The Integration of the Voice

A/N: So, it has been a while, but not quite a month. Not in my time zone at least. Some people might notice that the already pretty fast pace - in my opinion at least - will pick up a bit from now on. This is because this is far more of a story I wanted to see written, but not one I will dedicate time to writing in the full detail it probably could be written in. I do this because it lets me write a lot of different plots I want to see without leaving any unfinished. That's really it.

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"Stannis, what in the seven hells are you dragging me here for? If you hadn't noticed, I've got banners to call, dragons to slay, and a maiden to save!" Robert Baratheon said, as his brother dragged him along like a man dragged a whore behind a corner. Robert paused and tugged against Stannis. Stannis stumbled. Good, he wouldn't be dragged around like that. Not without proving that it was by choice at least.

"You need to see him, brother, you need to understand." Stannis hissed, sparing a quick glare for Robert when he was jolted from his walk.

"Who do I need to see and why? Explain yourself Stannis, or damn it, I'm leaving to get my bannermen together and go kill that whoreson."

Stannis began to pace, and that, if anything, caught Robert's attention. He'd honestly expect the statue someone replaced his brother with at birth to stand still even as he was pushed into the damn sea! Never mind pace at the thought of a single man.

"That is the problem. I did exactly as you are now preparing to do. I ignored him, thinking him nothing more than a baker with a sense of justice and a talent for convincing others to follow him. But he is more than that. Follow me to the walkway window, and you will see what I speak of."

Robert rolled his eyes but followed his brother through the drab corridors of his own keep, nothing like the glorious and open majesty of the Eyrie. Eventually, they got to the window Stannis spoke of, and he gestured for Robert to look down. Robert blinked, before scowling in confusion as he looked at the man below them.

"When in the seven hells did you find and recruit the child of Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy?"

For the man below truly seemed like he could be none other than the child of those men. He was only practicing the simple techniques of a swordsman in training, but by the gods did he do so better than any other man Robert had ever seen. It was uncanny, the grace with which he moved. Like he was doing a performance, practiced for years on end. Robert could only imagine what the man would be with a woman.

Stannis broke him from his thoughts as he started to speak. "We didn't find the child of those two-"

"I know that! Two men can't have a child together, Stannis, I know exactly how that process works if you need some help with it." Robert interrupted with a huff, before laughing at his jest.

Stannis spoke through gritted teeth. "I was referring to his prowess. He isn't as good as he seems."

"By the gods man, speak clearly! What does that even mean?" Robert asked.

Stannis gestured to another man in the courtyard, a knight, if Robert's faded memories of his few years at Storm's End were to be trusted. Robert was about to ask what that would prove when the spar began. It was... a strange sight. The man with golden hair moved like no other man Robert had ever seen, fluidly and seemingly with great forethought, like every step of the battle was carefully memorised and rehearsed a thousand times beforehand.

But he made the same mistakes he had seen another thousand squires make. An overextension here or there, a parry too swift to catch the sword, a foot was slid over the ground instead of lifted, causing him to fall. Common mistakes, beaten out with practice. Yet performed with the essence of grace. Like a master swordsman who had watched a common squire fight, and done everything the squire had, except with all his skill and precision behind it.

"What in the seven hells was that?" Robert asked.

"A mystery I cannot solve. And for how long would you guess that he has been learning combat for?"

"By his finesse? Half-a-hundred lifetimes. By his mistakes?" Robert considered for a moment. "Half a year."

Silence hung over them as Robert saw the man be pulled to his feet, his mouth moving as the yard erupted in laughter. The man was... Beautiful? It was a strange thing for a man to be, but there was no other word for it. It seemed as though he was perfect beyond handsome, even from this distance.

Stannis once again broke him from his thoughts, even as Robert continued to watch him messily drink water and pour it over himself to quench the heat. Even that was somehow done in a way to highlight his appearance.

"Alistair Albright arrived at your keep two weeks ago. It was at that point that he started formal training. Based on his skill upon arrival and history as a baker, I would guess that until that point, he was waving sticks at other low-born boys. He barely spends a quarter of his time learning the sword. Another quarter is seemingly dedicated to becoming the favourite person of every soul within the keep. From lords to servants, they are all friendly with him. And the last half of his time is, if you would believe it, spent teaching his little army of two-hundred crownland farmers the art of combat and warfare discipline. And I do not know whether the lowborn farmers of the land simply have an overlooked talent for combat, but it seems that the men under his tutelage, whom he is only a single lesson ahead of, are learning at twice the speed of any other force in the realm."

