7-ii

Chapter 6

7th Month, 284 AC

"... completely ruined! How am I supposed to show my face at court with my hair looking like this? No, don't look away, you little tramp, pay attention when I'm talking to you! And don't think I've forgotten about my mother-of-pearl hairbrush! You took it, didn't you! I'll have you stripped naked and horsewhipped down the Goldroad!"

I paused at the entrance to my solar, and exchanged a glance with the youngish Kingsguard who stood on duty outside. Ser Kirin smiled lightly. "Best of luck, Your Grace," he whispered. I nodded, tugged my tunic straight, and pushed the door open ...

... only to just barely duck and miss being struck by the porcelain plate that smashed into the wall next behind me.

As I straightened up, I saw Cersei reaching for another plate, this time solid silver, to throw at me. Nearby, one of her maids cowered, sobbing apologies and denials. Cersei's golden mane flew about her face like a starburst, and her eyes fixed on me like emerald lasers. "You!"

I smiled, spreading my hands wide. "Cersei, my lady, what is -"

"You!" She hauled back her arm, and threw, but her aim wasn't true, and I barely blinked as the plate soared past me. "You did this!"

"Did what, my dove?"

Cersei growled, and spread her hands over her expansive belly. "You did this to me, you hairy, overgrown, slow-witted ox! I'm as big as Harrenhal, I can't see my feet anymore, I have to use the chamber pot every hour on the hour, and this little beast is - aagh," she flinched, clutching at her stomach. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" She glared at me. "I can't sleep, my feet hurt, my back hurts, I'm eating enough for ten, and nothing fits me anymore! You've made me fat!" she cried, one hand reaching up to cup the side of her face.

Actually, she was one of those women who wore pregnancy well. Yes, she had developed a bit of extra padding, and, of course, her breasts had swelled. But she was still stunningly beautiful, and only part of that was due to the fact that she was (very likely) carrying my child. Unfortunately, while it was going well on the outside, inside was a completely different matter. The innitial bouts of morning sickness were dreadful, but thankfully they passed after a month or so. The cravings, on the other hand, had been continuous, and increasingly weird: one month, for example, she had insisted on having a Westerosi analog of surströmming, or fermented pickled herring, imported from the Iron Islands.

Then, there were the mood swings.

Emphasis on swing, I thought irreverently as Cersei picked up an empty wine jar. "Please, Cersei, you have never looked more lovely -"

"And this little slut," she turned to scowl at her maid, who's crying only intensified, "Don't think I've forgotten about you, wretch! Lazy, clumsy, incompetent and light-fingered, just like all the rest of you! I'm surrounded by scheming, jealous, poisonous little -" she raised the jar to throw, this time at the girl. With a few quick strides, I crossed the room and grabbed her free arm, and snatched the jar from her other hand.

"Alright, let's just calm down a little," I said in a calm, gentle voice.

Cersei rounded on me, her hand flying for my face, but I caught her by the wrist, meeting her green eyes, full of fury, with my cool blue. The moment was tense, as neither of us would give in, until finally she wailed, and collapsed against me, starting to sob and whimper. My arms wrapped around her, and I held her close as I rubbed her back and murmured soothing words. Glancing over her shoulder, I waved a hand at the maid, and silently gestured for her to leave, but offering her a kind smile, one she weakly returned. I'll have to make sure she finds a new position: Cersei isn't one to forget grudges. Actually, she's a lot like another queen I used to read about: she's the kind who keeps grudges until they die of old age, then has them stuffed and mounted. Maybe Horin's girl could do with another set of hands? It's a step down from being maid to a queen, but something tells me she'll appreciate a calmer, gentler post.

Hells, I should be giving these girls combat pay.

*** *** ***

An hour later, Cersei groaned as she lay on her side, a skilled masseur kneading scented oil into her back and shoulders, while a girl used her thumbs to massage her feet. "I'm sorry, Robert, I just get so angry," she said, closing her eyes as the young man behind her started to work on a particularly troublesome knot. The queen had changed into a silk shift, unlaced at the back for the professional to work his magic.

I sat at my desk nearby, glancing over some reports. 'I have the honor to be, blah, blah, blah, beg leave to report that yadda yadda yadda, most gracious regards, Ser Whogivesafuck.' Seriously, sometimes I reckon old Bobby boy had the right idea about this stuff. "Nothing to forgive, Cersei. I understand it is perfectly natural for a lady in your condition. And," I tossed her a cheeky grin, "I knew I was marrying a lioness. One can't expect to go too long without hearing a roar ... or getting one's face clawed off."

Cersei laughed, then cut off as the masseurs hit a sensitive spot. "Ah! Watch it, boy," she said sharply.

The servant, a handsome young man with Summer Isles blood, bowed his head. "Of course, Your Grace. I shall be much more careful," he murmured respectfully.

