A Golden Path: Design 3.10 (ch. 33)

A reminder that I will be taking next week off to celebrate Best of Intentions ending. But, on the 2nd of February, the first chapter of Going Native: Rewritten will go live and four advanced chapters will be posted here!

...

“What… what happened? Where are we?” Rhaegar rasped, his eyes feeling like they were covered in sand while his throat didn't feel much better. His head swam when he tried to sit up, only for a pain in his side to keep him down. Despite the pain, he looked around, his heart leaping to his throat when he realized that this wasn't his tent and he almost concluded that the camp had surrendered and he was a captive. 

Then his gaze fell on Arthur, who stood vigil over him, his face unshaven with a bone-deep exhaustion that one night of good sleep couldn't wash away. Arthur was quick to drop his guard, picture relief flickering across his face. “My prince- you've woken up!” 

Rhaegar grunted, trying to sit up again, but this time he was stopped by Arthur. “That implies I've slept. It certainly doesn't feel like it,” he muttered, swallowing thickly and gratefully accepting a goblet of water that Arthur passed to him. 

“That would be the fever,” Arthur informed, gesturing to his side. A wound just above his hip where a dirk had slipped through his chainmail and stabbed deep. Nothing vital was struck according to the maesters, but the blade had been filthy. It was said that Targaryens couldn't fall ill, and if that were ever true, then it hadn't been for at least a century. While Rhaegar couldn't ever recall falling prey to a pox, what had covered that blade had fouled his humors. “You collapsed five days ago, but your fever broke yesterday. Do you remember nothing? You would speak to us?” 

Rhaegar closed his eyes, letting them rest as he searched his memories. He recalled the fever. The weakness in his limbs, feeling too cold and too hot at the same time, and the hollow pit in his stomach as his men burned through their dwindling supplies all too quickly. He vaguely recalled conversations, but even as they happened, Rhaegar had no idea if they were real or not. But his last memory was… “Did Paul really come?” 

“... He did, my Prince,” Arthur answered but there was hesitancy in his voice. “He managed to smuggle us off the island. You, myself, and Ser Oswell.” 

Rhaegar's throat tightened. “The others?” He asked, but he already knew the answer.

“The camp fell the day after our departure,” Arthur answered, not sparing his feelings. “The smallfolk were slaughtered, my prince. Butchered like they were animals. And I cannot yet tell if it is a rumor or not, but rather than holding the nobles for ransom, they are selling them to the Daughters as slaves.” 

Rhaegar's hands curled into fists, gripping the blanket that covered him, the news washing over him. The battle had gone poorly. The slavers knew exactly where he was, and they concentrated their forces on that island. Their numbers had whittled down, sickness had spread like a fire in the cave system that they had fortified… the mercenaries had seemed content to just starved them out, and every day, Rhaegar had felt their strength to fight back slip between his fingers like grains of sand. 

The will to fight had quickly left the men when those that were captured were… for months, none of them had rested easy because of the tortured screams that came from those unfortunate enough to surrender to the pirates. He didn't need to imagine what had befallen the men. His men. The Boltons weren't the only ones who practiced flaying, and he could all too easily see the corpses of his men nailed to crosses outside of their camp. 

“And we were the only ones to escape? Why-” A weak caught escaped him, cutting off his accusation. 

“Because you are the prince of the Seven Kingdoms,” Arthur answered his unspoken question. “It was next to impossible to escape with you. The number of times that we were nearly caught… I can't imagine we could have escaped with more people. And relief wasn't coming. The fleets of the Kingdoms are paralyzed with fear as much as they are greed.” He wanted to say more, but Arthur visibly swallowed it down. Yet, Rhaegar heard it all the same. 

His father had abandoned him. 

It didn't come as a surprise. Not really. Things had never been good with his father, and they only worsened as he grew into a man. Yet, the news still made his heart ache. A bitter disappointment rising in his chest because there had been a part of him that thought… that thought his father still cared. Somewhere deep beneath the madness and spite, there was the man who used to tell him stories before tucking him into bed. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat, “My friend, I will need your help standing.” Rhaegar requested, making Arthus hesitate. 

