5. Royal Order

In the moons that preceded the birth of the Lannister heir, the retinue from the riverlands came to King’s Landing. It was a whole host, near the measure of a village in span, lords great and small gathered to voice their woes and beg succour from their dragon betters. The new Paramount of the Trident came to bend the knee and swear his oaths. Bracken and Blackwood once more sought leave of the King’s peace, that they might drench the earth in each other’s blood.

“It shall be announced on the morrow that court will be held on the seventh day of the week,” Mother said unto Rhaegar. “You ought to attend, son, and see for yourself what the duties of kingship entail.”

I frowned at the words, though much of my displeasure owed itself rather to the custard I partook in. There was a needless hardness to it, perchance from an overstay in the oven. Baking had ever been to my eye a troublesome craft, and unloved still to my heart—too much precision required for what ought to be simple, too many methods devised for what ought to be plain.

Still, the taste was fair enough, and enjoyed by all who had it, my brother most of all. That much was no surprise, for children were ever fond of sweetmeats. Perhaps I should turn some thought to such things, that the young of this age might have more confections to delight in.

“I shall do so, Mother,” said the child, with scarce a trace of reluctance upon his face. He prided me, this brother of mine. Who would not be gladdened to have kin so dutiful and so bright? No one. “May I bring Arthur with me, though?”

The question unsettled me not. A moon past, the Martell Kingsguard had returned from his home with the young boy of Dayne as his squire. Then was the time I beheld eyes as violet beneath a mane so black. There was sorcery in that boy, a thing akin to the madness of Old Valyria.

And though the Dayne claimed Dornish heritage, they bore not the colouring of the sand people.

Rhaegar and Arthur became fast companions, bound swiftly in a manner in which my brother found no ease with children of his own age.

“Joffrey’s son? Is he the heir?” came Mother’s question. The naming of the Lord of Starfall without title bespoke familiarity beyond mere acquaintance.

“It is the second son, the one with the stronger sword-arm,” I enlightened her.

“Is he truly?” asked she, a touch of curiosity to her. “Or has your younger brother turned prophet once more?”

Her hand ruffled through my hair. I did as children did and pouted, though the vexation was feigned; truth be told, the gesture had by now wed itself to a quiet fondness.

“Yes, Arthur is most skilled with the sword,” Rhaegar put forth. He near beamed to boast of his friend’s excellence, despite how often he had suffered defeat at the Dayne boy’s hands. Truly, he was an honest soul. “Prince Lewyn says he may, in time, prove an equal of Ser Barristan.”

Could he, though? Such thought struck me at the claim. The Bold was a tale unto himself, a man beloved of the sword and of combat alike.

Arthur did not strike me as one so blessed.

Yet what claim had I to true judgment? I was but a being who might possess no exceptionalism beyond delusion.

“Then I see no reason he should not accompany you. Be sure, however, to inform your father,” Rhaella said, setting the empty bowl aside with the composure of true royalty. “And you, Daemon? Have you any desire to witness Brynden Tully’s swearing of oaths to your kingly father?”

I did.

The whole affair with the Tullys fascinated me. In truth, I ought to have been wary, for Hoster’s passing brought a corruption to my foreknowledge. What would become of the STAB alliance? And Petyr? The future had become shrouded. I wondered if I ought to feel any responsibility for its unfolding.

By whispers of rumour, tensions already stirred. It seemed Hoster had sired a babe upon his wife, a girl born shortly after his death. The Whents sought for her to inherit, as custom decreed. What custom? None could say, and the riverlords had ever been a quarrelsome lot.

If the Whents were an ancient house, perhaps they might have contested the girl’s claim. Yet they were young, almost infantile in their influence. The same could be said of the Tullys; Brynden might have assumed the role of regent. Alas, the Tully house carried little prestige. No, the lords sought to wed daughters to him, that their own blood might rise to the position of Paramount in the next generation.

I cast my gaze to Mother.

“I would not be opposed to witnessing such an affair,” I said.

She smiled, and smiled broad. “Ever the curious one, my little dragon. You’ll be quite the sight in that dreadful hall.”

I had spent two years within this castle, yet not until this day had my eyes beheld the Throne Room. For the first time did I lay witness to that towering monstrosity men named the Iron Throne…

I still ponder why the folk of this world hold such fondness for the word iron. Ironborn. Iron Throne. Iron Bank.

… the throne itself rose as a tower, demanding near a dozen steps for its ascent. Forged of swords, a thousand near true in number, it was formless, more art than seat. Dangerous, gleaming, cruel in its beauty. A piece of royalty wrought in horror, lacking cousins at its side for queen or heir.

I was seized by it upon first sight, both breath and mind held captive.

No wonder men contended so bitterly for it, for even the lowest of creatures would be feared if once he seated himself upon that monstrous chair. The Iron Throne—Aegon’s boast writ in steel. If I were to jest, I might claim it a compensation of some want. Perhaps his cock was no king in its own right. Perhaps his fucks were meek.

That thought stirred a smile to my lips.

I entered the hall beside Mother and Rhaegar, all the while the noble rabble turned their eyes upon us. The realm’s highborn were gathered entire; here was the whole upper crust of Westerosi society. By the foot of the throne stood the Lord Hand, grim and silent, with the small council arrayed near him. To the other side, apart but not afar, stood Lord Tully, and beyond him the liaisons of the great and lesser houses, each set in their station according to rank and ancient privilege.

The order of their world was plain to see.