He's probably a year or two older than she is, I thought absently, taking a piece of paper and starting a few notes. The recent rise of the printing press had been something of a boon to the paper-makers of King's Landing. Since the Faith had embraced the device with both hands (mostly at the suggestion of the good Brother Jahenis, who had turned out to be a popular and charismatic proponent of the press), demand for paper had skyrocketed, and with a few suggestions and examples of new techniques, the papermakers were managing to keep pace ... mostly. Still, being king meant it was easy to requisition some of their better produce for my own personal use.

Sighing, Cersei sat up, and waved her hands. "That's enough. Go," she gestured, and the servants stood up, made their bows and murmered their respects, then backed themselves out of the room. As the door closed behind them, the queen stood up and pressed her palms against the small of her back and stretched. "In any case, I will be overjoyed when this particular trial is over: you have no idea just how uncomfortable being pregnant is."

I smiled. "Something for which I thank the Father and Mother daily," I admitted, and ignored the death stare she sent my way. "Actually, I - oh, hells!" I yelped as my quill left a large splot of ink on the page. "Blasted things ... my love, remind me to ask Horin as to how he's doing with the new steel-tipped pens." I stood up and threw the ruined page onto the nearby brazier, keeping away the last hints of winter chill.

Cersei snorted. "You rely far too much on that little man. For certain, his toys are amusing, but -"

I raised a hand sharply, and she fell silent, miffed by my high-handed gesture. I then pointed a finger at the brazier. The page was burning, the flames consuming the paper quickly, and bits of ash were flying upwards as the heat increased in intensity. "What? I swear, Robert, if this is one of your jokes ..."

"Norhtin of the kind, my dear, nothing of the kind." I glanced about, then walked across the room and grabbed a grey, silk shawl that was tossed over the back of a chair. "Here," I shoved one end into her hands, "Hold this, and help me place it over the brazier ... yes, just like that ..." I manouvered us so that we stood on either side of the brazier, lowered the shawl ... and the silk billowed up as the heat was trapped by the cloth. "Aha! I thought so!"

She blinked. "What in the world has you so excited about - ah," she yelped as she lost her grip on the silk, and it flew out of her hands. I snatched it out of the air before it could fall into the brazier. "Careful: I like that shawl," she snapped. "What, exactly, did you think?" she brought my attention back to my exclamation.

"I thought," I emphasised with a grin, "That the hot air produced by the fire acts like the steam that builds up in one of Horin's steam kettles: if you trap it, it exerts force! You saw, the silk was pushed up, and out of your hands! Even better, it seems the natural inclination of hot air, like steam, is to go up: you've seen how steam from a kettle always seems to flow upwards, like smoke from a fire? Always up."

Cersei threw up her hands in exasperation. "So? Please Robert, start making sense! What's got you so excited about that?"

"Don't you see, my love?" my grin grew even broader. "If we produce something larger, say, a bag sewn from silk, and place a lit brazier beneath it, and let it fill with hot air and smoke ... why, surely the bag itself will expand, and rise up of it's own power!"

She blinked. "So?"

"So, what if we put something like a wicker basket beneath that bag? If we make the bag big enough, and fill it with enough hot air ... it could lift a great weight off the ground. Even," my eyes glittered, "the weight of a man ... or a woman."

Her jaw dropped.

Even as her mind started to work over the possibilities, I was wondering if that maid was any good at sewing: helping to start the Royal ballooning industry might be a better new job than waiting on the wife of a Royal clerk ...

*** *** ***

I grinned as I crossed the Small COuncil chamber, and embraced Jon Aryn fiercely. "Jon, my friend, it has been far too long!"

"And just who's fault was that, Your Grace?" asked the Hand, but he squeezed back just as hard, clapping me on the back. His sojourne to Dorne, performing critical negotiations with the Martell family, followed by a trip north to the Vale, where he put his own Kingdom in order, as well as the long months at sea and on the road had left Jon thinner and looking exhausted, but his skin was tanned and his eyes were still as bright as those of a man decades younger. He coughed slightly. "Forgive me, Your Grace: the road was long, and I fear I have much of the Kingsroad stuck in my throat."

"Then we must fix that," I said, ushering him over to the sideboard, where several bottles and jugs sat along with goblets and glasses made from expensive crystal and precious metals. "A little restorative to help get your voice back," I continued, pouring a small amount of liquid into a pair of rather plain, cylindrical glasses. "I think you will find this interesting: it's the result of six months effort, the importing of several experts from Essos, and a lot of trial and error."

Jon's eyebrows rose, but he took the glass from my hand, and, carefully, sipped the drink. "Oh, my," he said, coughing again, "That is rather strong."

"Triple distilled in copper kettles, then poured into casks to age. This particular batch spent about two months in the cask: my experts assure me that a few more months will improve the taste markedly." I took a sip myself, rolling the spirit around in the glass to admire the colour. "Once the kinks were worked out, production has expanded quite a bit. This time next year, we should be shipping casks across the continent, starting with gifts to the various great lords and their courts. From there, we're quite certain the demand will grow."