“You should…” he started, only to falter when his gaze met Rhaegar's. Arthur closed his mouth with a click and offered a reluctant nod, “Of course.” 

Rhaegar nearly gasped from the pain that flared in his side, but he swallowed it down and leaned heavily on Arthur. He was hardly presentable, he knew that. But that was something that could work to his advantage. As frail and I'll as he seemed, if he managed to reach the command tent, then his voice would have more worth than the air that they were spoken with. He wouldn't be a coward who escaped while his men were left behind to die. 

They left the tent, and Rhaegar saw that they were on a different island. The shape of the hills made that immediately obvious, but more importantly, the camp wasn't in a too small cave. He smelled salt and fish in the air, and he imagined under the sounds of controlled chaos, he would be able to hear the ocean. What he saw, however, was surprising. 

“The North has arrived with five thousand men,” Arthur informed. “Eddard Stark and Paul Atreides are among them.” 

The North had answered their call for aid? Of all those possible, Rhaegar would have ranked them last of who would send anyone. Five thousand men wasn't a great army, but it was still an army and it could spurn on the other Kingdoms from washing their hands of the whole affair. 

By the time they arrived at the command tent, Rhaegar felt exhausted with sweat building on his brow from the short walk. Servants opened the tent flaps, and his arrival was expected as the tent was filled with nobles -- mostly Northerners and Stormlanders. Robert flinched at the sight of him, and Rhaegar realized that he must look worse than he thought. 

“Someone get the bloody prince a bloody chair!” Robert snapped directly and Rhaegar couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him. Robert really was a breath of fresh air. 

“My thanks,” Rhaegar said to the servant, half collapsing into it. “Despite our circumstances, I find myself with a number of things to be thankful for, my lords. To Lord Atreides, for without him, I would surely be either dead or, worse, captured.” His gaze met Paul's intensely blue, and the young lord offered a bow of his head. “To Lord Eddard and House Stark, for committing men to this cause and seeing it through.” Eddard Stark accepted the praise with a nod before Rhaegar's gaze fell to Robert. 

“And to my dear cousin. Without your stubbornness and tenacity, this expedition would have ended in failure at the first step,” Rhaegar praised, looking at Robert and saw the same bone deep exhaustion that was in Arthur. Only the edges had faded with food and rest. 

“Bah, being a stubborn bastard is what I'm good at. They never stood a chance,” he joked, lightening the mood in the tent with a few grim chuckles and Rhaegar allowed himself a smile. 

“It is good to know I can count on something,” Rhaegar said, swallowing his exhaustion. “I will not sit before you all and claim that this most recent defeat does not sting, but here, we remain standing and able to avenge the fallen. It is my regret that I've been resting until now, but I am awake and should you stand with me, I am ready to press onward.” 

His father had taught him by example, only those examples were what not to do or to be. One of those examples was the importance of appearances. 

His father was a rotting carcass of a man, and all too often, when he stood next to someone with the natural dignity of Tywin Lannister… it was nigh treason to say it, but even in his own thoughts, Tywin seemed more of a king than his father. 

This was a tipping point in the conflict. A moment when things could go one of two ways -- they could weekly return to the Seven Kingdoms with their tails tucked between their legs, accepting the humiliation in exchange for their lives… or they could continue. They could dig in, press onward, and keep pressing until they emerged victorious or died in the attempt. 

Rhaegar wasn't entirely sure what motivated him to speak on behalf of continuing the fight. To use his wretched appearance to shame the men with his willingness to continue a war that they had all but already lost. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps it was a delusion, one granted to him by the flames. Perhaps it was spite because he knew that his father sent him here to flounder, and Rhaegar wanted his father to be disappointed. 

“Well, I suppose that answers that,” Robert remarked with a grin. “Because we have a plan. A damn dumb one, though. And it'll land us in no small amount of trouble when it's all said and done.” 

Then this planet hinged on his willingness to continue the fight? “Tell me," he commanded, and almost as soon as the lords began, he wished he hadn't heard a word. 

