Chapter 4: A Study of Ambition - 101 AC

Several moons have passed since Lord Bartimos returned to the shores of Claw Isle, and young Clement has been occupied with his training. As the sun began to descend towards the horizon, the heir of House Celtigar stood in the training grounds of the castle, his chest exposed for all to see. With his two hands, he held a weighty wooden long axe crafted for honing one's endurance and training. The sweat cascading down his body caused his lustrous silver-golden hair to cling to his skin.

Although he had yet to reach his full potential, the months of diligent practice had begun to sculpt Clement's muscles, transforming him into a striking and charismatic young man.

Opposite him stood his uncle Gormond, brandishing a wooden bastard sword with an impish smirk. Unlike Clement's labored appearance, Gormond appeared unflustered, barely breaking a sweat.

"Is that all?" Gormond goaded, teasingly. "You're improving, but not to my satisfaction."

Clement scoffed, spewing spittle into the air, and lunged forward towards his uncle once again. Raising the axe above his head, he swung it horizontally with full force. Gormond deftly sidestepped the blow and retaliated by striking Clement's back with the flat side of his training sword.

"The axe is an adaptable weapon, particularly the Pincer," Gormond explained. "It can cut, thrust, hook, and its menacing appearance is enough to frighten your foes. Not to mention, it offers a long reach."

"Then why don't we use the real axe instead of this wooden toy?" Clement inquired, struggling to catch his breath.

"You must first become accustomed to the slower pace of a wooden axe," Gormond countered, rolling his eyes. "I won't allow you to become a coddled warrior."

Clement took a step back, distancing himself from his uncle. The two combatants circled each other, both waiting for the other to make the first move. Clement was eager to beat his cocky uncle, but he also knew he had to be careful not to leave himself open to attack. He tried to stay focused on the task at hand, but his fatigue clouded his thinking.

As if reading his thoughts, Gormond suddenly lunged forward with his sword, trying to catch Clement off guard. Clement reacted quickly, swinging his axe with all his might to parry the blow. The impact of the swords and the axe echoed throughout the training ground, and Clement felt a jolt run through his body.

The two combatants exchanged blows, each trying to gain the upper hand. Gormond's sword moved quickly and gracefully, while Clement's axe was slower but more powerful. It was a battle of speed versus strength, and both men were determined to come out on top.

As they sparred, Clement's muscles began to ache, and sweat poured down his face. His breaths came in short gasps, and he felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. But he refused to give up, knowing that he had to push himself. Despite his exhaustion, Clement managed to block Gormond's sword and land a glancing blow with his axe. Gormond stumbled back, surprised by the sudden attack. Clement saw his opening and pressed forward, swinging his axe with renewed vigor.

The two combatants continued to exchange blows, their swords and axes ringing out like a chorus of lumber. Clement's arms felt heavy and his legs shaky, but he refused to give in. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Gormond lowered his sword and grinned at his nephew. "Well done," he said. "You've come a long way since we started. You learn quickly, it seems your bookly habits are transferred to combat training too."

"Yeah? You think I'll be able to join a tourney in a year or two?" asked Clement casually.

"Now let's not get ahead of ourselves." Gormond raised his hands in surrender. "A year or two? Maybe, but your father seems to have a different opinion."

Clement's uncle sneakily pointed at a specific window in the castle. Clement turned to the direction, and saw his father seemingly watching quietly.

"What? He doesn't want me to join a tourney? That's bullshit." Clement scoffed. "I'm approaching my twelfth name day. Surely he could drop his overprotectiveness."

"Give your father a break, lad," Gormond said, sighing. "He's lost his wife and doesn't want to lose a son too."

"But his wife is my mother," Clement protested.

Gormond sighed. "Perhaps you're right, he's too protective of you." the man said. "But, he has a point. You are the heir of Claw Isle, you're supposed to be a ruler, an administrator. Not a warrior like me."

"Being both at the same time isn't off the table, uncle."

"True." Gormond said, stabbing his wooden sword to the ground below. "But you're to be an administrator first, then a warrior."

"I despise listening to him obsessing about taxes and tariffs, ignoring every advice by the steward." Clement rolled his eyes. "I mean, why is he so obsessed with taxes? Soon enough, he'll tax everything."

"More taxes mean more money," Gormond said, shrugging.

"But the smallfolk will despise us," Clement argued.