Jon smiled, and took another drink. "Ah," he said admiringly, "you may be right there. Expensive, though?"

I shrugged. "It's actually a good use for less ... famous vintages. And it's far easier to transport. Anyway, the glasses are just as interesting," I added.

"Oh? How so?"

"In addition to recruiting some distillers, my agents in Myr acquired some other experts, including several glassblowers: these are some of their first products," I tilted the tumbler again to swirl the liquor around. "A little plain, but they're still ironing out the kinks in the workshops we've built, and I wanted something concrete to show you upon your return."

Jon shook his head. "How on earth did you manage to recruit so many Essosi craftsmen to pull up stakes, cross the Narrow Sea, and set up shop in King's Landing?"

I shrugged. "Simple. I bought them." He stared at me. "Hey, it's disturbingly easy for free men in Myr to find themselves in debt, especially craftsmen, and debtors get sold to pay their creditors. I simply had some agents purchase some of these men, mostly unmarried journeymen, but also a few masters, and quietly bought them. No, it wasn't cheep, but it should pay off quickly." I was really, really, getting tired of saying that, and my Master of Coin was equally tired of hearing it. Hopefully my predictions would start coming true. Sooner rather than later would be good.

"You ... bought them? Robert, after everything I've taught you, everything we've been through, you would enter the slave trade? Are you mad?" His eyes blazed in horror.

I raised a hand to calm him. "Please, Jon, calm yourself. I consulted with both the Master of Laws and the High Septon before I began this little project, and they both agree with me: while it is distasteful to deal with those who trade in flesh, our only intention was to buy men in order to free them. Once they were on board our ship, they were offered a choice: our captain could drop them off anywhere on the way back to Westeros, or they could come back to King's Landing, where generous employment was on offer, as well as the sure knowledge that they would never be enslaved again." I knocked back the last of my drink. "You would be amazed at how many of them jumped at the chance to become employees of the Crown."

He shook his head. "Robert ... you're playing in dangerous waters: please tell me you're being careful!"

"As careful as when hunting shadowcats," I assured him.

"Oh no," he groaned somewhat dramatically, "That bad?"

There was a knock at the door, and we turned to see Ser Jaime standing there, carrying a long, cloth-wrapped bundle. "Forgive me, Your Grace, my lord Hand," he bowed to us in turn. "If you are busy, I can certainly return," he offered, but I waved a hand.

"Nonsense. I was just telling Lord Jon about our new industries. Yes, Jon, this should interest you," I waved for Jaime to approach. "I trust, my old friend, that you've heard of the recent wildfire outbreak?"

Jon nodded. "I have: and that you helped to put out the blaze, at great personal risk," he said in a chiding tone.

I waved away his concern. "Yes, yes. Now, after that, I put Ser Jaime here in charge of finding the rest of the Mad King's jars of portable hell, and he's been digging into the basements and storehouses of the capital ever since. He's recovered, what, six hundred jars so far?"

Jaime bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Six hundred and fifty two," he corrected gently.

"Ah. Good." I poured another dash of liquor into my tumbler, and offered the same to Jon. "In any case," I continued, putting the bottle back onto the sidetable, "The last few days he's been digging about in the Dragonpit," I gestured towards the ruined, forbidding building that dominated a full third of the capital.

"It's something of a mess," offered Jaime, "Most smallfolk consider it cursed, and even the homeless avoid it whenever possible. They especially don't go into the lower levels, which is where we found the wildfire ... among other things."

"Turns out, some of the levels were closed off a hundred and seventy years ago, after the Storming of the Dragonpit," I continued, swirling my tumbler around. "When Aery's tame pyromancers put their shit down there, as part of the plot to murder the city that our good Ser Jaime here foiled neatly and permenently," I nodded to the blonde knight, who shifted slighly in discomfort, "They opened it up and dumped the wildfire down there, but didn't do much of a look around."

"We, on the other hand," said Jaime, lifting his bundle and starting to unwrap it, "Did 'have a look around', since we needed to make sure there weren't any other jars stashed somewhere. There was one pile of rubble we thought may be hiding more, so we shifted them, and found ..." he finished pulling aside the cloth, to reveal a broadsword, the bare steel of the blade dark grey in colour, with patterns rippling their way along the length, the hilt poured bronze, and both blade and hilt etched with runes. It was a thing of beauty, of magic, of power.

"It was still held in the hand of it's owner," continued Jaime, holding the sword and cloth in both hands, without touching the steel, "Who was wearing bronze armour that bore similar runes. There was little else left but bones, but we believe that they were the remains of Ser Willum Royce, who died protecting Prince Joffrey Velaryon. Which would make this -"

"Lamentation," whispered Jon, his eyes wide in wonder, and I was not surprised. It was not every day one saw a legend return, and to have one of the famous lost Valyrian steel blades recovered? It was virtually unheard of.

"Lord Royce is one of your most loyal bannerman," I continued, "And fought well for us during the Rebellion. I believe that to have his family's lost blade returned would be a fitting return for his family's long and honoured service?"