The plan was simple -- feint an attack at Lys, opening an opportunity for the fleets to merge when the pirate armada flinched to rescue Lys. It was just a plan that had widespread consequences. In particular for himself. It would force his father's hand, and there was nothing that his father hated more than being forced to do anything. 

And yet… 

“What if it's not a feint?” Rhaegar voiced after hearing the plan, a controlled note in his voice as he met the eyes of all the lords in the tent. 

Robert's eyes rose high, and amusingly, Eddard's brows furrowed. “An open attack on Lys? That would be…” a direct escalation that cast aside any pretence that this was an indirect war with the Free Cities. 

“It would be an escalation,” Rhaegar acknowledged, but continued, “but who is to say that we are not answering their escalation in turn? Perhaps this attack on Lys is not unprovoked. Perhaps it is securing the fate of the noblemen who were sold into slavery in the city.” 

It would be thin as parchment. Probably an outright lie. But his father didn't care what the truth was. He cared about power and what he deemed his -- the Daughters taking his noblemen as slaves? That would tweak his nose, but his father wouldn't really care. But there was a way to spur his father into action. To do more than just merely avoid his ire. 

“And is slavery not abominable in the eyes of the Seven who are One? Can we allow our nobles to suffer such an indignity? Our smallfolk?” Rhaegar continued, the plan taking shape even as he uttered it. “Our battle is more than just over join and a few worthless islands. It is a battle of faith. Of justice. A battle against the scourge of slavery that has dared to reach out and take those that it has no business touching.” 

Let that be the rallying cry. They shall go to Lys, not merely to win a battle, but to rescue their countrymen and to cast off the chains of servitude. A victory that would resound throughout the Seven Kingdoms with the message that their war was about more than gold and glory. If the lords of the Seven Kingdoms hesitated to fight for the first two, then they would fight for the gods. 

“If we're going to attack Lys in earnest,” Eddard began in a low voice, his tone cautious, “then we must take it. It will take a committed force to seize the city, and once we do, that force will be left exposed.” 

“We'll have to abandon the Bloodstone,” Robert ventured. “Or leave a token force. Taking Lys will be an all-or-nothing gamble. Can't even afford a siege.” 

The tension in the tent rose, and Rhaegar found that he couldn’t have said it better himself. It really was an all-or-nothing gamble, and few in the tent were feeling lucky after a year of the campaign. There was a long and loud silence that filled the tent, none daring break it until Paul stepped forward. 

“If, my lords, you are willing to take a few risks… I believe that I can get us inside Lys,” Paul spoke, making the other lords glance at each other. There was doubt, of course. A few dismissive scoffs, mostly from the weathered men who had seen war before, and when they looked at Paul, they saw a young man who was promising more than he could deliver out of inexperience and arrogance. 

However, it wasn’t them that Rhaegar paid any attention to. It was Robert and Eddard -- both of whom glanced at each other, and were quick to nod. Paul had their absolute confidence. Rhaegar saw it in their eyes. As far as they were concerned, Lys had already fallen because Paul said he could take it. 

It was a concern, though he was uncertain how deep of a concern it should be. His wife’s words echoed in his ears that Paul was mistaken. That he was an arrogant man, comparing himself to gods and finding them beneath him. Yet, Rhaegar couldn’t deny that Paul had an otherworldly power, mistaken or not. 

And that was a power that Rhaegar intended to use. 

“Then our course is set. We take Lys.”

…

Steffon Baratheon knew what kind of man he was. He had always suspected, but he faced the truth of it when Areys stripped Tywin of his position as Hand of the King, bestowing it upon him. A friendship that had lasted decades fell apart to the foundation, and Steffon wasn’t sure if it could have been fixed. Not that it mattered because Jaime lost an arm against Robert in the Melee, and whatever friendship that had existed between them was snuffed out like a candle. 

His rise to power hadn’t come without cost. His position in the alliance between the North, Riverlands, and the Erie had been lost with Tywin betrothing his children to them. That had stung more than Steffon thought it would, but he understood. He had prepared for it. 