"Give them enough incentives, and they won't," Gormond countered. "It's all about finding the balance, nephew. Give them what they want, and take what we want."

"What do you know about governing?" Clement challenged.

"I know a thing or two about diplomacy and negotiation," Gormond smirked. "After all, I am your father's right-hand man."

Clement rolled his eyes, teasing his uncle. "Yes, yes, using your good looks to make the opponent agree is surely diplomacy. As a self-proclaimed true believer in love, you're a bit too carefree in that matter, uncle."

"Are you accusing me of adultery, nephew?" Gormond chuckled. "I would never do that. Besides, in negotiation, you use all your assets, including your appearance."

"Duly noted," Clement purred, the melody of his voice softening the air as he lowered himself to the ground, extending his limbs in a graceful stretch. His mind raced with possibilities, turning over the question that had been posed. "You think I could convince father to be more… active in the governance of Claw Isle?" 

Gormond's brow lifted in curiosity, the wooden sword he had been wielding stabbed to the ground as he turned to face his nephew. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'd like to try my hand at administering the town for a few years," he revealed, watching as a spark of surprise lit up Gormond's eyes. "To see how ruling really is."

"I do not think that's a good idea," Gormond cautioned, his voice laced with skepticism.

"Why not?" Clement challenged, eager to hear his uncle's reasons. "It's not as if I'll control everything. I just want to see how it works, and maybe create some improvement or realize an idea."

Gormond's eyes flickered with understanding. "Sounds like you already have ideas," he noted, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Clement's lips curved upwards in response. "One or two," he admitted with a shrug.

Gormond let out a long sigh, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, if it's like that, and your father still has to approve anything you'll do, I'm sure he'll say yes, with a little bit of convincing."

"Will you help me do that?" Clement pleaded, his voice laced with a hint of desperation.

"It's your own wish, and you have to fight for it, alone," Gormond said sternly,. "You can continue training alone, swing towards that dummy for a hundred times or two, it helps build the muscle."

"Will do, uncle," Clement murmured, his voice trailing off as he sank onto the ground. "Will do."

======

A few moments passed, and Bartimos still remained at his window, gazing out onto the training grounds below. His brother Gormond joined him, observing the young Clement relentlessly striking a training dummy in the corner of the yard. Though he appeared fatigued, his unwavering persistence was evident.

"Quite the resilient one, that lad," Gormond remarked, nonchalantly leaning against a nearby wall. His comment drew Bartimos' attention, prompting him to respond.

"I suppose," Bartimos scoffed. "But what use is skill in combat on this isle?"

"Now, you jest," Gormond rolled his eyes in response. "Though we strive to avoid conflict, there is still value in honing one's combat abilities."

"Indeed," Bartimos acknowledged. "But I can't help but worry. The maester had reported his wailing in agony just a few months ago, and now he is training vigorously like a seasoned knight."

"Don't fret, brother, It has been some time since then. The boy will not fall ill again."  Gormond assured him. "In fact, he just asked me for a favor to convince you to let him govern the town for a couple of years. I was going to let him do it himself, but well… it seems you'd like any ideas to decrease his training a little."

Bartimos was now piqued with interest. "Govern the town? And in what condition would I agree to that?"

Gormond explained, "He only wishes to gain first-hand experience on ruling, and he will still need your approval for all his decisions. He intends to carry out the same duties as the current steward while implementing some of his own ideas."

Bartimos scoffed, "He already dreams of taking my place, does he not?"

Gormond chuckled, "Perhaps, but can you blame him? You have been quite hard on him in recent months. Remember, he is approaching his teenage years. We were not much different at that age."

Bartimos let out a deep, melancholic sigh that echoed through the dimly lit room. His mind was fraught with worrisome thoughts, and he couldn't shake off the feeling that time was slipping away from him. "Indeed," he mused, his voice laced with a hint of fatigue. "We need to consider marriage as well."

The mention of marriage drew a sharp response from Gormond, whose voice was tinged with a hint of annoyance. "Marriage?" he scoffed. "Let him make his own choices, don't force him to do anything."

Bartimos' eyes narrowed as he retorted, "You were given the freedom to choose, and yet here you are, still without a bride." He shook his head in disapproval, but then relented. "Very well, I shall allow him to make his own decision. However, if he reaches a certain age and still hasn't found a suitable match, then I shall have to intervene."

He crossed his arms, and raised an eyebrow. "So you agree to his proposal then?"

