GOT : All Left Behind

"Information asymmetry: no greater leverage, no worse threat."​

Lord Torrentsmouth looked none the worse for wear as he was ushered into the solar that had so recently been his. That was to be expected, of course, as he had been a prisoner for not even an hour. Pale orange hair was still clean and free of matting, tanned skin was devoid of bruising and unmarred by injury, and the steel of his armor was still gleaming bright and free of any testament to bravery or a valiant defense of his city.

Put succinctly, he looked to have been treated well. And with that, I had my first opening.

"Lord Torrentsmouth," I greeted the man, even if the title no doubt felt like a formality to the man. Granted, it was a reasonable belief to hold. Taken prisoner, his holdings kept largely intact, he had every reason to believe he would be losing the lands his family had held for generations beyond counting. "I do hope your brief stay in the cells was more pleasant than you imagined."

"A touch more cramped than when I awoke this morning, but I appreciate your concern." The lord's words reeked of insincerity as his escort delivered him to a halt a pace in front of my desk. They withdrew without a word, and best of all without incident, leaving me alone with the prisoner. Him standing, and myself comfortably seated. A deliberate choice, to better highlight the power imbalance between us.

"While unfortunate, that is to be expected. Luckily, this is not a problem without solutions," I assuaged his concerns. "Though I must insist on us both using proper terms of address, my lord. It is a basic courtesy."

"Of course… Your Grace." The last two words were forced out between grit teeth, but they were spoken all the same. Good. This man was not somebody who would be around me whenever I slept or was most vulnerable. With him, insisting on proper courtesy would only benefit me instead of hampering my efforts.

"Excellent," I said, reclining in the admittedly comfortable chair. The man, or mayhaps one of his forebearers, certainly knew a good carpenter. "Now as to the lack of space, my lord, do you think it will be a problem for your men?"

That seemed to catch the man off guard.

"They barely have room to squat down to shit, let alone lie down to sleep," he pointed out after a moment's hesitation. Clearly, he had been expecting a heartless beast in the shape of a Targaryen instead of… instead of whatever I was. While the lord's tone was balanced and calm, there was an undercurrent of concern to be found. "Your Grace."

This was not an Ironborn army whose favor had to be curried lest I deal with a mutiny. This was a prisoner, and the power was shifted quite severely in my favor. This was a prisoner who had just exposed an opening for me to exploit to the hilt.

Unspoken was the request to ease conditions in the cells. A favor waiting to be offered.

Unspoken was how much he cared for his men. A hook waiting to be exploited.

"Those are hardly conditions fit for men," I agreed. "Though until alternate opportunities present themselves, said conditions will have to suffice. No doubt you know how war is, my lord. There are tragically few ways of unpacking those cells."

A look crossed the lord's face. It was cold at first, seeing my apparent apathy to the situation. No wonder, that. By all appearances, I was willing to let his men suffer in over-stuffed pens, crowded even closer than chickens in a coop. But then it shifted. Slowly at first, until he genuinely recognized what I was implying.

Execution.

Execution he would be agreeing to. Execution he would order in all but name. Deaths that would not weigh upon my soul for a change.

"I am more prepared to ransom…" the lord began, but I cut him off.

"Your treasury has already been secured, Lord Torrentsmouth," I pointed out. "Unless that armor of yours has gold sewn into the lining, there is precious little you can offer to ransom them."

"They yielded to you!" he cried out indignantly, any hint of decorum forgotten. "You cannot just cram them into overcrowded cells! They will die before the moon turns, either from disease or at the hands of the scum already in those cells!"

Lord Torrentsmouth stepped closer to the table. Only a single step, barely a shuffle. It almost would have been more accurate to say he shifted his stance. Whatever it was, my reaction was the same.

Dawn, that pilfered blade, moved an inch out of its scabbard, and the Dornishman froze. He recognized the blade. Brown eyes went wide, his weathered skin growing pale as the weapon filled the room with its ethereal light. There was, after all, only one way for someone outside of the house of Dayne to get their hands on the blade.

After all, he knew his liege's castle had been devastated. It had been more than a month, after all, he must have known by then.

He took a cautious step back, and the pale blade slid back home. The milky glow left the room, and I was left with a lord whose mind was torn between vengeful rage and bowel-clenching terror. Most of me was hoping for the latter, but a small part was eager for the former. It had been too long since I had had the chance for a fight as a man was meant to fight.