The alliance with Dorne was bearing fruit. The marches at the border would rather slit their own throats than fight beside a Stormlander or a Dornishman, but the bulk of the kingdoms were falling in line. Robert was distinguishing himself in that mess of a war in the Stepstones, and as he sat at his desk, he was writing out a letter to recall his son entirely. 

Now, it was time to look to the Reach. The Crownlands would answer to the crown. Dorne would be inclined to follow his lead. Which left the Reach as the last undecided factor. A factor that he would like to have decided before the war in the Stepstones was settled. 

Stannis was yet unmarried. As was Prince Oberyn Martell, though Elia doubted that Oberyn would ever marry. Renly, his youngest son, was also unbethrothed, but he was a child. There had been younger marriages, of course, but alliances based on a promise a decade in the future were fragile things. 

For that matter, Prince Viserys was of a similar age to Renly and also unbetrothed. Few had any hopes that Areys would marry him to anyone inside the Seven Kingdoms, as he married his heir to a woman for a worthless alliance in Essos. Still, people could hope, and hope was a useful tool in diplomacy, even if it was false hope. 

His old friend Rickard Stark hadn’t broken the betrothal between Eddard and Ashara Dyne, which was a relief. It took Rickard’s spare off the board, but he still had an unmarried daughter and a third son. 

The Reach, meanwhile, had a handful of notable unmarried men and women. 

Mace Tyrell’s son and heir, Willas Tyrell, was a prize horse. And it was a bitter regret that Steffon lacked a daughter, while a very real concern that Rickard did. But there were other possibilities within the Reach -- the land was as fractured as it was vast, and the Tyrells had never sat easily as Lord Paramounts. Not when the Redwyne and Hightowers had a greater claim to the position, a fact that they had attempted to assert time and time again. 

“It depends on what I plan to do,” Steffon whispered under his breath, the necklace of interlocked hands sitting heavy around his neck. At times, it felt like a noose. 

Was he building this counter-bloc to support the Targaryens or to support his House? It was a question that he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer, even as he looked down at the letters that he wrote in the name of his… friend and king. 

While he had been ejected from the faction he helped build, Steffon still agreed with the principle behind its creation. The days of the Targaryens ruling with an iron fist were long past. They should have died the moment the last dragon did, but the dynasty had limped along, carried by momentum and oaths. The Seven Kingdoms were just that -- Kingdoms. 

Without dragons to keep them cowed, it was only natural that the Wardens and Lord Paramounts had a greater say in the ruling of their kingdoms. 

Yet, the bitter truth was that he was removed from the bloc and replaced with Tywin and Areys had named him his Hand. And that muddled his path forward. Did he support the Targaryens, committing himself to their cause in a war that he knew was coming? Or did he use his position to his advantage, undercut the Targaryen dynasty at the knees, and secure his faction so when it came to the negotiating table, he ensured that the Stormlands had a greater voice?

Steffon didn’t know. It had been more than a year, and he still didn’t know. 

It was almost a relief when Steffon heard a knock at the door, but that relief quickly turned to ash when he saw who it was. 

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Lucerys Valis tittered with a wane smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Steffon felt a shiver race down his spine at the sight of the eunuch, and it had nothing to do with his lacking a manhood. 

“Nothing that cannot be set aside,” Steffon said, pointedly gathering up the letters and setting them aside. “What brings you to my office, Lord Lucerys?” 

A year as Hand and amongst the Small Council had revealed what a deadly mind the young spymaster had. The depth of the information he had access too chilled Steffon’s blood at time, all apparently delivered by ‘little birds.’ He had barely settled in the Seven Kingdoms, and already his spynetwork was extensive. 

“I thought it would be best if you received a letter before it was brought to the Small Council,” Lucerys informed, striding across the room like his feet didn’t touch the ground. Steffon already knew that the letter didn’t contain anything good, but he accepted it all the same and read it. 

Then he read it again. 

And a third time just to make sure. 

“Damn it all, Rickard.”