Jon just stared, his hand raising with trembling fingers, to gently touch the blade. "Yes," he whispered. "Oh, yes."Chapter 7 (i)

The lance in my hand shattered on my opponent's shield, just as his splintered against mine, as the crowd cheered. The shock was incredible, as tons of horse, rider, armour and tack struck one another, and only my excellent saddle and even better form prevented me from being hurled to the ground. I reigned in my horse, hauling the beast around, and faced my opponent, who was in the midst of doing the same. I raised the broken half of my lance in salute, and he did the same, to thunderous applause.

I'm starting to understand why Andals love this sport so much, I thought as I tossed the chunk of wood to a waiting squire, and accepted a fresh one. I expertly maneuvered my mount back to the starting position at the end of the list, and raised my lance again in salute, again mirrored by my opponent. At the signal from the herald, as one we dug in our spurs and goaded our horses into a fierce gallop, and I smoothly lowered my lance to the correct position, couched under my shoulder, and with a deft bit of maneuvering targeted the blunted tip at the other knight's shield, braced myself -

Impact.

*** *** ***

"By the gods, it's been far too long since I've simply hit something," I laughed as I grabbed a goblet of ale in my gauntleted hand, wrapping my other arm around Jon's armoured shoulders. "And you certainly haven't slowed down as much as you had feared, eh, Jon?"

The Hand smiled, although he winced slightly as I jostled his bruised body. "I must admit, Your Grace, that I enjoyed that a great deal more than I had expected," he said, sitting back in his chair, watching as two other knights charged one another, lances couched and ready. It wasn't really a tourney, not a proper one: just a virtually spontaneous gathering of knights and lords, celebrating Jon's return to the capital, and, generally, an excuse to exercise their long-polished skills at arms. Yes, I had put up a fairly generous purse for the winner, but for the majority of the Stormalanders, Crownlanders and Westerlanders (with a few Vale and Rivermen) it was just a spot of fun.

Well, dangerous fun, I thought as one of the competitors was knocked clean out of his saddle and landed in a crash of ironmongery. Fortunately, I had already had my turn, breaking lances and delivering bruises, before bowing out for the rest of the tourney, much to the displeasure of many of the assembled knights (and the relieved gratitude of others), since I had nothing to gain by depriving any of them of the chance to become champion. Besides, I could tell they weren't really trying all that hard - just enough to not be insulting. Jon had done much the same, pleading aching bones - after unhorsing two opponents in a row.

Still, it was a welcome change from my usual routine of stairs, sparing and riding. Yes, even playing with swords can get boring after a while: who knew?

"Still, Your Grace, I am glad I have this opportunity to -"

"For fuck's sake, Jon, keep the 'Your Grace's' for the Small Council and the Great Hall: when it's just you and me, I'm still the same Robert you beat the tar out of because I stole treats from the kitchen."

Here Jon smiled. "You were quite a sight, denying any guilt with treacle all over your chin: I almost let you get away with it because of the sheer gall you displayed!" He shook his head. "And Eddard standing next to you, torn between telling the truth and betraying a friend ..."

I swigged some ale and belched appreciably. "You certainly did a darned sight better raising that one than me - but truth be told, that's probably got more to do with our natures than your efforts," I smiled. "Anyway, what's on your mind?"

"Honestly?" Jon hesitated, then shrugged. "Honestly, it's the treasury: I was speaking to your uncle yesterday -"

"Is that who he is?" I asked incredulously. "I thought he looked familiar ..."

The Hand sniffed at my jape. "The Master of Coin and Lord of Greenstone is growing concerned about your spendthrift habits. Hundreds of gold dragons being spent on dozens of projects, most of them quite bizarre, not to mention the large sums you're spending on the roads, your little army, that boat in the Bay, new decorations for the Great Hall -"

I raised my hand. "Jon, I'm sorry, but this isn't the place." I glanced about, but everyone was concentrating on the knight being dragged off the field and the servants casting fresh sawdust onto the list. "I know I told you I would explain things once you returned from Dorn, so I will: join me for dinner tonight: bring your wife, we don't see her enough!" Actually, I'm quite happy not seeing her: she's a dour, shrewish bitch already, and while I get her backstory and how her life sucks, she's also married to the second most powerful man in the Realm and can't be bothered making anything of that: I don't really have a lot of sympathy for her. "Then we'll retire to the balcony, have some brandy, and we can finally talk ... in private."

*** *** ***

Ser Davos stood on the quarterdeck of the Wind Sister and glanced up at the rigging. A week into her sea trials, and he was starting to get a handle on the way the heavily modified vessel handled. Losing her castles really did make her a lot more seaworthy, and a good deal handier: she aint likely to capsize in a blow, neither. True, that very same modification worried him for other reasons: the fore-and-aft castles of a warship were vital in defending the craft against boarders, and facilitating their own boarding actions: losing them made the Wind Sister far too vunerable for his taste.Too, he hadn't been all that enthusiastic about the new sail plan, including the triangular for-and-aft rig for the mizzen mast, but may the Seven bless his soul, it was allowing him to sail far closer to the wind than he had ever thought possible. I know I've seen Bravosi fishing vessels and some of their smaller galleys with triangular sails, but I never thought I'd see one on a Westerosi carrack.

