Chapter 27: Execution
Back at Iron Fist Keep, Henry had the captured traders brought to him one at a time.
He didn't need to work hard at it. These were not soldiers or hardened men — they were merchants who dealt in human cargo, and merchants calculate odds.
The third one broke inside of an hour, talking in a rush once he understood that talking was the only thing that might matter. The operation was larger than the three boats suggested: slaves purchased or taken in the Free Cities, shipped to Blackwater Bay aboard a larger vessel, then moved upriver by small boat in the dark to avoid the city gates and their inspectors. King's Landing received them.
The Mothers Tower was the primary destination, but not the only one.
Henry sent the Nightwalker out immediately with a hundred men aboard and the coordinates the trader had given up. Maewyn commanded the search personally.
They found nothing. Empty water, a few abandoned camps on one of the smaller islands — cold fire pits, rope marks on the rocks where boats had been tied. Whoever had been waiting with the main ship had decided, after too long without contact from the small boats, that something had gone wrong. They'd been right.
When the Nightwalker came back empty, Henry rode to King's Landing.
Jon Arryn received him and heard everything. The Hand's face was careful and still throughout — the expression of a man turning a problem over, checking all its edges. He said he would ensure the King was informed.
The next morning, Henry was summoned to the Red Keep.
He'd been summoned there often enough since Robert's return that he'd stopped being surprised by the variety of reasons. Sometimes Robert wanted to watch him spar against the household knights — it had become a kind of entertainment for the King, at least until it became clear that Henry was going to win every time regardless of who they put across from him, at which point Robert lost interest in arranging it. Sometimes it was drinking and talking about Pyke, which Robert genuinely seemed to enjoy. Twice Henry had been called to sit in on Small Council meetings as Warden of the Blackwater Rush, which was unusual enough that it had made Littlefinger's eyes narrow in a way Henry had noted and filed away.
Today, Robert was in the throne room.
He sat sideways on the Iron Throne the way a man sits in a chair he finds uncomfortable but owns anyway — one leg hooked over the armrest, a clay cup of ale in his hand. The throne caught the torchlight on its blades and jagged edges. Henry had been in the room several times now and still found it an ugly piece of furniture, which he suspected was intentional on Aegon's part.
Henry bowed. Before he could speak, Robert did.
"When you get back, release the Gold Cloaks."
Henry stayed still for a moment. "Your Majesty, I was hoping to lay out the full situation—"
"Jon gave me the full situation. Janos came and gave me his account." Robert took a pull from the cup. "Release them."
"Your Majesty." Henry kept his voice level. "What they were facilitating was slave trading. That's not a gray area under the laws of the Seven Kingdoms."
Robert sat up straighter. "Janos tells it differently. He says his arrangement is that he buys the girls from the traders and sets them free. They enter employment voluntarily after that. The establishment pays a substantial sum to the crown each year above its ordinary taxes." He pointed the cup at Henry. "That's not slavery. That's commerce."
"With respect, Your Majesty, the employment those women enter isn't voluntary. The tattoos on their faces follow them. The debt the traders claim they owe for passage follows them. They go from one form of captivity to another and the only thing that changes is who owns the arrangement."
"Watch yourself." Robert's voice went flat. "You're talking to your King."
Henry said nothing.
Robert's tone came down slightly. "I know what those places are. I'm not an idiot, boy. But the girls are free people inside those walls — they can't be sold on, they can't be killed at their owner's pleasure. That is better than what they had before. It is an improvement." He set the cup on the armrest. "Janos has run the City Watch adequately for years. I've given him a hard warning. He says it won't happen again. His men's jurisdiction ends at the city walls — everything along the Blackwater Rush is yours, and you can run it as you see fit. But those Gold Cloaks come home."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"The traders," Robert said, and paused. "Their hands are dirty. They've been doing this a long time. You're the lord of that land — deal with them as you judge fit."
Henry bowed and left.
The execution ground was a clearing on the riverbank, open ground with good sight lines in every direction. Henry had chosen it deliberately — accessible, visible from the road, the kind of place where what happened there would be known and talked about. Every holding needed one. Better to establish it with a purpose than to improvise one in a crisis.
Four wooden posts had been set. The traders were brought out of the prison wagon with their hands bound behind them and pressed against the posts, gags in their mouths. The Blackwater River Guard stood in a wide ring around the clearing, fifty men, faces forward.
Henry dismounted, walked to his saddlebag, and drew Red Rain.
He held the sword at his side and looked at the four men. "Any last words?"
The guards worked down the line, pulling the gags.
The first few seconds were pleas — they'd been coerced, they hadn't understood what they were doing, they would reform, they would give names, they would give money. When Henry's expression didn't change, the pleas became curses. He stood and let them finish.
When they were done he raised the sword.
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm — I, Henry Reyne, Lord of the Bay of Crabs and Warden of the Blackwater Rush, sentence you for the crimes of kidnapping, slave trading, and armed resistance to lawful authority. The sentence is death."
He worked down the line cleanly. Four strokes. The riverbank mud went dark.
The eleven Gold Cloaks were in the second prison wagon, gagged and bound, and they'd watched the whole thing from between the slats. By the time Henry walked over, at least two of them had fouled themselves. The one-eyed corporal who'd led the confrontation on the riverbank had bled out from the thigh wound during the ride back to the keep — artery, most likely — so it was eleven now rather than twelve.
Henry wiped Red Rain clean, sheathed it, and turned to Elon.
"The King's ordered them released. Take them across the river yourself."
Elon's face went through several things in quick succession. He started to speak.
Henry moved close and dropped his voice.
"Take them across the Blackwater. Before you reach King's Landing's boundary — they attacked you during the crossing. Tried to overpower the escort and escape. You put them down." He held Elon's eyes. "Make it look right. Multiple wounds, not clean cuts. Take your time with it."
Elon absorbed this. The tension in his face settled into something quieter and harder. He straightened.
"Understood, my lord."
He turned to pass the word quietly to the men nearest him. Henry watched the relief move through the squad — the tight expressions loosening, a few grim nods. They'd been unhappy about the release order from the moment they'd heard it.
They weren't unhappy anymore.
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