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Chapter 10 (iii)

I sat on the Throne with Cersei at my side, the full court present as Lord 'Bronze' Yhon Royce marched down the aisle, his ancient, rune-etched bronze plate creaking in the hushed hall. His supporters and retainers held back near the entrance, and alone he approached the Iron Throne, the empty scabbard at his side banging against his leg as he marched.

I studied this man as he approached: I recalled when he rode in the list at Harrenhal, where he was unhorsed by Prince Rhaegar, then again during the Rebellion. He had aged little since then: perhaps a little more grey in his beard, but he was still a tall, powerfully built knight, used to horse and lance and sword, hardened against hill-clansman and Loyalist knight alike.

Finally, he reached the base of the dais, and he halted, then slowly fell to one knee in a clatter of armour, his head bowing low.

I let the moment draw out for a few seconds, then stood up, making sure my coat and trousers didn't catch on any bit of the Throne. I swear, one night I'm gonna creep in here with a blacksmith's file. A kingdom for an angle grinder! I stood still for a few moments longer, letting the tension build. Then I spoke, clearly but firmly. "Lord Yhon Royce, lord of Runestone, bannerman to Lord Jon Arryn of the Vale. Honour and loyalty have long been the qualities born by your house. When the dragon prince stole what was not his, your kinsman rode with Brandon Stark to demand justice." I had completely forgotten about Kyle Royce, Yhon's cousin, before Jon reminded me. "When the Mad King answered with Fire and Blood, you did not hesitate, but rode to answer injustice with bared sword.

"In light of such honour, it was not possible for my actions today to be any different. Ser Jaime," I called, and the Lannister knight marched over, carrying again his silk-wrapped burden. "This is not a prize won in blood," I cautioned as the kingsguard slowly unwrapped the bundle, "not a bribe or a boon. It is simply right, before these kingdoms and all the gods, to return to your House what was once lost."

A hushed murmur ran through the Great Hall as the dark, Valyrian steel blade was revealed. Slowly, Royce raised his head, his eyes wide as he saw, for the first time, the ancient blade of his House, thought lost to the ages. Gently, reverently, Jaime passed the blade to me, resting the flat across my extended index fingers, avoiding marring the polished steel with my fingerprints. "Lord Yhon Royce," I turned and lowered my hands, "I present to you Lamentation. Not as a gift ... I simply return the blade to where it belongs."

His hands shook as he raised them, but once the steel touched his fingers, his grip steadied. He held his breath as his eyes traced the ancient runes etched into the blade and hilt, mirroring those decorating his armour. Then he looked up at me, with tears in his eyes. "Your Grace ..." he said hoarsely, "The words of my family are, 'We remember'. So believe me when I say ... this moment will not be forgotten, not while members of my House still draw breath.

"We will always remember the day a king made the lord of Runestone weep without shame."

***

"I meant what I said in the Great Hall," I said to Lord Royce as we walked along the battlements, Kingsguard walking ahead and behind. Bronze Yhon kept pace with me, his hand still firmly gripping the hilt of Lamentation as it sat in its sheath at his side. I couldn't swear to it, but I didn't think he had let go of the sword since he first lay hands on it. Can't really blame him. "I didn't think for a moment of not returning Lamentation to your family." I shrugged as we walked. "Sure, I could have passed it off as another blade ... if it were any other sword - those markings are pretty damned distinctive."

Royce's free hand reached up to touch his bronze breastplate, his fingers tracing the ancient symbols etched there. "Our ancient customs do make recognition rather easy," observed the Vale knight. "I imagine your goodfather would have preferred you find a way to do so, in any case: even in the Vale, we have heard of his offers to lords and knights, seeking to purchase their ancestral blades." His fingers clenched tighter on the hilt, freshly wrapped in leather. "While I empathise with his family's plight ... it may be the strength of hindsight, but I do not believe that I would have been satisfied with another Valyrian Steel blade to take it's place. And now that I hold it ... I would not part with it for all the gold beneath Casterley Rock."

Depending on whether or not the show plotline is canon in this universe, that might be a smaller amount than you imagine.

"I thought as much." I held up a hand, and we halted. "My lord, may I ask a small boon?"

Royce blinked. "Your Grace, you have made my House whole again: barring violating my vow to Lord Arryn, I cannot imagine a boon you could ask that I could refuse!"

I shook my head. "Nothing so controversial, I hope. My man Horin - clever lad, coming up with the damndest things, you know - wanted to trace the runes, both from Lamentation and your family's armour. He's curious about magic, you see, and, well ..."

Royce smiled. "Of course, although I doubt it will do the boy much good," he admitted, somewhat ruefully. "While in legend our rune-crafted armour would protect our knights from the mightiest of blows, make a warrior tireless or grant him a giant's strength, I fear if there were any true magic in the markings, it has long fled this world ... or perhaps there is a secret to the making that was lost." He shook his head. "Despite my family's words, it seems we have forgotten more than we would like to admit since we left the Old Gods behind for the New. Oh, there are still rune-carvers in Runestone, and they treasure their secrets and status, but I have never noticed that armour marked with runes performed any more differently than that without."

I clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps, my lord, altough I would offer an observation: when our Maesters and septons placed Ser Willum's bones in his casket for transport home, they made mention that not a single one was broken, despite the number and size of the rocks covering him ... and other than a few dents and scratches, his plate was undamaged: barely even tarnished." I smiled. "Perhaps there is a little magic left in the bronze yet."

Royce nodded, clearly pleased by that suggestion. Squeezing his shoulder, I urged him onwards. I mean, it's probably not going to work. It might be like trying to replicate a V-8 engine by engraving the engine serial number onto a block of solid steel. But for frack's sake, if there's even a slim chance to get my hands on the ability to produce magically-enhanced power armour, then by all the gods of this fucked up world, I'm gonna throw some money and time at it.

Moments later, the Lord of Runestone and I arrived at the wooden tower my men had erected on the battlements. Beneath us the waves crashed against the razor-sharp rocks, and beyond that stretched the wide channel of the Blackwater. Across the water, we could see the still vestigial fortification being constructed. Already waiting were Ser Barristan, Ser Brynden, Lord Estermont the Master of Coin, Grandmaester Pycelle, Jon and Cersei, as well as a very uncomfortable looking Horin. Buck up, lad: it's not that bad, I thought as people started bowing. "Right: let's get on with it. My man Horin has come up with something that sounds damned useful, so I'll let him explain it. Horin?"

The clerk nodded, stepping forwards, pitching his voice to be heard over the wind. "Your Grace, my lords, my queen: put into the most simple of terms, by the use of this tower, and it's twin across the water, communications with the other side of the river is assured." He pointed up to the top of the structure, where a pair of ... wooden poles were attached, with brightly coloured planks attached. As we watched, the arms moved slightly. "These are controlled from within the tower, and depending on the position of the arms, information can be transmitted." Seeing that his audience was largely lost, he snapped his fingers, and one of his apprentices approached with a clipboard (a nice little invention that I quietly introduced). Pulling out a pen, he dipped it in the attached inkwell, and offered it to Cersei. She looked at it in confusion.

I took pity on my poor clerk. "My queen, your brother is across the river, within the other tower. If you would be so kind as to write down a question, something only he would be able to answer?" Cersei frowned, but took the pen and scribbled down a few lines before handing the clipboard back to a bowing Horin, who in turn passed it off to his underling. "In a few moments, the man inside the tower will, using the controls within, send that question across the water, and we will momentarily have an answer," he promised as the man scurried inside the tower, closing the door behind him. Moments later, with a squeaking of ropes and well-lubricated wood, the arms started to waggle, moving carefully from position to position.

"Across the river, the operator of the other tower is reading the movements of our tower, and writing them down," narrated Horin. "And once the question is asked, the operator on our side will be able to read the response, and bring it to us."