Even if Wind Sister wound up being unsuited for service in the Royal Navy as a vessel of war, she could find service as a blockade runner, a courier, or any other job that required speed, maneuverability and seaworthiness ... if she was crewed by a group of sailors who knew what they were doing. For certain, it was not a craft for landsmen.

Behind him, Luc, his coxswain he had drawn with him from his old crew, held the wheel as firmly as he once held the tiller of Davos' black-sailed craft. "She's steering well, Cap'n," he reported, "She ain't fighting the helm but a little bit!"

Davos nodded. "Very well. Master Duncan," he called out, and his lieutenant rushed over, knuckling his shoulder in salute. "Lay the ship onto the port tack, if you please."

"Aye, Captain," responded the lieutenant instantly. An older man of common birth with over a decade at sea, under King Aerys he would never have seen promotion past his current rank. Under King Robert and Lord Stannis? Who knows: but I'm damned glad I was able to get him out from under Captain Junas before the blasted tyrant ruined him to drink. "Hands to sheets and braces!" he bellowed, his hands cupped around his mouth, and crew leapt to follow the command, climbing the rigging ... not quite as smoothly or as confidently as Davos would have preferred.

Looks like we're going to have to do this again ... and again, he mused as the carrack tacked a hard left, a far sharper maneuver than he would have thought possible aboard a ship of the Royal Fleet under sail. But, by the Gods, I think I can push her harder!

*** *** ***

Dinner proved to be as painful as I had predicted: Lysa remained sullen and passive aggressive, spending most of the meal in silence while launching the occasional verbal barb at her husband as he described his adventures in Dorne. Cersei was at least a gracious hostess, but managed to sniff and make disparaging remarks regarding the licentiousness and alien ways of the Southernmost kingdom's court.

I was, however, able to get her animated regarding our new balloon program: our first experiments with small silk bags suspended over candles were a success, and one memorable feast was concluded by the most important guests being presented with their own small balloons to release on cue. I'm not entirely sure what the smallfolk of the city thought, but the wealthy and powerful of King's Landing were suitably impressed.

Her seamstresses were working on a larger bag, and I had assigned her one of the younger apprentice alchemists to assist in providing a safe heat source - after the great fire, the order were well aware of just how much their continued existence depended on my good will and how useful they made themselves.

I was not entirely sure how much of it actually interested Jon, but he seemed to follow the conversation throughout the dinner. Afterwards, as the ladies excused themselves to retire to the queen's sitting room - presumably for gossip, needlepoint and scoring points off one another in the presence of their maids and ladies in waiting - Jon and I wrapped ourselves in thick woollen cloaks edged in fur, and went out onto the crenulated balcony outside my solar and watched the moonlight shine through the clouds to dance over the waves of Blackwater Bay. The air was cold, and our breath smoked before our faces, but thankfully there was almost no wind. A tray was prepared for us, waiting with a set of glasses and a decanter of brandy, and braziers were lit to provide a hint of warmth against the night cold.

As I poured, I gestured out at the vista. "One of the few real perks of being king, my friend: views like this."

Jon smiled as he took the glass from my hand. "I must admit: one of the things I miss most about being so far from the Eyrie is the way the Vale appear out of the mist on spring mornings, as the sun burns the night's mists away." He waved his glass at the waves below. "I find myself longing to see green grass, shining rivers and grey mountains rather than endless blue water when I look out of a window, but that may be simply because I have been at sea too long. It is good to feel solid ground beneath my boots once more."

I sipped at my own drink, feeling the burn as the liquor flowed down my throat. I was never much of a drinker in my previous life, and Robert's experience was mostly with ale and wine, but I was starting to enjoy the occasional belt or two, but only at night, and restricted any drinking during the day to heavily watered wine or brandy. "And I've probably said this a few times already, Jon, but I'm dammed happy to have you back." I rested one hand on the stonework and leant forwards. "I told you I would explain some things, didn't I?" Jon didn't respond, just stood there, looking out at the sea. "First, I need to apologise for two things: first, I'm sorry I didn't tell you before you left for Dorne. Part of that was not wanting to lay yet another burden on your shoulders when you were already doing so much for me."

He turned and frowned. "Robert, you know it is no burden to -"

But I raised a hand. "Please, my friend. First you help remove a monster from the throne, then you place me upon it. You give me a lioness as queen, you travel to the ends of the Realm to piece my lands back together, and now you're trying to help me run the whole dammed show. "You were going so far, with so many balls in the air I could barely count them. Forgive me for wanting to lighten your load a little, so you don't have too many things on your mind at once." Jon grudgingly acquiesced, and I shook my head. "Anyway, secondly, I need to say sorry for the fact that I'm not going to tell you everything - right now," I added before he could finish opening his mouth. "Seven Hells, Jon, I'm walking a rope strung between two tall towers: I need to tell you enough that you understand what I'm doing, but not so much that you think I've gone the way of Aerys himself - and you would, don't say you wouldn't: if I told you everything, I fear you would summon Ser Jaime for a repeat performance of what happened to the last king of Westeros."

