more men isn't going to help with the narrow paths so we're only taking those Blackfish thinks we will need to take the castle.
Having the full army sitting at the bottom of the Mountains of the Moon scratching their balls isn't going to help. It's annoying. If Lysa had gone crazy at any other castle, she'd have been dragged out by now but the first signs of winter are already hitting and the Eyrie is a bitch to reach even in the most comfortable of weather.
The rest of the meeting goes smoothly enough, with Tyrion and Mellario carefully making their presence known where appropriate. Both are hesitant to speak openly for different reasons, Mellario being both Essosi and a woman and Tyrion acutely aware that his disapproving father is sat across from him. Even still, they make good points and prove I didn't hire them for no reason.
"Do you really think the Eyrie will fall easily?" Margaery asks, clearly worried as we leave the council chambers after a long and productive meeting.
"I fully anticipate there being issues going forward, but with the Blackfish, Lord Royce and the other defenders of the Vale on our side, we know the paths, we know where to avoid. It won't be easy, by any means, but this is the weakest the Eyrie has ever been," I reassure her, giving her hand a squeeze.
"But it remains a good fight, no?" a voice cuts in, getting our attention. Oberyn gives me a grin as he lazily leans against a pillar, spear in hand as several guards give him shifty looks. My Kingsguard goes to move forward, but I wave them off. "House Martell owes you a debt for putting down the Mountain, my royal friend. And if there is a fight to be had, the viper will lend you his spear."
"Your spear is shit. I'll make you a better one," I snort, taking it off him and examining it before tossing it back to him.
"Ah, but the girls have never complained about my spear yet," Oberyn waves off with an easy grin.
"The Boltons won't be as easily satisfied with your meager thrusts," I snark back, getting a giggle from Margaery. Before he can retort, his large friend grunts and practically pushes Oberyn back with one hand.
"Stop flirting with him, Viper," The Hound grunts. "You've got my sword, if you want it. Don't know what the fuck is going on up North, but you did me a solid, Your Grace. Ended my contract with your brother, and I'll come too if you'll have me."
"I won't turn down an extra pair of hands, especially not ones as dangerous as yours," I agree, pleased. I should be focused on the fact that I've got such a pair of infamous warriors on my side, but mostly I'm interested in the opportunity to make interesting weapons for them both. I've not made a unique spear yet, and the Hound can use a much larger blade than most.
"Do take care of him, Prince Oberyn. I'd like his royal spear to get back home safely," Margaery teases.
"Don't fret, Your Grace. I will ensure his royal spear is handled with the utmost of care," Oberyn replies with a faux-bow.
I'm starting to see where Arianne got it.
— Bonus Scene — Robert Baratheon
"Come on, you cowards. Fight me!" Robert laughed, seeing the knights hesitating to approach him as he swung his new hammer around like it was made of paper.
He didn't blame them for their hesitance, seeing him clad in silver armour with golden ripples, worth more than any Valyrian steel armour the dragoncunts ever had their hands on. The helmet, adorned with stag antlers, protected his empty head better than his old one by far.
Nearby, Ned looked almost embarrassed in his wolf-themed armour, the helmet shaped like a snarling wolf. Ned was too shy, damn it, because that helm was gonna send the Boltons pissing themselves in fear when the wolves came home and found the cowards sleeping in their den.
Bringing Stendarr's Hammer down on a rock, he laughed outrageously as it reduced the strong, sturdy rock to pebbles and dust. His son knew his tastes well, and the power of the Father flowed through him as he hefted the hammer, too heavy to be lifted by a normal man, onto his shoulder with a fierce grin, gripping the dragonbone haft.
Never thought anyone would make use of all those dragon bones he'd stuffed in the cellar, but damn did it feel good to have them turned into tools for the Baratheon rule.
The Demon of the Trident was back, and he was going to break the Boltons into as many pieces as that rock.