287 AC. Blackwater Bay.
"Long live King Robert!"
"Long live King Robert!"
The sea churned as a fleet of majestic Royal warships, their sails emblazoned with the crowned stag, cruised steadily through the water. Naturally, they weren't on a combat mission; they were serving as high-end ferries, transporting noble guests from across the realm to Dragonstone.
The guests were en route to celebrate the wedding of Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships. The bride hailed from House Florent, an ancient and powerful house of the Reach.
Because the Stormlands were the bedrock of Baratheon power, the guest list was heavily populated with Stormlords. The rest of the attendees primarily consisted of nobles from the Reach, the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale, all coming to join the festivities and rub elbows.
As for the North, Dorne, and the Iron Islands—regions currently focused on isolation and quiet recovery—their absence was entirely expected. The only truly noticeable absence was the Westerlands. Following the cold silence of Tywin Lannister, the Westerlords had largely opted to stay home as well.
With Queen Cersei Lannister having recently given birth to Prince Joffrey, the political dynamic between the newborn heir and his royal uncles was bound to become... complicated.
"The struggle for succession is always the same!"
Tywin Lannister was a man who knew his history, and Westerosi history was littered with examples of uncles murdering their nephews and nieces for power. Tywin's own grandfather, Gerold Lannister, allegedly smothered his niece, Lady Cerelle, with a pillow to usurp the lordship of Casterly Rock. House Stark had seen brothers marry the daughters of their deceased older brother, Rickon, solely to solidify their own claims. As for the Targaryens, the Gods Eye had twice been the site of brutal uncle-nephew aerial duels.
In Tywin's mind, Robert's two younger brothers were the ultimate threat; he paid little mind to the quiet, distant Ned Stark.
The warship carrying Arthur and the other Riverlords was quite famous in its own right. It was christened the Lady Lyanna.
King Robert Baratheon had commissioned the vessel in memory of his deeply loved, deeply lost maiden, Lyanna Stark.
Well, you have to hand it to Robert, Arthur thought wryly. He somehow manages to be both the realm's most prolific stud-horse and its most tragic romantic.
If Robert hadn't needed the political and financial backing of House Lannister, and considering his legendary charisma and absolute lack of discrimination when it came to women's looks, he probably would have sired an entire army of noble-born bastards by now.
"She truly is a magnificent ship."
"Indeed. A masterpiece of the Royal Fleet."
"Though the name... obviously a tribute to Lady Lyanna."
"Just keeping a fleet like this operational must cost a mountain of gold dragons."
Up on the deck, the Riverlords chattered amongst themselves, openly admiring the warship. It wasn't that they were ignorant bumpkins; they were simply acutely aware of their own lack of naval power. Having suffered endlessly under the depredations of the Ironborn longships, they knew exactly what they were missing, but lacked the means to build a proper countermeasure.
Despite boasting the massive Trident river system and a wide estuary, the Riverlands possessed no true navy—at best, they maintained scattered longship fleets. First, the current generation of Riverlords was largely mediocre. Second, they lacked major, chartered cities to act as cash cows for taxation. As a result, not a single Riverlord could afford to maintain a standing fleet of heavy warships.
Looking at the big picture, the Riverlands, the North, and Dorne all suffered from a severe lack of naval power.
"Good day, Master Edmure."
"Good day, Master Arthur. Ser Lucas."
"Good day, Ser Stevron."
"Good day, Lord Tytos. Lord Jason. Lord Raymun. Lord William."
"Good day, Lord Piper. Lord Vance. Lord Vance."
"Good day, Master Roote. Master Wode."
The deck was a flurry of polite, eager greetings as the Riverlords mingled. Arthur used the opportunity to make his face known. Dressed in a striking gold tunic embroidered with black bats, he was impossible to miss. Handsome, poised, and radiating youthful energy, Arthur left a very strong impression on the lords of the Reach and the Vale present on the ship.
By contrast, the other heirs of the Riverlands looked painfully average.
It seems everyone is here, minus the Old Trout and Lord Bracken, Arthur noted, cataloging the Riverlords and their heirs like NPCs in a game.
Lord Tytos Blackwood: Hoster Tully's most trusted advisor and primary military commander. Tall and lean, Tytos had a short, greying beard, a hooked nose, and long hair. He wore a magnificent cloak woven entirely from raven feathers. Arthur greeted him politely, though Tytos maintained his habitual, stone-cold expression; Arthur couldn't tell if the man was naturally severe or just permanently annoyed.