As the others listened to Horin's speech, I held out a hand, and young Galladon Tarth rushed over, placing a long metal tube into my hand. I lifted the device to my eye, and examined the other tower. I suppressed a smile as the other lords glanced over in surprise at my casual use of a Myrish farseer. Can't exactly call it a telescope, and by the Seven, these lenses are still wretched, I mused, even as the other tower started to move. "Aha! There we go," I pointed, and Ser Brynden leant out over the battlements, shading his eyes.

"Ah, yes, Your Grace, I see it!" he said, nodding. "Barely, and my eyes are hardly what they once were, so I cannot make out the positions of the arms, but I can see them moving!"

"The operators are chosen for young men with excellent eyesight and attention to detail," interjected Horin, even as the door to the tower opened again and the clerk rushed out, handing a scrap of paper to him. Horin glanced over it, then held it out to Cersei. "Your Grace: your brother's response."

Cersei snatched the paper from his hands, read it, then blinked, and read it again. Then she crumpled it up in a ball and tossed it over the battlements into the sea. "Very well, it works. So what?"

Pycelle stepped forwards, his fingers worrying at his long metal chain. "Indeed, Your Grace: a simple raven would have sufficed for such a simple task, a service the Maesters of the Citadel had provided kings and lords throughout the Seven Kingdoms for centuries ..."

I raised a hand for attention. "Ravens are fine, Grandmaester, were you simply sending a short message from one place to another." My eyes glanced over to where Jon was stroking his beard. "My Lord Hand? You have a thought?"

"What is the maximum length of the message you can send?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Until the operator's hands get tired, I suppose, but other than that? You want to send a book across the river?"

The lords and Cersei laughed, and Jon nodded. "Perhaps not, but I can see the advantages: indeed, you could have a conversation with a man, though hundreds ... perhaps thousands of yards separate you."

"More, my lord," interjected Horin, and all eyes turned to him. He cleared his throat. "What I mean to say is, what if there were a third tower on the far side of that one, and the second tower repeated the motions of the first as they came ... and if there were a fourth one even further away?"

"Like a chain of messengers," said Lord Royce, speaking up for the first time. "Only there is no chance of the messenger being intercepted, or falling lame. It's like lighting a chain of pyres upon hilltops, but instead of a simple warning, you could send ... well, any words you like, from the coast to the mountain holdfast in, what, hours?"

"Perhaps sooner, depending on the number of towers and the skill of the operators," answered Horin, impressed that the imposing lord had grasped the concept. "And if you have a question about the message, you can simply send a response back just as quickly."

His elderly face going pale, and then darkening with anger, Pycelle persisted. "But anyone can learn to read the movements of the arms: there is no way any such communication could be secure!"

I laughed. "That, my good Grandmaester, is why the gods invented ciphers and codes." The maester was hardly mollified by the correction, and he stepped back as Jon, Royce and the others crowded around Horin, peppering him with questions. I stepped aside and walked over to the battlements, leaning out and watching the ships as they rowed past against the current.

Then I frowned, and raised my glass to my eye again, this time to take a closer look at a galley that was beating its way up river towards the docks. "My queen" I called, and after a few moments Cersei was by my side, mildly irritated. Apparently, she had been asking questions about possibly setting up watchtowers on the western coast to ward against Ironborn raiders. Good questions, but not the time for it right now. "I may be wrong, but I think we're about to be visited by some of your kin," I passed her my farseer. She frowned, fumbled slightly with the unfamiliar device, but I guided her to see the ship I was pointing at, a golden lion proudly embroidered on its sail.

She studied it a moment, then laughed. I had to blink, because it was a genuine, cheerful sound. "Sweet Seven, it's the Laughing Lion: my uncle's vessel!"

I frowned. What could Tywin Lannister's youngest brother be wanting? And why would just the thought of seeing him put such a beautiful smile on my darling wife's lips?

***

"Why, I'm circumnavigating Westeros," Ser Gerion Lannister proclaimed as he waved his goblet to gesture, before taking a moment to admire the colour of his wine through the clear glass. "Very nice," he muttered, taking a sip.

We were seated about the dining table set up in one of my private rooms: small enough to be exclusive, but roomy enough to fit us all. Jon, Cersei and Jaime were seated with me and the visiting Lannister, as well as Lord Royce. Lysa had, rather predictably, insisted that she was feeling unwell and couldn't attend.

I was genuinely fascinated by Gerion's announcement, and indeed with the man himself. He had the standard Lannister looks, with blonde hair, green eyes, height and general attractiveness, but there was something lacking in this one ... perhaps it was that all the pride and self-importance that most Lannisters insisted on displaying was in him ... simply a jest? Or perhaps satire is a better word ... He was bright, both in intelligence and attitude, and had a gift for seeing the humour in situations. He also seemed to lack the edgy, aristocratic contempt most Lannisters held for those who failed to live up to their standards. No wonder Tyrion always recalled Gerion as his favourite uncle.

"You see, I've travelled all about Westeros, visited every kingdom, and I took a tour of the Free Cities back when I was younger," he continued, before glancing at his adult niece and nephew. "Well, I suppose it wasn't that long ago. Anyway, I was in search of a new adventure, and I stumbled across this brilliant idea: no one, to my knowledge, has ever sailed and marched around the entire continent, setting out in one direction and arriving again from the opposite direction - at least, not in one go. Oh, people travel from place to place, but usually in search of trade and business, or for specific goals, rather than the simple joy of travelling and seeing new lands. So, I stored up the Laughing Lion, roped a few cronies and hangers on to join me, and sailed out of Lannisport headed South. Oh, we sailed through the Shield Islands, stopped in at Oldtown to visit the Citadel, crossed to the Arbor and tasted the freshest wines, along the south coast of Dorne -"

"You didn't include the Iron Islands in your quest?" asked Jon, and Gerion grinned.

"Why would I? They feel that they're barely connected to us 'Greenlanders', and to be honest I'd be delighted to forget that they're part of the Seven Kingdoms, so I decided to ... respect their preferences. Besides: it would have needlessly added a great deal of time and tedium to the journey: do you have any clue as to what, apart from piracy, could possibly make visiting the Iron Islands interesting?

"So we rounded Dorne - I hope you are not disappointed that I avoided docking at Sunspear, given the current ... unplesantries in regards to our family in that part of the Realm, although I did see the head of the Mountain being displayed quite prominently on the walls for all to see ... and followed the coast up to the Stormlands." He paused. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must note that your homeland is very well named: we almost foundered three times before we had to come even close to the equally apt Shipbreaker's Bay."

I laughed, raising my own glass in salute, which he returned. "Not at all: most of my folk are quite proud of it. For those who love the sea, they say it makes us better sailors. The rest of us recognise it as the gods way of advising us to staff off the bloody ocean!"

The two of us shared a laugh while the others chuckled politely: I was really starting to like this guy. It's a real shame he managed to get himself killed before ... don't go there, Bobby.

"In any case, I decided that stopping in King's Landing to do some repairs and scrape the hull was a brilliant idea before we dared to brave the Fingers or the icy storms of the North," he finished.

"Well, I think to travel this far already you've been incredibly brave and daring - if extremely foolish," praised and admonished Cersei, but she smiled fondly at her uncle. "Whatever will you do when you reach the Wall? Surely you won't try and sail further than that?"

"Oh, Seven forfend," he waved aside her concern. "I'll leave that to later generations of sailors with more courage than brains: the plan is to dock at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," he named the fortress port that was the most Easterly manned part of the Wall, "And purchase horses. My chosen party will ride along the base of the Wall, stopping at the occupied forts, then head south from the Shadow Tower. We should be able to find passage to Bear Island, where I've arranged another galley to be waiting for us when we arrive, which will take us down the coast and back home." He sat back in his chair, looking extremely pleased with himself.