Jon gaped at me. "Robert," he whispered, laying a gloved hand on my shoulder, "You speak of burdens, but I see before me a young man bent beneath a castle's weight of stones, and bearing it all with a quip on his lips! I have known you almost all your life, and while I would never proclaim you the most level headed or careful of men, I certainly have never seen any hint of madness or true folly in you, except that shown on the battlefield." His voice and his grip grew stronger. "Speak to me, Robert: share your burden with me, and I vow, I will never think the lesser of you for it."

My throat choked up with unexpected emotion. It took me a few moments before I could speak, swallowing several times and placing my own hand on Jon's shoulder. "I ... I thank you, Jon. Believe me, I never doubted you, but I feared - and still fear - complete honesty regarding what troubles us tonight. Someday, I promise, I will unburden myself entirely, and you will know everything I do, and on that day I pray you do not reconsider your words here beneath this moon."

We stood in companionable silence for a time, until I felt it was time to continue. I gripped Jon's shoulder again, then lowered my hand, and drained the rest of my glass in one gulp before setting it aside. "So: the truth."

Jon too lowered his hand. "As much as you can bear to tell, lad," he said gently.

"Right." I glanced at the decanter and considered another drink, but discarded that thought. "Alright. The truth. You're worried about my spending. Spending on new machines, on new ways of doing things. You're worried that I'm putting too much trust and authority into Horin, the man I had you find for me. You worry about my forming a standing army, and my plans to further enlarge the navy."

Jon sighed. "Not quite, Robert. All of these are ... worthy causes: for the Crone's sake, I can see the benefit of being able to reap more wheat using fewer men in a shorter period - if it works. You're casting gold to the wind, and hoping that some of these projects bear fruit! Oh, he has his book, but if the ancient author's machines and tricks work, then why has no one done it before! Why are they not as common place as," he grasped for an example, "as horseshoes and ploughs!"

I smiled. "Because the bloody book's a fake."

There was silence. Then he opened his mouth. Then he shook his head. Then he said, "What?"

"I said, the book's a fake. I found a decent forger who produced a few scraps of parchment that look authentic, old and a little scorched, but the drawings and notes were all brand new. We trott them out when important people get too curious, but for the most part, the book doesn't even exist. Jon," I looked him in the eye, "Horin is a smart man, a clever and inventive man, but he's not a genius, and he doesn't have a repository of ancient wisdom. The new reapers and threshers? The seed drill and the new ploughs? The steam spinner and the new bookkeeping methods and the waterwheels and the trip-hammers and the furnaces and the new sails and ship designs and ..." I waved my hand vaguely, "Everything. It's me. It's all me."

He blinked. "I ... Robert, I must say this is ... surprising. I never saw in you any hint of -"

"Of budding genius? No, and you won't. I'm not a genius, either, Jon. I'm just a man who knows some things."

"But ... how?"

I shrugged. "That ... I don't know. Divine inspiration perhaps? Maybe the gods looked into the future, decided they didn't want a brawler on the throne who would drink, wench, eat, shit and spend his way into an early grave? Oh, don't look at me like that, Jon: you know me, and you saw what I was like when Ned came back with Lyanna's bones. You saw me when Tywin bloody Lannister showed me those ... those fucking kids his animals had murdered: I laughed, Jon, I laughed! I was consumed by rage and grief and the horrible crushing feeling of that fucking Iron Throne I saw looming above me, like a landslide I could never avoid, a shadowcat in mid-leap and me without a spear.

"And then the coronation, and the betrothal to Cersei, and the lead up to the wedding - Jon, I didn't care. I didn't care about the Realm, I didn't care about the dynasty, I didn't care about the people, I just cared about the fact that my happiness was stripped away and I had ... this ... lumped in its place, and when I looked into the future, all I saw was drowning myself in wine, women and occasionally smashing someone's head in.

"Then on the morning of the wedding, I woke up ... and I felt different." A glimmer of understanding entered into Jon's blue eyes. "I remember being confused, as though I didn't know where I was, or who I was. Then I remembered ... and I remembered more! Jon, suddenly I knew things I never remembered learning. I remember stories that have never been told beneath this sky," I gestured up at the stars. "I remember mighty machines, and armies that stretched from horizon to horizon. I suddenly knew why the wind blowing moves a ship, and how to make a better sail. I knew a method of stopping barnacles, kelp and borers from attaching to the hull, so that a ship is never slowed by fouling. I know ways of casting steel like bronze, of pulling trains of wagons without them being pulled by any beast. I know how a sparrow flies, and I know how to make craft that will allow men to fly without magic or dragons. I know how to make weapons that will bring the mightiest stone walls crumbling to the ground, and will one day make a knight's armour obsolete." I paused, and saw a concerned look in Jon's eyes.