Lord Clement Piper of Pinkmaiden: short, rotund, and bow-legged, with a thick shock of messy red hair. His eldest son and heir, Marq, was much better-looking—also red-haired, but significantly taller.
Ser Karyl Vance, heir to Wayfarer's Rest: his expression was perpetually gloomy. Arthur wondered if it was due to the massive, wine-red birthmark that covered half his face and neck. Had it not been for the birthmark, Ser Karyl would have been a very handsome man.
Lord Norbert Vance of Atranta: a half-blind old man who, in his youth, had served alongside Brynden the "Blackfish" as a squire to Lord Darry.
On the surface, the gathering appeared completely harmonious, filled with laughter and cheerful banter. But beneath the veneer, the Riverlords were clearly fractured into three distinct camps.
To the west, the staunch Tully loyalists: Blackwood, Piper, and the two branches of Vance.
To the east, the Whent-aligned bloc: Darry, Mooton, and Roote.
And finally, standing alone and playing their own game: House Frey.
Lords Mallister and Bracken were generally skilled at navigating between these factions, though Lord Bracken was absent today.
The weasels certainly love a crowd, Arthur thought, glancing at the isolated cluster of Frey men. They never missed a tourney or a feast. It was just a shame their reputation was so abysmal, and their actual tournament rankings were consistently terrible.
The Freys looked somewhat aloof and lonely. Hoster Tully had publicly mocked them as the "Late Lord Frey," a derogatory moniker that the Royalists fully agreed with. Despite their immense, undeniable wealth—wealth that Hoster couldn't even dent with fines—their reputation as treacherous, opportunistic upstarts had only grown stronger.
"We gather today to celebrate the wedding of Lord Stannis. But surely, it won't be long before we gather to celebrate the wedding of Master Edmure!"
"Hahaha! Not long at all, I'd wager!"
The men from Houses Piper and Vance enthusiastically flattered Edmure Tully, inflating his ego until he practically glowed. The Piper men wore tunics embroidered with a dancing maiden in pink silk, while the Vance men bore the sigils of a black dragon and a green dragon, respectively.
Yes, Lord Hoster had decided to stay home.
It wasn't that the Old Trout was at death's door. More likely, he was simply bitter. Stannis, a man decades his junior, had been rewarded with the position of Master of Ships, while Hoster remained unacknowledged and unrewarded by the crown.
Robert Baratheon clearly had little respect for the Duke who had haggled like a fishmonger over marriage pacts before finally committing to the rebellion, only to deliver a decidedly mediocre military performance. During the Battle of the Bells, the Old Trout had been thoroughly thrashed by the Griffin, and he had only managed to rally half his vassals to the cause. Throughout the entire Trident campaign, the only Riverlord who truly distinguished himself was Lord Jason Mallister.
I wouldn't be so optimistic if I were you, Arthur thought, watching Edmure soak up the praise. Edmure's bachelor days are going to last a very, very long time.
If Robb Stark hadn't needed someone to take the fall for his broken marriage pact in the original timeline, Edmure likely would have remained unmarried into his thirties—a rare feat in Westeros. He was basically the Riverlands equivalent of Willas Tyrell or Arianne Martell: hoarded by his father, waiting for the "perfect" match that never came.
Hmph. That old fool Hoster, Ser Stevron Frey, the heir to the Twins, thought, his brow furrowing slightly.
Hoster had essentially strung along both House Bracken and House Frey regarding Edmure's marriage, ultimately rejecting both because he felt they weren't "good enough." Lord Jonos Bracken had taken it in stride, but Old Walder Frey was a man who held a grudge until the end of time.
"Marriage is the foundation of peace," Lord Piper declared grandly. "These joyous occasions will only bring greater prosperity to the realm!"
Joyous occasions, indeed. Though Robert was about to turn this particular joyous occasion into a massive, legendary scandal.
"Dragonstone, dead ahead!"
"They say the citadel was built with Valyrian sorcery."
Arthur chatted idly with Lord Raymun Darry, Ser Lucas, and Lord William Mooton as they waited to disembark.
The sea breeze whipped through Arthur's hair. He looked toward the bow of the ship, watching the jagged, imposing silhouette of Dragonstone emerge from the mist.