"An impressive and ambitious journey," I said, smiling. "I don't suppose you're making a record of your experiences? I seem to recall some other bloke did the same thing -"

"Oh, I admit I was somewhat inspired by Lomas Longstrider's books," he admitted, "And yes, I'm keeping notes and the like, but for the most part, in the form of letters I'm writing to young Tyrion - he begged to be allowed to come with us, but Tywin simply wouldn't hear of it." I saw Cersei's face grow dark at the mention of her diminutive sibling. "I'm doing my best to describe what I see and experience in as much detail as I can, through the eyes of someone who is seeing them for the first time. He won't be able to read them until I return to Casterley Rock, but I think he'll enjoy them."

I continued, doing my best to forestall Cersei's almost inevitable complaint against mentioning Tyrion, and the equally certain argument between the Twins regarding that same sibling. "Sounds sensible. Tell you what: if you want to collect the whole thing into a book, you can send me a copy we can have a few hundred copies run up on our printing presses. It might not make you as famous as that Longstrider fellow, but I can think of a few lords who'd love to be able to claim they've got a book written by a Lannister in their libraries, and it might help a few people learn a bit."

He paused. "You know, Your Grace? I think I may well take you up on that: at the very least, I'd like to see your marvellous machine in action. And that goes for you too, my dear," he turned to Cersei. "What's this I've heard about the Lioness of the Sky?"

***

"Motherhood agrees with Cersei," Gerion admitted as we shared a brandy while standing on my balcony. The other guests had already withdrawn, and I was showing off the latest product of the Crown Distillery. "Or perhaps it's her new interest in these balloon contraptions. Or maybe it's just being Queen?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

I shrugged, resting my elbows on the battlements. "Hells if I know, Ser Gerion. All I know is, if I'd married someone else, my life would be ... less interesting."

He laughed, pouring himself another snifter. "That's a fine way to describe just about every Lannister I know - well, not Kevan, but most of the rest of us," he joked, taking a sip. "Ah. Still, I'm starting to like King's Landing: you have so many new things here, and it seems like more appear every day. That signalling tower you mentioned, for example: I can imagine a ... a web of them along the coast of the Westerlands, sending word of Ironborn movements, and allowing a commander at the Rock to send orders to garrisons and keeps: by the time a raid is able to land, we would already have troops moving to drive them off, instead of only hearing about the attack days after everyone is already dead!" He shook his head. "Expensive, but useful: why, you could find out the price of ice-peppers in Oldtown before you left Lannisport, and send word to have a return cargo of cloth and grain waiting for you when you arrive!"

I smiled at his enthusiasm. Ye gods, methinks I've found someone who really, really get is, I mused, cursing the bearded menace who had written this man out of his story before the first book began. "You mentioned you were having your ship's hull scraped," I said, changing the subject, and was pleased when his agile mind followed the shift in direction without a pause.

"Of course: you have to do that eveery so often - I really should have done it before I left Lannisport, but ... well, I was in something of a hurry, and it only really cost me a few knots. It's not like I've got perishable cargo on board - other than myself, of course," he chuckled.

"Hmmm," I murmered. "You know, I think my fellow Horin mentioned something about that sort of thing: barnacles and shipworm slowing a ship down." I tasted my brandy, smiling at the vast improvement over the original batch. "Have you considered -"

"Covering the hull with sheets of copper?" I blinked, and turned to face him, surprised by the smug expression on his face. "Don't be so surprised, You Grace: it's hardly a new idea. I think my great, great ... great great? Anyway, a grand-uncle from way back had the brilliant idea of sheathing his galley's hull with copper. It worked quite well - expensive, even for a Lannister, but he was very proud of it ... until his ship was struck by a wave and the whole bottom got ripped off. He survived the wreck, but decided to try again: that time, he was lucky enough that the whole mess fell off one night while he was in harbour. It's something of a family joke: he was trying again when he died: fell off a horse riding down the Goldroad, if you can believe that." He shook his head in amusement.

I took a moment to remind myself, yet again, that, all jokes and complaints about the stupidity and surreal nature of Westeros' 'medieval stasis', these people were not actually unintelligent or lacking in innovation. Just because they don't use something doesn't mean they haven't thought about it, and 'thinking it up' doesn't make you a genius. "Probably where he got the idea from," I allowed, and the Lannister scion nodded. "Still, he said something that got me thinking, and I had him stick a few planks of wood in the harbour for a few weeks. One was just plain wood, and it got covered with barnacles." Gerion raised his glass, as though to say, yeah? So what? "Second one had a sheet of copper nailed to it with normal, everyday nails. By the time we hauled it up, the nails had corroded so badly it was almost hanging off.

"The third plank," I continued, pausing for a moment, "Was nailed on with copper nails. For some reason, that worked out just fine."

This time, I was able to enjoy the look of surprise on his face when he realised the implication of that experiment.

***

It was some weeks later when Gerion's ship, freshly scraped, patched and resupplied, headed north with Lord Royce and Ser Brynden as his passengers, planning to drop them off at Dragonstone and Runestone, respectively. I stood on my balcony and watched his galley start to pull away from the dock.

Jon stood next to me as I lowered my farseer. "Well, the city should be a little less interesting while he's gone," my Hand offered, and I smiled.

"Oh, I don't think we've seen the last of him," I insisted, and Jon theatrically suppressed a shudder. Despite his dour pretentions, I recognised that he actually liked the cheerful Lannister knight. "Still, he's not what I wanted to talk to you about." I reached into my tunic and pulled out a piece of parchment. "Sorry to keep this from you, but I needed to make sure my apartments were clean before I risked it." He frowned, but nodded as I unrolled the letter. "You're only the third person who's seen this: the first was Ser Kirin, who found it in that bastard Cressy's tent after the battle of Barrowbridge. The second was Ser Jaime, who brought it to me." I passed it to him, and he held it up to the light to read the spidery script. While he read, I raised my glass back to my eye and re-examined Gerion's ship as it departed, the oars starting to dip and throw up foam.

"Smith's balls," Jon cursed, and I suppressed a grin at my foster-father's uncharacteristic profanity. "This is ... this is ..."

"A letter from Varys, ordering Cressey to raise an army and prepare to revolt against the Crown, in the name of 'King Viserys'?" I asked rhetorically. "Yep. It mentions a ... substantial consignment of gold and letters of introduction to certain sellsword companies and prominent Loyalist families, and includes promises of greater wealth, land and power upon the successful counter-Rebellion and Restoration of the Targaryen family."

Jon spluttered, before crumpling the parchment in his fist. "But that's ... treason!"

I sighed. "I believe it was written before I was crowned, likely just after the Trident," I said wearily. "Likely the Spider saw the way things were going, and was planning for the long term, so at the time, he was just doing his job as a loyal servant of the Targs. You'll also note that he advised Cressy to wait and prepare for some time before kicking things off: poor stupid bastard lost his temper and started his little insurrection way before he was ready." I shook my head. "Still, it's telling that the eunych never bothered to mention this little ... surpise. And, given the sort of mind he has, I'd expect that he sent instructions and money to other lords he thought he could trust to follow suit, which means we could be looking at more, better organised and coordinated rebellions down the road, even if Varys never commits treason against his current leige."

"Except by omission," growled my Hand, smoothing out the parchment again and re-reading it. "Which is close enough for me, Stranger take him."

I nodded, sighing as I put my glass aside. "Agreed."

Sorry, Varys. You might be really motivated by the Good of the Realm, but I can't ignore this.

Spider? Meet boot.Chapter 11 (i)

11th Month, 284 AC

Tobho Mott blinked, and not from the smoke that was getting into his eyes: he watched in amazement as the large iron tongs were lowered into the hearth, and clamped down on the glowing bloom of iron. With the sweat of several large men yanking on chains, the tongs hauled the chunk of metal into the air, before another group pulling on another chain swung the crane over to lower the iron onto a waiting anvil. A cry went up, and a large lever was thrown, sending a massive hammer falling to strike the bloom, sending a stream of sparks across the beaten earth floor of the mill.