"And why did my newest lord come to our cause? Or, I suppose without the land to go with the title, Warlord?" Robert smiled.

"'For the good of the people.' It is apparently where he sees his duty to be."

Robert laughed uproariously. "Even after all this time, you're still as stiff on that damned duty and honour as always. I'll meet the man at the feast, but for now, I need ale, a spar, and company after such a long journey. But while I drink my ale, you'd better tell me how in the seven hells a man got this deep into Storm's End under your nose."

Stannis' face soured as he always did when he smelt the stench of humour and fun before he answered. "I would think that Maester Cressen would better answer your questions, it is his duty to keep the knowledge of our house after all, although I warn you to stop him when he begins to rave on how 'Sweden is worth nothing'".

Alistair was quite proud of his accomplishments when it came to ensuring that his men were more than steel fodder. It had, of course, all started when he used the stat points he had gained. As it turns out, his theory was confirmed, and he truly did gain levels depending on how great an effect he had on the lives of others. And, well, being recruited to a war for the sake of the people was a rather large decision. He had also gained a point in charisma naturally, a singular occurrence except on one occasion years ago.

He pulled his status from wherever it slumbered and looked over his stats with satisfaction.

Alistair Albright

Level 30

Unspent skill points: 5

Constitution: 10 Strength: 12

Dexterity: 14 Perception: 10

Wisdom: 10 Intelligence: 13

Charisma: 20

Boon of Charisma

Through Effort and skill, you have achieved 20 points of Charisma. As a reward for your feet, you are granted a special ability. Whatever activity you perform, you perform it in the most stylish manner.

This does not change the outcome of the action, only how it is viewed by others.

Although, if you truly are a master of people, you would know the value of even that.

It was quite the tool, especially when matched with the skill of teaching. Perfect demonstrations and supernatural charisma were quite a marvellous combination when it came to passing knowledge. Even when you did not actually know quite what you were speaking of. Like when he taught the spear, even though he was only a single lesson ahead of them, and far less practiced. It also helped that Charisma was also to some extent about understanding what others were attempting to communicate, which, together with the system's boost, helped him stay ahead, even while he was also learning the sword. And he had gotten to a decent level, even if he had cheated and invested a skill point every day after the fourth night.

Swordsmanship: level 17

He assumed that somewhere both famous swordsmen and gamers were turning in their graves. One due to his skirting of the fundamentals and the other because he was using such valuable resources on the fundamentals. But fighting in and of itself wasn't really important, seeing as he would never crush armies on his lonesome. No, it was much more important to establish that he was a singular talent of both the sword and the pen.

Which was a grand success on both fronts, really. Perhaps even too much of a success, given the looks of hero worship he received from the serving staff as well as his men. Such a reputation, while a useful tool, was a dangerous height to fall from. His many discoveries in the field of mathematics presumably only made him more impressive in the eyes of the common people, and even more so the nobility.

A knock sounded at his door as he strummed and tuned his guitar. He would have to tune it once more when he reached the grand hall, as it was ludicrous to think that the cold air would not undo all his work before his performance. But it was a relaxing form of practice, and a phenomenal tool of concentration.

"Would it help to show my ready hospitality if I requested for the door to be removed?" Alistair called. It was how he always greeted those who knocked. Playful and likeable, while remaining a rather useful tool for both establishing himself as open to the problems of everyone, while also being unique enough to be a useful code.

"Maybe it would, but I doubt the poor serving staff would like to see you stumble about in a naked stupor as you gather your clothing every morning." The correct answer. Good to know he was not followed.

"Well, you are certainly a gruesome sight in the morning as well. I have seen the barnacles growing on your toenails," and so the code of the morning was established. Not what Alistair had just said, of course, but one found in a large spider web of possibilities, seven new codes for each of Alistair's insults, the chosen one depending on the weekday it was said.