And upon the throne itself my father sat, his form haloed by the light that poured in from behind. Imposing enough, I granted, and even majestic, if one were willing to squint.

But as for true majesty, that belonged to me, the prince in a cape. It was brilliant, crimson as blood spilt by beasts in some verse of poetry. The seamstresses had stitched it with skill, embroidering upon its length the sigil of my house in the black of dead embers.

Beneath it I was arrayed in a dark doublet, patterned with threads of gold, and breeches to match. Upon my legs I bore the customary hose of this age, and on my feet, boots fashioned from the hide of a lizard-lion.

I was a vision. I was regal. I was… perfect.

With chin raised, back straight, and visage set in bored disdain, I moved as though long accustomed to such deference and high regard. But was I truly? Had I so soon grown used to the visage of supremacy? In some measure, aye. Pride and entitlement had ever been my companions, and the endless courtesies of the castle’s servants had only nursed that madness to fuller growth.

I was a known wunderkind as well—the boy who had wrought the pencil. A week’s toil it took to perfect the formula for the lead, half that span again for the shaping of the wood, and another full week to devise a system fit for mass production.

Yet I was not wholly satisfied. To my judgment, the pencils were too thick, the pace of their making too slow, and no eraser yet devised to correct error. Much remained to be improved. Still, they brought me coin—independent wealth. Silver and gold I might invest into other pursuits.

We halted near the base of the Iron Throne’s left, neighbour to the Tullys. A septon stepped forth and offered a prayer, laced with the customary lines—justice, wisdom, the Seven, House Targaryen.

It was brief, more ritual than reverence.

Then the king’s voice filled the chamber: “This court is open. Let those with matters of justice, grievance, or petition stand forth.”

And so it began.

Now there was need for understanding of how court proceeded. Feudalist court. Its purpose, ever and always, was to display the wisdom and the authority of the noble—or royal—presiding. All matters brought forth for judgment had long since been decided before the chamber ever gathered.

A mummer’s farce, if one were inclined to be spiteful.

Not wholly so, of course. It was twice as forgiving as the courts of my old world, and thrice as entertaining besides.

If the matter were of true significance—say, a swearing of oaths—then some rehearsed pageantry would be enacted. All theatre, and meant to impress upon the mass the magnanimity of their king.

On the nobles? No. They needed no such convincing. They practiced the same customs in their own halls. To them, no absurdity lay in it.

It was fucking stupid and fun.

Thus, when the Lord of House Tully stepped forward before the throne, bent to one knee with a hand upon his chest, I found myself eager to witness the spectacle that had kept Father absent from the dining table the night prior.

Though loath to confess it, I had been wrong in my assumption that Aerys was without competence or capability. When the Lannister heir was born, and Tywin departed to be with wife and babe, it was Father who held the fort. He did not look overwhelmed, though he was less patient and far less wondrous.

In truth, that ought not have surprised me. He had been raised for the station, with ample years to be taught the arts of rulership. His reluctance stemmed not from inability, but from a distaste for duty—though he delighted well enough in the privileges of kingship.

If only he had been half so charismatic and half so caring…

Then Lord Tully began his ceremony. He was arrayed regally, second only in fashion to my own raiment, and when he spoke his voice carried deep and baritone. Here was a man who, had fortune turned his steps elsewhere, might have made a great singer.

“I, Brynden of House Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident, do here swear my fealty to King Aerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, and to his trueborn heirs after him. I pledge my sword, my strength, and my loyalty, so long as the Crown protects the Riverlands in justice and honor.”

That was a rather dull swearing, was it not? I had expected something with flourish, with theatric weight and feeling. Something personal, with heart in it.

Instead, what I heard was naught but the bare recitation of duty. Generic. Empty.

Insulting, even. Seven hells, I felt cheated

“Your oaths are received well, Lord Tully. And so in kind shall the Crown offer succour,” said the king.

From where I stood I could not see his countenance, and so I must needs imagine it: bored, eyes half-lidded, one fist propping his cheek, the other hand gesturing with languid disinterest. King Fritz.

“What boon would you ask of your king?”

“Riverrun wants for naught but that the king’s peace linger long and great. In so being, I ask Your Grace’s leave for our land to muster a force, tasked with ensuring the safety of your subjects, with ridding outlaws, with bringing forth order to the Riverlands—so that no lord or lady shall lose their lives to vile men, as was the fate of my brother and predecessor.”

I looked at the man, his words circling in my mind. Much was revealed here, and much still betrayed my ignorance—or my general unwant to chase after answers. In my thoughts, Hoster had died of a cold, caught from a man-at-arms, who himself had earned it in the arms of some Riverrun whore.

That was to say, I cared little for the manner of his death.

Yet Brynden declared instead that his brother had fallen to banditry, or something near enough—it was most certainly the mountain clans. The mysteries that remained were the how and why.

But what intrigued me more was his request. Why ask his king’s leave to raise a force, when lords were free to do so?

It took a moment, then I understood. He wanted tax exemptions. Sly bastard.

“A worthy cause,” said Aerys with a hum. “I shall permit this, and in so doing offer aid in this just cause for the next two years. Such is my decree. Such is my will.”

Fucking beautiful.

The court continued so, and in my mind I named it the River Court. It was mainly the lords of the wetlands who came seeking succour. One Bracken even stepped forth, beseeching the king to command the Blackwood to accept a trial by combat—over a matter of goat stealing.

The day was entertaining enough, and I learned more of the workings of the realm from it.