The Essosi exile gazed on in wonderment as the enormous hammer, over fifty pounds of iron itself, was raised again seemingly by the hand of a giant, only to fall again just as hard on the still glowing iron. Above him the arched brickwork of the structure retreated into the orange and red shot darkness, the heat seeming to pulse with the blows of the hammer upon the ruby glowing ingot.

"This is amazing!" he cried over the noise of bellows, roaring fire, clanging metal and shouting men. The hammer kept falling regularly, sending up new showers of bright sparks with every blow. "There are larger and more productive works in Qohor, it is true: I have seen them myself as a boy! But they are driven by the effort of thousands of slaves, hundreds of whom die every month to fatigue, heat and disease - as well as other causes," he added more darkly, thinking of the more ... bloody parts of his education in metalworking. The screams of terrified, despairing slaves, the chants of the master smiths, the sickening smell ... "But you can draw so much power from mere water?"

Ser Donal Noye, the recently knighted master of the Crown Steelworks, smiled as his guest gaped at the product of his efforts. True, he had been sceptical of the new ideas Horrin had been peddling to the King, but after seeing the results had become a fanatical convert. Waving with his remaining arm, he spoke to Mott. "If you had ever stood on the walls of Storms End and watched Shipbreaker's Bay live up to it's name, you would never say 'mere water'. But yes, the wheels we have built, fed by canals dug from the Blackwater, power the bellows that heat the furnace, and drive the trip hammer. Just as importantly," he gestured towards where a group of men stripped to the waist but covered in black dust and sweat, shovelled shiny black rock into the fires, "We do not use charcoal to fuel our fires, but coal. There's a mine not five miles from here, and more men are sent every day to dig the stuff out of the ground, and wagonloads of it arrive regularly."

The foreign born new Royal Armourer frowned. "But surely the fumes from burning so much coal is poison to the iron, it makes it all spongy and brittle?"

Noye laughed. "Those furnaces you see there? The coal is burned in a chamber beside where the iron is placed, and the curved roofs transfer the heat of the burning coal over the iron to melt it. So the coal and iron never come into direct contact with each other."

"Very clever" replied Mott, gazing at the bank of furnaces with curved roofs that made up one side of the large brick built building. "These are these 'puddling furnaces' that you speak of, are they not?"

"Yes, they produce wrought iron, lots and lots of wrought iron" grinned Noye, "we are producing more wrought iron here than all the rest of the Crownlands combined, and that's not to mention the cast iron we are making, which we make in furnaces similar to these puddling furnaces."

Mott nodded his head at all of this and narrowed his eyes, while it as of yet did not have the scale or size of the great forges of Qohor, it was only the beginning. The site was a hive of building activity and expansion, he did a few quick calculations in his head – in two, maybe three years if this site continued to grow its production it would rival all of Qohor in the production of iron and steel.

Noye gestured to him and they left the building and stood out in the relative cool of the afternoon. Ahead of them towered several blast furnaces, smoke pouring from their tops.

"We use roasted coal, what we call 'coke', a bit like burning charcoal. It burns more cleanly, and even hotter than the finest charcoal," gestured Noye at the sight. "Actually allows us to build the blast furnaces bigger and get better yields…But we still have problems with the fire brick cracking and burning, the higher temperatures have caused the lining to crack after several firings." His arms swept to their right, to a bunch of workmen pulling down one of the smaller original blast furnaces.

"Ah," proclaimed Mott, smiling suddenly. "Here, at least, I can be of assistance! This difficulty is well known in Qohor, and I know the solution. You must have the right sort of clay, formed into bricks, to line the forge. Thus the fires can burn as hot as you like: I use such bricks to line my own forge in King's Landing."

Noye grinned. "Master Mott, if you can provide me with those bricks, you're worth every stag the King is paying you!"

"I have a supplier I would be happy to contact for you: he will be glad of the custom."

"I assure you, my friend: we will buy all he can provide if it works as you claim."

"Also, I have a suggestion to make about your blast furnaces - the best way to ensure that they stay in good shape is to keep them at temperature all the time, cooling them down can cause cracks to develop."

"Hrmmmm, that will be expensive, right now we are limited by the amount of iron ore that we can get, coal and coke is not a problem though….."

"I thought there was a mine near enough that has been worked for centuries?"

"Aye, but the ore there does not seem to like coke, it comes out all spongy and brittle from the blast furnaces, worthless…"

"Hrmmm, do you have any of this left, I would like to take a look, I think I have heard of this before. If I am right the solution is to add certain rocks and other substances to the charge, and change the material that the fire bricks are made of."

Noye raised an eyebrow at this but nodded his head. "I'll see if we have some of that scrap lying around, seem to remember we smashed most of it into rubble for road fill. Truth is this is way beyond the bloomery and Dornish forges that I am used to, without that lad Horrin to help us we would be in trouble: to think, he gets all of this from some ancient old scroll…" the one armed smith shook his head.

Mott was inclined to agree with Noye, but he was more excited by the potential that this site represented, the ability to try different things, things that he had never been able to build, either due to lack of money or because the Guilds in Qohor would not allow changes to the ancient and sacred ways of making iron. "As we are thinking of new things, how about setting up separate furnaces to pump hot air into the blast furnaces to keep them heated, or even using these furnaces to heat incoming air, that is something that the larger blast furnaces in Qohor do." Mott was happy with the little lie he had to tell Noye, he had built something like this on a smaller scale in his workshop, which helped him cut down on the costs of wood and charcoal.

"You know, that might just be possible. We need to rebuild that blast furnace over there," with this Noyce gestured at the workers demolishing the older structure "and we may as well try out those heating methods and the new firebricks with it."

As they talked a load of coke on a series of horse pulled wagons was driven by along the cobbled streets of the works, the road to the coal mines was also well paved to ease transport. Such was the number of carts going back and forth along this road that Noye had noticed long parallel ruts beginning to develop along the stone surface. Something prickled at the back to his mind at that but he dismissed it.

"The biggest problems we have now, apart from constant expansion is that we cannot produce enough steel, well that's not totally true, we can produce steel, it's just not as good as the King wants."

"Actually, I have a few ideas about that," added Mott. "I recognized the methods you showed me, and I have some suggestions for increasing production of steel."

Grinning with relief, Noye clapped his remaining hand on Mott's shoulder. "If you can do that, as well, then I may have to knight you! We've been trying to master this 'crucible steel' method, but all we have to go on is some blessedly vague lines of text, and a lot of trial and error. We're still trying, but most of the steel we're turning out is produced the old fasioned way."

"Yes, the 'blister steel' method: this is well and good. But the 'crucuble' method, this I know well, and from what I have seen it appears that you have the basics correct, it is simply a matter of mastering the process - one that I know very well," the Essosi master smith grinned.

"Really?" Exclaimed Noye.

"For certain: on a small scale, it is what I do when I am working on a particularly important piece, or one of the rare swords I am commissioned to craft: it produces the finest, strongest and most flexible steel possible by mundane methods. If I may spend some time instructing your workers, I should be able to not only get them producing proper steel, but more than you were expecting."

"I'll arrange that, you would not have the secret of Valyrian steel now would you?" laughed Noye.

"No, nor do I have the secret of 'swirl' steel either my friend, only the Highest Masters of the Forge in Qohor know the ingredients and the rituals for the smelting and forging. There are rumors of many strange compounds being needed, and that the steel itself is forged, hammered and folded one thousand times."

"The King doesn't want fancy swirl steel, he just wants as much iron and steel as possible for the Army and other uses, come." Striding across the street, he waved Mott over to a wagon that was being loaded. "Let me show you some of our finished product. We're supplying the army, it's true, but we're also sending shipments to the crews working on the Kingsroad, and rebuilding the city after that fire. Here: have a look at this."

Noye reached into the wagon, and pulled out a metal object which he passed to Mott, who stared at it in confusion.

"It's ... it's a shovel."

"Absolutely. Good, solid, wrought iron, pointed to bite into the earth, curved to scoop up dirt, rounded lips to support a boot, and with a socket to grasp the shaft firmly," Noye expressed his pride in his creation. "Works like a spear or pike head: just send these out to the boys, have them cut a shaft, bolt it in place, and they're set."