The door closed behind Jack as he entered, looking surprisingly dapper in his shirt and vest. Alistair thought he was quite successful in introducing the attire as the formal outfit of the common people. Even if he mostly did so to avoid the scandal that would come if he laughed hysterically whenever he wore a nobleman's trousers.

"So, what news do you carry, my little bird?" Alistair asked as he played a haunting melody on his newly tuned guitar.

"I will leave right now."

"Fantastic rhetoric as always, Jack. Now, what did you manage to find today?" Alistair sent him a beaming smile as he changed to a louder, happier tune. It wouldn't do to leave even the option of others overhearing.

Jack sat on the other bed of their room. Stannis had apparently decided to be very stringent on the rules of hospitality, since they only required that he house the leaders away from their men, and not in separate rooms. Still, it was comfortable, and the thick walls kept the heat quite well, even if there had been an accident involving carelessness surrounding the thick blinds meant to keep the storms at bay. Mainly that neither had bothered to close them.

"Well, not much you wouldn't already know. People are mostly discussing what it means that Lord Baratheon has arrived, along with some discussions on what will happen between the two of you. People are mostly assuming that you'll swear fealty to him and get some lands in exchange for it, and that you will let your men and their families relocate there at the end, or at least pay them for their help. Our soldiers are progressing nicely, as far as I can tell at least, and your three-man-teams system is working well. It helped overall cohesion a lot when we started switching the teams around inside their own divisions too. While still keeping the spearman, sword and shield, axe and shield composition of course. Oh, and they don't seem to think that you'll abandon our cause for lordship, but there is some nervousness to the whole thing."

"Good to hear that the Biscuits Troup will soon be the most disciplined and feared force on the field of battle, and that they trust me so."

"Will you stop with that name? We took a vote, and no one likes it"

"It wasn't even counted fully! All voting procedures are void if the votes are not counted!"

"We didn't count because only three men, who all seem to be in love with you, put up their hand at your suggestion."

"All I hear is that you didn't count!"

The feast was a lively affair, the presence of their lord seemingly bringing new life to the guests. Understandable, given the status of semi-rebels foisted upon them by faraway figures. What truly caught Alistair's eye was the… well, moderation was not exactly the right word, but given the tales of wild and delirious evenings filled with drink which seemed to cling to even the shadow of Robert Baratheon, he had expected more.

This was when he looked further about the hall and saw that while the cups of other principal lords were not empty, neither were they as full as those of others. Which was when Alistair realized what had happened. Robert knew that he needed to show his vassals his presence, but that he also needed to gather his war council as soon as possible.

And so, Alistair feasted in moderation. He laughed where he was seated among the minor lords and entertained when called for with his music. Then the silence descended, lasting only a moment before a wave of curious murmurs sprung up about them and men rose to their feet.

"Oh, sit down all of you. We're here to feast! Not squat half a dozen times like we're searching for a decent place in a forest to take a shit. I just came to finally meet old friends once more, and if the rumours of a noble warrior prove true, then also to find another one." Robert's booming laugh was jovial, and a joy to hear. It drew laughter from those around him, even if his words were not for everyone.

The man was tall, taller than Alistair by at least ten centimetres, and Alistair would be unsurprised should the occupants of the hall fall to their knees and pray to the descended form of The Warrior. His dark hair was long, curly, and wild in a way that spoke of physical prowess and the freedom of flight. A quality he never expected to see in a human, but there nonetheless.

"Now, Cressen has been speaking in tongues about your 'redefinition of numbers as a whole.' Now while I wouldn't dare pretend to care for the topic, in fear of maesters coming to knock down my door in search of discussion, I do need to understand the language my maester speaks, or at least enough so that I can tell the man to speak plainly." Robert took a seat among his lords, fitting among them like a brother they had never met.

It took real effort for Alistair not to giggle at the last laugh he had gotten on Sweden for all of Denmark. "Well, there are only two real principles you need to understand. X can be anything, and Sweden is worth nothing. After that, you can move onto calculus and its accursed kin."

And thus, Alistair met Robert Baratheon and would go on to visit other tables and many lords with him for the rest of the evening, after that very first meeting. He spent the night which would be known as The Feast of First Rebellion with the core of their cause, befriending the who started it all. All until the first war council, where he alone among those of his calibre. Probably mostly due to the drinks Robert ingested as the night carried on.