Bartimos shrugged, his expression unreadable. "I must first speak with him and ascertain his true intentions."

Gormond stood up straight and strode away from his brother, his footsteps echoing through the room. "Very well then."

======

In the enveloping shroud of darkness, Bartimos, Lord of the castle, sat regally upon his sturdy oaken chair, the very same seat he typically occupied while listening to his aide's informative reports. This council chamber, situated on the ground level of the citadel, was now awash with an eerie calm, as he was accompanied by only the steward, Selwyn, who spoke animatedly about the weekly reports concerning the town's current status.

"Many merchants continued to protest the raising of tariffs on the port, my lord." the steward said. "With all due respect, I implore you to heed their cries, else we shall gradually fall out of favor with them."

"Those merchants are naught but famished dogs yearning for more gold, Selwyn. Dismiss their whines. They won't turn back on us, our crabs are practically delicacies across the mainland of Westeros and Essos, and if there's one thing that these merchants won't turn back on, it's gold."

"But at least reduce the tax on sea imports, my lord. Even the smallfolk voice their grievances about dwindling profits," Selwyn persisted.

After a moment's contemplation, Bartimos tapped his desk before assenting. "Very well, restore to the previous rate. Have we adequate funds in our coffers for the expansion of the port, Selwyn?"

"Aye, my lord. Shall we commence with the undertaking?" Selwyn asked.

"Not yet," the lord mused, pondering on something else.

As if on cue, a knock resounded from the door. The two individuals directed their attention towards the entrance, and Bartimos signaled for the visitor to enter.

In came a young lad named Clement, already attired in noble garb, who queried his father, "You called for me, father?"

"Yes." Bartimos affirmed, nodding in acknowledgment. He then motioned for Selwyn to stay, who had bowed and was about to depart. "Sit."

Clement dutifully obeyed his father's directive, seating himself opposite Bartimos at the grand desk. Though he appeared a tad bewildered by the situation, he displayed remarkable composure, revealing a certain patience and resolve that belied his youth.

"Do you know why I brought you here?" Bartimos asked.

"I'm afraid I'm not privy to your thoughts, Father. Pray, do enlighten me," replied Clement brusquely, betraying an uncharacteristic impertinence.

Bartimos's eyebrow arched in annoyance, the impertinence of his son in recent months becoming an increasingly thorny issue. "It's rather perplexing, to be honest. You speak to me in such a tone, yet you yearn to discuss governance and the running of our town? You are not serious about this, I presume?"

Clement's eyes widened marginally at his father's perceptiveness, though he was hardly surprised. "And what of it? Do you consent to my request?"

Sighing heavily, Bartimos recognized that his son's education in proper etiquette and eloquence was far from complete. "Explain why you want to do it, then I'll consider."

"I crave firsthand experience, Father," explained Clement. "The perusal of books and parchments detailing historical accounts and administrative records has grown tedious. I have a healthy body, father. I want to experience ruling directly, preferably living in-town too."

Bartimos raised his brow. "You want to leave the castle and stay in Brackyore?"

Clement nodded. "If you allow me to do so. I could listen to the smallfolk and their complaints, perhaps I could improve our holding in that way."

"Very well, Selwyn, apprise my son of the current issue plaguing us."

"My lord?" inquired the steward uncertainly.

"Just get on with it," snapped Bartimos.

In confusion, the steward nodded. "We have problems regarding merchants complaining about taxes on the port. They said that it is too high, and to be honest, they are right, but it is Winter at the moment, running the port is a bit more expensive. More gold to ship-repairing, and maintenance is higher."

Bartimos then turned his attention to his son. "What say you, Clement? How would you tackle this issue? Balancing the needs of the merchants with those of our coffers?"

Clement frowned in disbelief. "Are you serious, Father?"

"You want to govern the town for a few years? Consider it a test of your abilities to solve problems," retorted Bartimos firmly. 

Clement released a heavy sigh, the sound escaping his lips like a mournful melody. "Very well..." he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of reluctance. His eyes fixed on the table before him, where his fingers drummed a staccato rhythm against its surface. He was lost in thought, pondering deeply over the matter at hand.

After a brief interlude, the boy raised his gaze to meet his father's stern countenance, his tone measured and deliberate. "Well, I would propose a reduction of the taxes to a more reasonable level," he began, his words chosen with care. "In fact, I would go so far as to suggest a slight decrease as an enticement."