"Nobody wants those people to die in those cells, my lord," I said calmly as Lord Torrentsmouth struggled to compose himself. "Not you, not the men in my army, and most certainly not I. But if we cannot come to an understanding, then they will. Along with your family, I might add."

"My fa…" his voice trailed off as the terrifying realization hit him. Had they not been in the same cell? Oh, how very fortuitous for me. "This… you cannot be serious! They are nobles of the house of Torrentsmouth! You cannot simply lock them in a cell like common criminals!"

"I can," I said, the lie coming easily. By then, they were safely aboard a ship for a proper castle with appropriate accommodations. As safe as someone could be aboard a ship filled with Ironborn. "It pains me to inflict such anguish on innocents, but I have. And I will continue to do so until we can come to an understanding. The cells need clearing out, by four-fifths if I were to guess. I can hardly execute them, but they will still die otherwise. So the question is, my lord, what can you offer me in exchange for more appropriate accommodations for these noble prisoners?"

"You…" the lord's words trailed off. No, not even that. He barely managed a single word, a single syllable, before he gave up on whatever statement he was going to make. "Fine. Fine! I can offer information on the surrounding holdings. Some… oases on the eastern borders. Some holdfasts in the mountains. Caves, hidden valleys. Just… just treat my family and my men with the respect and dignity they are due."

"So you want me to release your men?" I asked. "In exchange for information?"

"Yes." I raised a brow, waiting for him to complete the necessary response. "Your Grace."

"One man for all the information of each location," I dictated. On the surface, it was a logical offer, reasonable, and likely to be accepted. But with how many prisoners I had, that would be a steep price indeed. That, too, was intentional. People were likely to anchor their expectations to the first price given. "Or per head, rather. I recall you having a daughter. Unless, of course, these terms are unacceptable to you?"

"N-no, Your Grace," the man quickly said, not even bothering to negotiate. "But… I do not have enough information to free all of them."

"Then the remainder shall stay here, my lord," I told him. "Should your information prove false, or your men take up arms against me, I will have hostages."

"I can…" the lord began to speak, but his words quickly failed him. A look of despair began to grow on his face as he realized how untenable his situation was. Worse, how little he could do to improve the situation. This was a small castle, with small prison cells. Even if I freed four-fifths of the prisoners as I had claimed was necessary, it would still be a crowded affair. "There were some prisoners in my cells before you came, Your Grace. Thieves, frauds, smugglers, rapists. They would not be missed."

Not missed by Lord Torrentsmouth, at least.

But it did give me a way to thin out the number of prisoners.

And it might even be able to appease the Ironborn priest.

A solution to all my problems, really.

"How many criminals?"

"Six," he admitted. "Not enough, but it is a start. Your Grace."

"And I would be taking care of a problem for you," I said. Truth be told, it was a very attractive offer to me, too. Under ordinary circumstances, were I concerned about keeping the other party happy, I would accept without hesitation. But I could afford to press for more. "It seems a rather lopsided arrangement, wouldn't you admit? Your lands are rid of some criminals, your men have a bit more space in their cells, and I… what do I get out of it?"

"You do not need to execute any prisoners, Your Grace," the man prompted.

"If all I want is to get more space in the cells, I do not need to execute any of them, Lord Torrentmouth," I reminded him. "The inevitable outbreak of disease will do that for me."

"What more do you want me to give you?" the Dornishman asked, his voice heavy with desperation. "I have no coin, and I am already bartering away my people's secrets in exchange for individual lives. There is nothing else I can give. Your Grace."

"You can always offer more secrets per head, my lord," I suggested innocently. "Two secrets per head, mayhaps?"

"No, no, not possible," the man vigorously shook his head. "Not for all of them. I simply do not have enough."

A pity, that.

"And for your family?" I asked. "Are they not worth more to you than your men, my lord?"

"Yes! Fine!" he shouted. "Fine. Two secrets in exchange for each of my family members not having to rot in those cells. Two secrets so my men need not worry about having criminals gut them as they sleep."

"Then let us find a map, my lord," I said with a smile. "And mayhaps some wine. We have work to do."

Just like that, the war was off to a great start.

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