Chapter 194

The Riverlands, 300 AC

Axel Arryn

I would hazard a guess that my dealings in the Riverlands had earned me a reputation as a rather greedy man. That would explain why Connington was dangling such a generous price, hoping greed might blind me enough to throw myself into the front ranks of this war. Heh. Only on my own terms. What the Old Griff seemed to be ignoring was a simple truth: privileges come bundled with obligations. I had no doubt the bulk of the burden, feeding "King Aegon's" entire army, handling diplomacy with the lords of Westeros, would land squarely on my shoulders. Though the situation was not quite as grim as it sounds. No one was stopping me from plundering the Reach while I was at it, and I had no shortage of experience in negotiations.

"I thought we'd settled on the idea that a united Westeros was done for, and that we were bracing for open waters. So what made you even consider this offer?"

From a purely practical standpoint, a united Westeros, even one still sitting under the Iron Throne, would serve us better than sliding back into the "Age Before the Conquest." Unification carried plenty of advantages. But there was one thing that had kept me from backing anyone in this civil war: the claimants themselves. Joffrey, a little sadist nobody could hope to control (Mad King come again). Stannis, who had already gone to war with me. Renly, a spineless sword swallower dancing on Tyrell strings. Rhaenys, a disappointment who could not even manage the one condition set before her, taking Nightsong. Gods, how does anyone hope to conquer Westeros if they cannot even crack a fortress they were bound to take under any circumstances? Viserys, a hysteric who dragged the plague of the Dothraki onto our shores. I had given both Stannis and Rhaenys clear terms for my allegiance, and neither of them had delivered.

"Everyone's grown weaker across the board, our own strength, and the Golden Company standing behind Aegon. There's an emotional angle too, but I won't be admitting to that one."

"So, your allegiance, then?"

"Only under specific terms." Had I ever let myself be swayed by claimants' pretty promises, I would have been dead long ago, the Vale would have passed to Tully hands, and the whole region would have ended up scorched earth like the rest of Westeros. "If he delivers, fine, a worthy king. If not, I lose nothing either way."

As a ruler, Aegon suited me well enough. But if he could not clear even the minimum bar during this invasion, then his crown was not worth the metal it was struck from. The business with Stannis and Rhaenys had made that abundantly clear: plenty of pride, precious little to show for it. We would see how well the boy had listened to my lessons, and how much he had grown on his own these past years.

...

Outside King's Landing

Renly Baratheon

The royal tent, larger than the rooms found in some inns and furnished with extraordinary luxury, held every comfort one could ask for: feather beds and furs, a two person bath of wood and copper, a brazier, folding leather chairs, a writing desk, vases heaped with every fruit imaginable, a wine collection considerably thinned by now, cedar chests full of clothes, books, maps, a game board, a white harp, a longbow, a pair of hunting hawks, and a veritable arsenal of superb weapons.

Renly had denied himself nothing. But with every passing month of war, the things that had once delighted his eye brought him less and less pleasure. After two years he had come to thoroughly dislike his own tent, yet he never moved, never changed his quarters. The last of the Baratheons held to the belief that this hateful setting would spur him on, that it would drive him to end the war sooner. He could feel his dead brothers' spirits watching him with disapproval, though for entirely different reasons. Robert would simply have laughed and declared his brother's head far too crowded with nonsense, while Stannis, grinding his teeth, would have zeroed in on the tent's excess. All told, Renly hated this chamber and tried to spend as little time in it as he could, but the council had to be held here, and nowhere else.

"You are my most trusted commanders, and I have gathered you here to plan tomorrow's assault on King's Landing." That drew glances exchanged among those present.

"It's been barely two weeks." Lord Rowan was the one to speak up. "I would ask Your Grace for patience."

"There's no time to wait!" The latest reports had struck a heavy blow against any faith in victory. "Have you read the latest dispatches? Do you understand what the Dothraki are doing across my lands?!" Men shifted uncomfortably, looking away.

Those atrocities... there is cruelty in service of a purpose, and there is cruelty for its own sake. The Dothraki were the very embodiment of the latter. Renly could no longer bear to sit and wait for the capital to fall on its own. With each passing day, the savages grew wilder still. For them there existed no rules, no boundaries, no restraint. Entire villages put to the sword for sport, cities reduced to ash, thousands dragged off into slavery, all in the name of "The son of Khal Drogo and Daenerys Targaryen." In the name of a child not yet even born!

The foulest part of it was that some lords had gone over to the side of the marauders. Renly understood well enough that they were only trying to protect their own lands, but his heart still called it betrayal. Later, one of those lords' representatives had said something that opened the Baratheon's eyes: if the king will not fight for his people, why should they die for him?

"Your Grace..." Mathis Rowan made one more attempt, but there was no stopping Renly now.

"Enough!!! Either we march into battle with a plan, or we march without one!" The king set a full stop to the discussion, and his men bowed to his will.