"But ... it's a shovel!" The master armourer, a highly trained expert in producing some of the finest (and most expensive) plate in the Realm, was baffled by so much effort, technique and innovation being expended on what was, essentially, a peasant's tool.

***

"May the Seven bless whoever invented this beauty," muttered Natan as he grasped the shaft of his shovel, placed his boot on the lip, and pressed down with his full body weight.

Ironically, Natan had been born on a farm not far from King's Landing. Faced with the prospect of spending his life digging in the dirt, he had leapt at the chance to join the King's Army during the Rebellion ... and had carried a spear at the Battle of the Trident. After the defeated army was disbanded, he had found himself considering banditry, preying on the sort of folk he had once been a member of, but was rescued from that by the offer to join a new army to drive the Baratheon usurper from the Iron Throne.

"And wasn't that a glorious undertaking," he breathed as he levered a large chunk of dirt from the ditch he was digging, only thankful that it hadn't been raining, and he wasn't knee deep in mud that day.

Honestly, he had expected to be executed when King Robert's force had handily defeated the Royalists. Some of the senior nobility had, he had heard, with others sent to the Wall in the frozen North, their lands confiscated and a loyal noble placed in power over the entire Blackwater Rush region. But most of the lower ranks, the sellswords, armsmen and hedge knights, had instead been put to work: ten years hard labour, primarily set to repair the dilapidated Kingsroad running through the Crownlands.

Fortunately, not only was Natan familiar with the tasks, the King had generously provided the convicts with decent clothes, good boots and plentiful food to fuel their efforts, along with, glory of glories, marvellous picks, shovels and sledgehammers of good wrought iron, Instead of tools made from wood or even bone, like many smallfolk used. Like Natan had used on his uncle's farm.

All in all, he mused, things could be a lot worse.

Of course, not everyone felt that way.

"'Taint right," moaned Corran, a man who had been assigned to Natan's forty worker team since the beginning of his sentence. "I'm an armsman, a loyal soldier of House Thorne. I shouldn't be digging in the dirt like a fucking peasant!"

Levering a shovelful of dirt from the ditch, Natan considered tossing it at Corran, but reconsidered it, tipping it into the half-full wicker basket next to him. Once that was full, it would be hauled up out of the ditch by a worker above, and emptied into a waiting wheeled barrow - another of the marvellous tools the King was generous enough to issue to the work crews. It's not easy, Stranger curse it all, even with all these tools, but it's pretty damned clear the King wants this work done, and done well: he's not just punishing rebels for the sake of it. There's purpose here.

So instead, he just continued shovelling. "Shut the fuck up, Corran, unless you want to wind up like 'ser' Martin last week!"

The former soldier winced at the thought of the hedge knight who had loudly refused to dirty his hands with digging. He hadn't been much more than a tavern brawler in a mail coat riding a nag at the Battle of Barrowbridge, and most were certain the 'ser' was self-appointed (or that he had been punched by a drunk knight once, and thought it was a dubbing) and no one was interested in paying his ransom, so he had been assigned to the work crews with the rest of the common soldiery.

After two full days of refusing to work, his head had wound up on a pole outside the worker's compound, so that they had to march past it twice a day, morning and evening.

"I thought slavery was outlawed in Westeros," grumbled Corran.

Snorting, Natan dug in again. "If you think this is what slavery is like, then you're dumber than you look. I worked harder than this every day of my life before I joined up with the Targ army, and if I refused to work my lord would've done a whole lot worse to me than chopping off my head! Besides, it's only for ten years."

"Ten fucking years," grumbled the other, and Natan paused, leaning on the shaft of his tool.

"Or less: remember what that officer said? Keep your head down, do your work for a year or two, and they'll let us join the fucking Green Cloaks!"

Corran glanced up as a patrol of men carrying crossbows and wearing the increasingly famous forest-coloured garment marched past, their booted feet tramping over the gravel produced by another work crew's hammers, crushing rocks into smaller rocks. "What, the bastards who beat the shit out of us? Killed our mates? Working for the Seven-damned Stag?"

Natan spat into the dirt, and stepped on his shovel again. "Look, the Targs are two-time losers, and whatever else you can say about the bloody Demon, he knows how to win wars, which is more than the inbred wonders who used to sit on the Throne. Personally, I'd prefer to be on the side doing the smashing than the side getting smashed for once, and that's the Royal bloody Army.

"Whichever way you slice it, soldiering is safer and easier than farming, and I'd much rather do a bit of marching than all this digging for the rest of my days, so if you're smart like me, you'll shut up, do your work, and hope some bastard notices what a good job you're doing, and taps you for the Army."

Natan paused. "Well, he said Army or Navy, right?"

"Fuck the Navy: I get seasick on a fucking ferry."

***

The wave smashed against the Falcon's hull, spraying Midshipsman Curran Wode with salt water, but he just grinned, gripping tight to the rope as he stood above the vessel's figurehead, with almost all of the ship behind him and the capital of Westeros ahead. After months at sea, he was as at home climbing the rigging as he was in the wardroom mastering his sums, or on the quarterdeck with the sailing master learning the stars after dark. He hadn't been sea sick in weeks, and his brain hurt from all the new words, commands and customs he was expected to memorise, but he couldn't imagine any other life anymore.

Maybe my serving in the Navy will help my family's status. Maybe it'll help get my brothers appointments in the capital, or impress Lady Whent. But whatever else, I think I've found my place.

What's more, he knew what he wanted: not just to serve aboard a Royal vessel, but to command one. And not just any one: he glanced aside and saw another ship flying the golden-antlers-on-black of King Robert approach, this one with no forecastle, barely any aftercastle, and far more sail aloft, slicing through the water where the Falcon lumbered.

Wind Sister was reputed to be the fastest and most manoeuvrable ship in the King's fleet, and Curran knew that one day, he would be standing on her quarterdeck as master. True, the oared galleys may be the mailed fist of the Master of Ships, but the carracks were the ships that travelled the world, visiting far off lands, and seeing such sights ... Curran wanted one day to sail to Braavos, beneath the Titan's stride, or to see the fabled Bridge of Volantis. Even the hushed whispers of the blasted ruins of ancient Valyria, cursed and poisoned, filled him with a desire to see it for himself, rather than superstitious dread.

I want to see everything, and aboard a king's carrack, especially with the new sails I've heard so much about, I can!

Clambering back onto the deck, he ably ran about the labouring seamen and approached the quarterdeck, just as the Wind Sister drew up alongside the Falcon, drawing in sail cloth to slow down enough to keep pace with the slower cog. "Ahoy, there," came the cry of the other ship's captain, and Curran's eyes widened as he recognised the now famous Ser Davos Seaworth, the former smuggler who was reputed to be Lord Stannis' favourite captain.

"Ahoy yourself, you old pirate," called Captain Follard, shouting back as the distance shrank between the vessels.

"Smuggler, thank you very much," countered the first officer, as though proud of the distinction. Honestly, it seemed strange to Curran: rather like a poacher becoming a lord's game keeper, but who was he to question Lord Stannis' decisions? "Out of Dragonstone?"

"Aye: three days and almost home," called Follard. "Last I heard, Wind Sister was headed for Braavos: got caught in bad weather and turned back?"

"Hardly," stated Seaworth, even prouder than before. "There and back again: seventeen days there and fourteen back, with two days in port to enjoy the Secret City, and take on cargo and provisions!"

Even Curran gaped at that: it was a three week journey to Braavos from King's Landing, sometimes a full month, depending on the season, and which direction you were headed in. Even during calm seas with a fair wind ...

"Seven take you for a liar if not a madman," cried Follard.

"Neither: just a fair sailor with a good ship, good crew and forgiving seas," called Seaworth, but further conversation was cut off by a cry from a lookout, and the former smuggler fiddled with a farseer, resting the heavy end of the instrument on his forearm as he gazed through it, even as Follard called for his own, much more ornate version.