"Ah, there it is: the question is rattling around in your brain. 'Has he truly gone mad? Did the pressure of the throne and the horrors of the last years simply snap his reason?'"

He shook his head, downed his brandy, then cleared his throat. "Actually, I was thinking that a lot of things are starting to make sense. Your sudden preference for shorter hair, your growing interest in politics and governance. You suddenly seemed much more perceptive and, well, verbose." He shook his head again. "I fear I simply overlooked it as simply good fortune, as though the prospect of becoming king in truth had ... altered your mood and interest. I had so much to do, so many things demanding my attention, I ... I suppose I just accepted your changes as a fine young man finally growing up to meet the challenges the gods had presented him with."

I sighed. "Honestly, Jon, sometimes I wished it were so simple, or that I simply suffered a sudden brainstorm brought about by too much drink." I paused. "It is like ... it is like I was flooded by visions of a life lived on another world, a world where what you would call marvels were simply commonplace, as ordinary as ..." I smiled. "As horseshoes and ploughs. Of lights cast without flame, of books printed in the millions, of machines that would let you speak to another thousands of miles away in an instant ..." I leant heavily on the balcony. "You can imagine I was a little ... shocked that morning."

Jon joined me, resting his forearms on the stonework. "Robert, this is a lot to take in, and yes, it does sound fantastical. May I ask a few questions, for my peace of mind?" I nodded. "Have these ... memories ... supplanted your own? Do you still recall the days you first arrived at the Eyrie? Your squiring and then your knighting?"

"And Ned, and Harranhal, and Lyanna," I paused, recalling her face. "And Rhaegar," I hissed, feeling an echo of that white-hot rage as I pictured that perfect, cold, pale face. "And the war to remove Aerys, and all that followed." I swallowed hard, recalling my shame yet again. "No, Jon, I am still me ... I am just not simply me, if that makes any sense at all," I said with a tight smile.

"Alright," he said with a nod. "If you know so much, have so much knowledge ... then why did you ask me to find Horin, or another like him? Why the charade?"

I grinned suddenly. "Because I had not the faintest idea of how to turn any of my knowledge into reality." He blinked. "Jon, you live in the Eyrie, one of the marvels of Westeros: could you make another like it? Do you know how to carve stone, to make the tools and equipment needed to haul such a weight of rock into the air? Could you shape the walls so that they would not crumble or collapse upon themselves?"

"Certainly not: I'm neither mason nor engineer."

"Or could you teach, say, a wildling from beyond the Wall, who has only ever held bronze or copper tools, how to dig up iron ore, smelt it into iron, and then into steel blades?"

"I ... no, I don't think I could."

"And so: I have the theory in my head, I know the general principals. Dig the iron ore, crush it, roast it over flame, extract the metal from the stone ... heat and hammer the iron with charcoal or coal to turn the iron into steel - but I've never held a smith's mallet, only my own warhammer. I needed someone who already knew the principals, and the practical elements. I needed someone who already understood chemicals and elements, numbers and letters, mechanics and metalwork. Horin was a perfect ... liaison, between my vague understanding and the worker who actually produces the machine I envisage.

"More, I needed someone to take the credit: as you said, I have never been known as a man of learning or inspiration. I needed someone who could claim these inventions as his own, because if I suddenly started coming up with radical new ideas, how long would it be before people started wondering if they had only replaced one Mad King with another?"

"But ... if the machines work, if your ideas prove practical, if this ... otherworldly knowledge is proven to be correct -"

"And then we come to the last reason," I said softly. "I needed to learn if what I knew was real. I needed to learn, for myself, if my new knowledge was truth, or fantasy. So, I had Horin investigate a few of my ideas, specifically the ones that I had no capacity to work out for myself. Oh, the steam spinner is logical enough, when you think about what happens when a sealed container of water is placed on a fire, and the force the wind can exert on a sail," I said hurriedly, but from his expression, Jon didn't exactly follow. "But I asked Horin to combine three elements, one of which I was not sure of the proper name, in certain proportions, in a certain method. It was not something I had even dreamed of being interested in before the morning of my wedding, and thus, if it proved to be nonsense, I would know that I was truly mad." I reached into a pouch at my belt, and withdrew a small cloth-wrapped package. "This is the result. A fine black powder, a combination of charcoal, brimstone and saltpetre crystals. And it works exactly as I thought it would, as I hoped it would."

He raised an eyebrow. "And ... what does it do? I certainly hope you don't try to eat it," he said in a worried tone, clearly with images of various Targaryen kings doing insane things like drinking wildfire.

I laughed. "No, Jon, nothing like that." I carefully unwrapped the package, and poured a measure of the powder into my gloved palm. Then I cast the pile of powder into the nearest brazier ... and Jon leapt at the sudden flash of flame and smoke.