Bartimos's features registered his shock at the unexpected statement. "So, you wish to curry favor with the merchants, while simultaneously draining our coffers?" he exclaimed in disbelief.

Clement shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "I haven't finished yet, father," he replied calmly. "Yes, we would decrease the taxes, but we would also expand our services around the port. We could construct more warehouses that we could rent out, employ additional porters, and even pioneer innovative solutions to improve the quality of our services. Our port sits at the heart of the Narrow Sea's trade network, with King's Landing and Planky town to the south, Gulltown and White Harbor to the north, and Lannisport and Oldtown to the west, not to mention the Free cities to the east. Our island is the ideal location for merchants to store their wares before shipping them to these bustling centers. Moreover, as winter approaches, trade is bound to slow down due to the perilous voyages across the treacherous waters of the Narrow Sea. Given the circumstances, merchants will undoubtedly stock up on supplies, making it all the more imperative that we provide them with a secure and reliable means of storage. After all, sailing through the Narrow Sea is always a perilous and death-defying adventure."

The hush of the room was palpable, and Bartimos fixed his gaze upon Clement. "And pray tell, whose coffers would fund these new warehouses?" he inquired, his eyebrows furrowing.

Clement replied without hesitation, "Ours, father. I spotted a collection of fine glasses and rubies in the crypt, surely they would fetch a handsome sum."

Bartimos' eyebrows twitched in disapproval. "What say you, Selwyn?" he asked, turning to his advisor.

Selwyn responded with a measured tone, "My lord, rather than expanding the port, we could enhance the security and capacity of the existing warehouses. While your son's idea has merit, it would take a year to construct new ones, and we would have to continue with the current tax rate in the meantime. Nevertheless, renting out more warehouses would yield higher profits than solely relying on docking fees."

Bartimos made a thoughtful sound, indicating his agreement. "Do you have any other proposals to enhance the port besides warehouses, my son?"

Clement considered his answer briefly before replying, "Maintenance, ship repair, and shipbuilding, father."

"We lack a skilled shipwright," Bartimos pointed out.

"Then let us search for one or two and pay them handsomely to come here and take on apprentices," Clement suggested.

Selwyn shook his head. "I do not know of any reputable shipwrights, my lord. However, we could hire men to search for one."

"That can wait," Bartimos dismissed the idea. "I do not want to provoke any lords by poaching their shipwrights. Very well, my son, your idea has merit. If you can execute it successfully, you may one day become a great lord."

"May I govern the town then?" Clement asked eagerly.

Bartimos let out a sigh. "The final decision rests with me. You may depart next week, accompanied by Selwyn and Ser Phineas. They will assist you in your governance."

Selwyn bowed in acquiescence, thinking on how the lord's son would be under the 'ruling'.

"Thank you, father," Clement said earnestly.

"You may go now," Bartimos dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Once Clement had departed, Bartimos and Selwyn were left alone. "He's going to cause us trouble, isn't he?" Bartimos muttered.

======

As the first rays of sunlight emerge on the horizon of Crab's Return, Clement finds himself perched atop a majestic stallion. Though he has only just acquired the skill of horseback riding, he manages to maintain his balance while astride the animal. Accompanying him were two men, Selwyn and Ser Phineas, mounted on their own trusty steeds.

In front of Clement stood Bartimos, and the men in his court, including Gormond. As Gormond's eyes scanned the horse, on which Clement was seated, he couldn't help but notice the absence of an axe. "Where is the axe?" he inquired, his voice steady and controlled.

Clement, sensing Gormond's apprehension, reassured him, "Fear not, uncle, the axe is safely stowed away in the house I will be staying at. I promise to use it sparingly."

Bartimos interjected with a stern warning, "You do not need to resort to violence to rule, my son. Remember, you are there to govern, not to instill fear."

Clement, with a hint of sarcasm in his tone, replied, "Of course, father, I was only joking. Although, it might come in handy as a form of intimidation."

Bartimos let out a weary sigh, "Just be cautious in the town. I may visit you whenever I please, but Selwyn will be your guide in the intricacies of management. Follow his lead and listen to his counsel, do you understand?"

"I understand, father." 

"Good," Bartimos nodded approvingly. "Now, go forth, my son, and make me proud."

With a sharp twist of the reins, the trio turned their horses around and sped off into the distance, disappearing from sight as they approached the town of Brackyore.