Curren glanced at where they were looking, and blinked: he could barely make it out, but there was ... something ... rising from behind the city walls. It was still too far to identify with the naked eye, but he felt a shiver run down his back, and images of Harranhal ran through his mind's eye for the first time in weeks.

Nothing that big should be able to fly ...

***

Queen Cersei stared up in wonder as the enormous balloon strained hard against the cables that held it firmly to the ground, the ropes coiled about heavy winches that were bolted into the flagstones. Teams of men shovelled charcoal into ovens, even as others worked at cranks that powered bellows, forcing hot air and smoke through beaten-copper tubes that fed to right below the aperture of the balloon's base, above where the wicker basket was affixed.

"'Tis a thing of beauty," commented Horin, and for once the queen had no intention of reprimanding the clerk for impertinence, because she felt the same way.

From that first time holding the silk above the brazier in the royal apartments, the idea of flying had filled her mind. True, affairs of state (feasts, balls and pregnancy) had distracted her, but her mind always returned to the way the cloth had yanked up against her hands, like there was a strong man tugging it upwards, and if she were not careful she too would be dragged into the air ... she imagined, almost nightly, what it would look like, to see King's Landing as if she were a bird, or even a dragon. As the Targaryen queens of old had seen it, astride their now extinct beasts.

The Valesmen may have their 'winged knight' of legend, but I will be the Floating Lioness of reality ... no, that doesn't sound regal enough. Winged Lioness? No, because there's no wings, just the canopy. Damn: I'll have to grab one of Robert's pet poets to find a title that fits. Of course, then I'd have to admit that I know he's paying them to write songs for him: does he really think it's a new idea, to have bards and the like sing your praises? Still, some of the tunes are catchy ...

"Weste-ros triumphant her ships rule the seas,

Her watch word is 'Justice' her password is 'Free',

So come cheer up my lads, with one heart let us sing,

Our soldiers, our sailors, our gods and our king ..."

"I think we're ready, Your Grace," offered Horin, and she nodded. The man turned and waved for the youth in roughly-cut clothes to take his station. The boy seemed absolutely terrified, but the offer of a large bag of coins - to him, or to his family should any harm befall him - spurred him on, and he clamboured into the basket, his hands gripping the cables tight as the copper tubes were removed, and the order was given to slowly, paintfully slowly, let out the cables.

Her heart was in her throat, and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms let out a girlish cry of glee as the balloon, stitched by her maids and workers, emblazoned with the Royal Antlers and the Golden Lion, silently, gloriously, rose into the morning air above the Red Keep ...

***

"It was absolutely marvellous! A triumph! The court will be talking about it for months, and it was only a short flight with a lowly street rat as a passenger!" Cersei almost sang as she danced around the room, a giggling Edward in her arms as she burned off some of her enthusiasm. "Everything worked perfectly, and - Robert? Robert, are you listening to me?"

"Hmmm?" I amsently muttered as I scratched a line through a segment of the report I was reading and made a short notation.

"Robert! I'm trying to tell you about my glorious balloon, and all you can think of is your blasted paperwork!"

Blinking, I looked up, and shook myself. "Quite right, my love, quite right." I placed my pen back in the ink well, and got up from my chair. "Forgive me: I've just had something of a frustrating day. But I assure you, I was cheering from my balcony as your balloon took flight today." Striding around the desk, I wrapped an arm around her waist as I bent down to kiss Edwards's cheek, making him giggle all the harder. "I couldn't have been prouder. I just hope you'll deign to take me aloft one of these days."

"If you're good," hedged my wife, offering one of her more beautiful smiles, all the more gorgeous because it actually appeared genuine. "But honestly, you spend too much time either in the training yard or locked up in here with your blasted reports: I don't know how you can stand it!"

I'm frustrated because the supplies of ink is running low because of my printing presses, and the paper shortage isn't improving as fast as I'd like. I'm frustrated because despite all my pontificating about things paying for themselves in the long run, the treasury is haemorrhaging coin far faster than it's pulling in taxes. I'm frustrated because I just got word that three more workers died this week at the Steelworks, one from serious burns and the other two from shards of flying bronze.

I'm frustrated that I don't know if I'm actually having a positive effect on Westeros, or if I'm just paddling against the current, with the waterfall fast approaching behind me no matter how fast I dig in my oar ...

"Unfortuantely, ruling Westeros isn't all feasting and hitting people in the face, more's the pity," I said instead with a cheeky grin, and Cersei sighed.

"Alright: how about tomorrow we take the court out on a hunting trip? I have a beautiful new falcon I wish to fly, and I'm certain we can find one of your family's symbols to shoot for dinner: some fresh air and time away from this cesspit of a city would do us both some good!"

After spending the day going over reports of things not going right, the idea of tracking down and putting an arrow through the heart of a stag actually sounded like a good way to de-stress, no matter how much work an impromptu hunting trip would be for the royal household: they'd be working all through the night to even come close to being ready, even if I gave the order right this instant!

...

Fuck it. I'm the fucking king.

Grinning, I called out, "Timmons! Timmons, you lump of a man, get in here! My queen desires a hunting trip, and guess who gets to organise it for her?"

If nothing else, it'll take my mind of thinking about how much I'm not changing Westeros for the better.Chapter 11 (ii)

11th Month, 284 AC

Of course, it wasn't what you'd generally think of when you say the word 'hunt'. It certainly wasn't what my memories of Robert's life conjured up: as far as he was concerned, the purpose of a hunt was to test your skills against a dangerous beast that had a more than decent chance of killing you right back. He hunted shadowcats in the Vale, or stags through the Kingswood, or wild boars whenever possible, because he loved to show off just how tough, strong and just generally badass he was by taking on some of the most dangerous wildlife Westeros had to offer. The fact that generally killing off those predators saved the lives or livelihoods of many of his subjects was not entirely lost on him: he'd seduced more than one shepherdess by showing off that he'd murdered the fuck out of the wolf that had been preying on her flock for the past month.

For the court, the hunt was more of a festive and social occasion, a chance to get out into the fresh air and away from the more structured court of the Red Keep. Hounds ran about the legs of our horses while knights and young nobles rode this way and that in small groups, supposedly searching for sign of prey, but generally just showing off for each other and for the more sedately riding ladies, who chatted and showed off their fancy riding clothes and their fabulously feathered hunting hawks. Musicians rode or walked nearby, serenading all about them whether we wanted them to or not, and people were in constant motion, moving from cluster to cluster of nobles to plot, scheme, flirt or entreaty.

In short, apart from being outside and on horseback it was pretty much Cersei's favourite form of exercise, and she could put up with being in the saddle for a few hours.

Lunch was beneath a glorious pavilion that servants had rushed ahead hours before to set up, with large trestle tables laden with food, mostly leftovers from the night before mixed with fresh produce and lots of wine. I made sure to show off my method of slipping cold cuts of meat, slices of cheese and leaves of lettuce, slathered with mustard, between two pieces of bread to hold in one hand without getting my hands covered in grease or condiment, while having the other hand free to either drink my wine or hold Cersei's own delicate fingers. I called it a sandwich, and since I was the bloody king, everyone else did too, and it was suddenly all the rage.

Sometimes, you don't have to over-think things, I mused as I raised Cersei's knuckles to my lips as she smiled, content herself to simply delicately pick small pieces of cheese and sausage from a plate.

"Your Grace!" called a voice, and I looked over as two men approached the pavilion, with people turning to see who it was.

"Ah! Ser Davos ... I wasn't expecting you for days yet!"

The former smuggler bowed across the table at me, before nodding to the people who's chairs he was standing behind. "Your pardons, milord, milord." Since he was getting known as a primary agent of the Master of Ships and the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, they didn't make any noise. "Aye, your Grace, I thought that myself ... fortunately, Wind Sister had other ideas. I love my Black Betha, I'll make no apologies for that, but there's something about Wind Sister's speed that is more than a little bewitching. Are you sure it isn't magic?"

I grinned, lifting my wine cup in salute. "Just simple mechanics and a fine captain. Now, who's this with you?" The young man in mail at his elbow looked mildly familiar.

"Lord Jorah Mormont," the Northerner said with a bow, and I raised an eyebrow. So this is the Young Bear ... before his disgrace and exile ... before his knighting, even. "I come with letters from Winterfell, Castle Black," he hefted a satchel at his side, "And from Casterley Rock, your Grace," he bowed again, this time to Cersei, who preened at the handsome young Northerner's attention, but it was likely more in interest of getting mail from her father – probably hoping to be praised for producing an heir to the dynasty ...

"How marvellous ... and enterprising, to come all the way from ...?"

"Bear Island, your Grace," he said, bowing his head again. "By way of Winterfell, then, on Lord Stark's instructions, through the Westerlands, before riding along the Goldroad ... where I met Ser Davos, coming in the other direction this morning," he nodded to the older man.

"Excellent!" I grinned, my mood lightening at thought of letters – not raven-carried messages, but actual letters – from Ned. And the Wall ... interesting ...

"Oh, and while I was in Braavos," Seaworth continued, reaching behind him and hefting something one of his followers offered, before presenting a bolt of cloth, not thick ... but shimmering gold. "I happened upon an old acquaintance, a rough sort, your Grace, no one you'd ever care to know, but he happened to have some Yi-Te goldsilk, and with a little inducement and a lot of ale, he was convinced to part with it ."

Cersei suppressed a shriek by pressing a hand to her mouth, and I wasn't much less impressed: talk about princely gifts. This wasn't your typical cloth of gold, with gold wire wrapped around thread. This was literally silk that naturally shined like gold, and its creation was a deep secret of the foreign land that produced it. Rumour had that it was the result of fertilising silk-plants with flakes of pure gold – yeah, people in Westeros hadn't quite worked out the origin of ordinary silk just yet – but no one knew for sure. To me, it had to be some kind of magically altered silkworms ... but then again, this was a world with dragons, ice zombies and prophetic dreams: maybe it really did grow on trees. Even the small amount Ser Davos displayed was worth a small ... or rather, not so small fortune.

"Well, on that note, you must be exhausted, both of you, catching up to the hunt like that ... someone fetch some chairs for the lord and the knight ... yes, you there, make room ... don't be shy ... there you go," I said in a satisfied tone as the pair were seated, servants carefully carrying silk and satchel about the table to present them to Cersei and I.

The former smuggler and the youthful Northerner found themselves peppered with questions from the curious members of my court, from the journey across the Narrow Sea ("Yes, milord, even while the sun was hidden by clouds: amazing device, this compass!") to the Wall ("Aye, seven hundred feet, and more, in places: I saw it myself when I witnessed my Father taking the Oath to join the Watch."), in between trying the finest wines, the sharpest cheeses and, at last, roast venison: the hunters had eventually accomplished what this whole circus was supposed to be about, and brought down a couple of good sized animals for butchering.

Finally, as the sun began to sink and the wind began to chill, torches were lit and servants guided the guests to their tents, where more wine, lukewarm baths and warm blankets awaited them. For Cersei and myself, that meant a massive pavilion tent, hot water, hot wine and a nice soft mattress: rank hath its privileges, after all … Sitting at my desk (likely carried all the way from the Red Keep by some hard working servants, or at best on the back of a wagon), I sipped at my brandy (my people were working on more varieties, and were apparently close to a nice smooth whisky, although I was betting more on moonshine: decent whisky was likely years, if not decades in the making) and opened Ned's letter.

… I'm ashamed to say that the truth was even worse than I had assumed, and it broke my heart to hear the full extent of just how far the Watch has fallen … although not so much as Benjen's, as previously he had spoken of little else besides one day joining the ancient Order … I fear his enthusiasm and the tales told of old about the Watch did not fare well when countered by grim reality … perhaps three thousand brothers are spread between three castles: The Shadow Tower, Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea … perhaps fewer than that.

Morale is low: there are a leavening of good Northern lords and a few very fine knights, but the bulk of the officers are either men who have served and survived after being sentenced to the Watch, or are veterans of the War against the Targaryens, and are no friends of the Starks. Those you sent North with Mance Rayder (a fine young warrior, and a clever man with a talent for music) will surely help in terms of numbers, but many are resentful and a little too comfortable with those who served under the Mad King …

… the Gift, New and Old, is almost empty. Some hardy folk still send tribute to the Watch, and some farms around Mole's Town (a strange collections of hovels that sit atop a network of cellars, vaults and tunnels below ground) still produce, but for the most part the Watch subsists on donations (such as the gold, swords and other gear you sent via ship and wagon this year) from mostly Northern lords, and those largely out of tradition and a desire to appear generous …

… in more welcome news, both of my sons are walking, and gabbing away. Despite not sharing a mother, they are inseparable, and I only write this in the strictest of confidences between we two, but my wife is yet to warm to Jon. I hope in time she will grow to love the boy as I do …

… we were all very impressed by the quality of your soldiers, and I spent several evenings speaking to your officers regarding their training and the battles they fought in. Had we funds and warm bodies to spare, I might consider raising such a force myself, but at the moment supplies of both are short. Work is beginning in repairing the Broken Tower, and restoring the First Keep, and I hope to achieve much of this before winter sets in. So much of the North seems to be decayed and in poor repair … so much work to be done and so few hands to set to the work … your new ploughs and reapers have been grudgingly accepted by the farms about Winterfell, and while I doubt the effect will be as great as you can hope to achieve down in the fertile South, I agree that it is unlikely to do any great harm to try …

… Catelyn was extremely pleased by the books you sent her: she insisted on putting the colourful copy in the new Sept, and quickly grasped your reasoning behind the plain version you had 'printed'. Maester Lewin agreed, and has been inspired to set about a project of organising and copying all of the books in Winterfell's lib-

"Damn him to the Seven Hells!" cried Cersei, sitting up from where she lay on the mattress, her silk nightdress slipping off one lovely shoulder as she stared at the letter in her hands. "The sheer, utter gall! How could he do this to me?"

I blinked, and set Ned's letter down. "Who's done what now?" I asked with a raised eyebrow, but she was too enraged to smiled.

"My father … that utter bastard! He's getting married!" I opened my mouth to ask why that was so bad, before she continued, "To Lyrella! Lyrella Lannister, that insipid mousy little tramp … she's my third cousin once removed, she's an absolute bore and she's barely sixteen!"

I winced. "Ah … I was afraid this would happen …"

Tossing the letter down onto the bed, she swung out her legs and rose to her feet, glaring at me. "You knew about this?" she demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

"Hardly," I said calmly. "Lord Tywin doesn't exactly confide in me. However, once your brother decided to remain with the White Swords, the natural heir to Casterley Rock would be, well …"

"That little toad? Lord of the Westerlands? Are you out of your mind? Father would never …" her brain caught up to her mouth: it was amusing to see the wheels whir behind her lovely eyes. "Father will want a new heir … someone the lords of the Westerlands can admire and follow."

"And for that, he requires a suitable mother for said heir: specifically, someone who's young, pretty and who will do exactly as she's told. From your description, he's chosen the perfect broodmare for his purposes."

Cersei paused, tilting her head as she considered that take on the matter. Clearly, a future broodmare was a much more palatable concept than a new stepmother. "She's got tits like a barmaid and hips like a wallowing cog ... I suppose she'd breed like an overfed heifer."

For me, I was considering just how quickly Tyrion would become surplus to requirements. In the original timeline, Tywin's lingering love for his wife and his hope for freeing Jaime from his oath had kept Tyrion safe. Now, with no hope of Jaime inheriting and having decided to wed again … "Hmmm, perhaps it might be time to invite young Tyrion to foster at the Red Keep …"

"Are you mad?" demanded Cersei, her fury restored after a moment's calm, "Why should we take in that evil minded little monster, that sneaking, grasping, pathetic little worm to our court?"

I thought furiously as she continued to rant about how much she disliked her younger brother (doing just about everything except bringing up the prophecy that she interpreted to mean that he would eventually kill her), before I rose and took her shoulders in hand. "Because it would annoy your father, because keeping him alive will give us leverage, and because, according to Jaime, the boy has some potential: he'll never be a knight, but properly educated he may be useful to the Realm."

Spite and utility fought with spite and stubbornness in Cersei's mind, and I wasn't sure who was winning. "It's simply an idea, my love: perhaps Stannis will want the lad: if nothing else, the results would be amusing."

Here Cersei sniggered, clearly imagining the expression on my serious brother's face when presented with a precocious and annoying dwarf to foster. "Oh, that's an evil thought, Robert ... but whatever we decide, I will not have that creature in the same castle as my son!"

Deciding this was by far the best result I could hope for from that conversation, I asked, "Is there anything else pertinent in your father's missive?"

She snorted. "Oh, he's rather rudely instructing me to 'give up your foolishness with fancies of flight, and remember your duty to the Lannister dynasty' - he wants me breeding again as soon as possible!"

I raised an eyebrow. "While I would never argue against more children, we are both fairly young: I'm in no hurry." Besides, considering our rather ... energetic sex life, more children are rather inevitable soon enough. "And no one - not even your father - has the right to tell you what to do with your own time." I bent down to kiss her forehead. "I love how passionate you get when you're working on those things, and no one can say that your efforts haven't been successful. If nothing else, love, believe that I will do everything I can to support you: we are, after all, in this little mess we call 'ruling Westeros' together."

She smiled, a mixture of fondness, bitterness and viciousness in her eyes that I had started to appreciate more than I had originally expected to. "And if I ... if I said I wanted to learn the sword?" she asked, somewhat hesitantly, biting her lip ever so slightly.

I laughed. "Is that all? My queen, I shall inform Ser Barristan tomorrow that he should start - wait, no, Ser Kirin is Ironborn, and his sister, I believe, carries an axe: he should have an easier time teaching you, if that's alright?"

Her emerald eyes lit up in delight. "But surely it isn't seemly for -"

"Warrior's balls, woman, you're the fucking queen," I said firmly, and her spine stiffened slightly. "Seemly is whatever the fuck we tell people it is." I laughed again. "Seven hells, it might just start a fashion for ladies to join their husbands in the training yards!"

Cersei joined in, her earlier fury fading as she was likely imagining some of the more ... rotund ladies of the court swinging swords while wearing their colourful brocades and corsets. "That would be ... interesting. Maybe I'll grow to enjoy hitting things," she added with a sly smile.

I kissed her lips, her arms wrapping around my waist as she kissed me back, before I broke off and grinned. "Watch out, my lady: it's not just about how hard you can hit, it's about whether or not you can take one," I punctuated the word with a more than light slap to her backside, which made her eyes widen in affront ... then darken with passion as she slapped my face, then shoved me back into my chair, before slipping her nightgown over her head and attacking the laces of my shirt.

***

The next day I walked with Ser Davos through the Red Keep. "... It took some work, Your Grace, and more than a little gold, but these are the best charts I could find of the areas you wanted," the former smuggler insisted as he tapped the stuffed satchel at his side. "I talked to some old pirates, and some newer ones, and had them make their own notes ... I'm still working out this whole 'reading' thing, honestly, but as far as I can tell I got you your money's worth ... um, Your Grace?" he asked, a worried edge to his tone.

I grunted, working my shoulder as I rubbed at my arm. "Sorry, Ser Davos, just a little stiff: I've been missing too many sparring sessions this last week or two." Actually, the deep scratches on my shoulders and back were rather more the cause of my discomfort ... but I really didn't mind all that much. "Anyway, good work: I'm bringing in some of the best cartographers - mapmakers, you know - in King's Landing to put the whole mess together into something any captain can read, and to have as much information with as little flourish as possible. Reefs, shoals, currents and the like, not decorations and pictures of dragons and sea beasts. Information, not art."

Davos shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Er, maybe a little flourish wouldn't be a bad thing, Your Grace: there's many a captain, even in the Royal Fleet, who doesn't read or figure much better than I do, and a little picture can help when I'm in an hurry to puzzle out where I am."

I halted, and he stopped with me, my Kingsguard escort a few paces behind also stopping in their tracks, their keen eyes tracking about in search of sudden threats. "I'm sorry, Ser Davos: sometimes I forget that I'm hardly an expert in sailing. While I'm hopefully that Lord Stannis' reforms will result in a far more educated and skilled navy, I can't forget that we're not there yet."

The older man flushed in embarrassment. "Not to worry, Your Grace: sometimes I forget that I'm not still a simple sailor: this knighthood thing is harder than most born to it let on."

I laughed, and slapped his shoulder. "Trust me, my friend: most of the time us lords and knights are just fumbling along as best we can. Anyway," I gestured ahead, "I've taken over the old Maidenvault as my new workspace: we ran out of room in the Holdfast, and it's a lot more comfortable, given it's original occupants. I've turned one of the larger chambers into a map room, and I'm bringing in some artists to copy some of our better maps onto the walls, for better viewing."

We entered the large, long building behind the royal sept through the large carved doors, but were met by Horin and Master Donner, the head mason I had investigating the Keep's ... peculiarities, along with a rather dirty younger man in an apron who seemed to have scrubbed himself as clean as he could. "Horin?"

"Apologies, Your Grace, but while you were out hunting, there has been ... a development." The clerk gestured to the mason, who blushed, tugging at his beard.

"Sorry, Yer Grace, but it was me lad here, Conna, who noticed ... he was hanging off the sept tower - not that the septon was all that pleased, but it were our orders - and he noticed that the ... that is, he's got a brilliant sense for ... um, proportion? Anyway, he reckoned that the Maidenvault was ... well -"

"It's too long, lord," interrupted the youth, drawing his embarrassed master's ire, his own ears turning red as I turned my attention to him. "The outside of the building is longer than the inside ... and not by the thickness of the walls, not like you'd expect! I paced it out, inside and out, and there's at least twenty feet on the other side of the far end: the great hall is just ... smaller than it should be."

A little light went on in my head. "Interesting: Master Donner, lead on, and bring your chisels and hammer!"

Our group bustled past confused servants, and within minutes we found our way into the named hall, where King Baelor's sisters had been held captive for years, surrounded by opulent decorations and their companions, in the hopes that their proximity to the sept and their isolation would prevent impure thoughts. Considering at least one of them conspired to get pregnant while locked away, it didn't work out all that well, I thought idly as I walked up to the far wall, and ran my hand over the plaster, several tapestries clearly having been removed to reveal the bare wall. "It's newer work than the other walls," suggested Donner, and I nodded, feeling the pattern of the stones beneath the plaster. I was no expert ... but I thought I could sense a difference in the way the stones were set together ... it seemed ... hurried.

"Ser Davos, what would you say if you found a chest that was smaller inside than out?"

"I'd look for a false bottom," answered the captain turned knight, and I nodded.

"Precisely." I stepped back and gestured to Donner, who took up hammer and chisels, grimaced as he examined the wall, then set to work. Within moments plaster and mortar was flying, and more than once I had to shield my eyes from chips of stonework, but within minutes the skilled workman was calling his apprentice to help him pull a sizable stone from the wall. As the mortar grated noisily and the workmen grunted with effort, a hole was revealed, and a foul smell vomited forth, making me gag a little as I called for a lantern.

The workers stepped aside as I came close to the gap, and held up the light, grinning like a boy as my eyes adjusted to the gloom inside what was clearly a section of the hall that had been walled off many years before. "Can you see anything, Your Grace?" asked Ser Davos.

I couldn't help myself. "Yes: wonderful things," I quoted glibly.