"Seven Hells," he yelped, clutching a fist to his chest. "By the Old Gods and the New, boy, what's gotten into you? What is that, some kind of powdered wildfire?"

I grinned. "Oh, no, Jon. Something a lot more useful than that. Something that is going to change this world forever."Chapter 7 (ii)

I tossed aside the paper in my hand - a summary of the small group of master masons and engineers I had had investigating the Red Keep's network of secret passages, tunnels and traps, including a few notes of injuries and deaths caused by the latter in the course of their exploration - and waved for Ser Davos to continue his report. "And that's about it, Your Grace. Wind Sister is a fine vessel, and with the changes to her hull and sails, she's faster and more seaworthy than any carrack I've seen in these waters." He hesitated. "I will say, Your Grace, begging your pardon, but several old Navy men have suggested - and I agree, mind you - that with the changes to her hull, they'd be wary of pirates and raiders, let alone warships. Carracks have no ram or oars, so if she's caught becalmed and boarded ..." he shook his head. "Still, she's fleet, that much I will say."

I nodded, and glanced across the Small Council Chamber at Jon, who nodded to me. I turned back to Davos. "Well done, Ser Davos. You have lived up to the praise my brother heaped upon you."

He frowned. "Beggin your pardon again, Your Grace, but to be perfectly honest, 'praise' and 'Stannis Barratheon' don't seem to go well together. No offense intended to Lord Stannis, of course," he added hastily.

I laughed. "Actually, he said you were competent and not untrustworthy - for a smuggler. I took that to mean a lot more than when another man would wax lyrical about another man's abilities. You mean what you say, you don't mince words, and you do what you set out to do: as far as my brother is concerned, there are few complements that could top those." The sea captain bowed deeply, acknowledging the praise. "I understand you requested for the Master of Ships to release you so you could visit your family: that request is granted." Davos bowed again, a look of relief and happiness on his face. "However, as a landed knight in service to my House, there are certain ... attributes that you would do well to cultivate." When he blinked, I laughed. "I mean you need to learn how to read and write, Davos!" I gestured to one side, and a young man in plain clothing stepped forwards. "This is Master Curis, who is to enter your service. He's a fine clerk and spent a season at sea on his father's fishing boat, so you're hardly lacking in common topics to discuss." Seeing Davos' crestfallen expression, I shook my head. "For the Seven's sake, man, its a vital skill, especially if you're going to rise in the Royal service. Maps, charts, orders, signals, they all take reading and writing, and you can't have someone else writing your log for you."

The former smuggler shifted in discomfort. "Pardon me, Your Grace, but it may be that such things are long behind me -"

"Ser Davos," I said sharply, and the older man straightened his spine, reaching up to touch the small bag hanging about his neck.

"As you will, Your Grace," he said hastily as Curis stepped over to his new employer.

As Ser Davos bowed out to make his preparations, I turned to Jon. "Well, that went as well as can be expected."

He shrugged. "Conventional wisdom is that carracks are only good for carrying cargo and troops: if you want a warship, build a galley. Remove her castles, and a carrack is even of less use in combat."

I smiled, and he shook his head. Despite our discussions, he still wasn't sold on the value of my plans: they were just too far outside his preconceptions. I'll have to work on his sense of wonder, I thought with a grin. "Right: what's next?"

Jon checked his notes. "The Master of Coin and the Lord Commander, Your Grace."

I waved a hand, and the two men were brought into the Small Council chamber. Since this was a light day, there was no formal Council, which was usually convened three times a week. Thus, we kept the formalities to a minimum.

After the necessary bows and mutterings of respect and fealty, my uncle, somewhat chastened but still irritated, stepped forward. "Your Grace," said Lord Eldon, "My men, in the company of members of Ser Barristan's Order, have scoured the Royal Treasury as well as the armoury, the old quarters and all the darkened corners of the Red Keep. In our search, we have, I believe, discovered every last scrap of Valyrian steel housed therein," he pulled a small scrap of paper from his sleeve, "Including, but not limited to, three daggers, six rings, a candlestick, two cups, a set of twelve needles, scalpels and various other surgical tools (used by the Maesters when tending the King or his household), the inlay from several breastplates, helms and a pair of gauntlets ... and the royal crown of King Aegon I and II, Maegor I and Daeron I," he finished with a shake of his head. "All told, it comes to a hair under six and one half pounds of pure Valyrian steel."

Jon's jaw dropped, and I repressed a grin. I had a feeling that there was a lot of little bits of Valyrian steel about the capital, if you knew where to look. My inspiration was the dagger Joffrey used, in the original timeline, to try and assassinate Bran Stark, and the crown of Aegon the Conqueror, a circlet of Valyrian steel and rubies, worn by the first, 3rd, 6th and 8th kings to sit on the Iron Throne: I had worried that the crown in question had been lost when Daeron died fighting in Dorne, but it had been in the Royal Treasury, waiting for someone ballsy enough to wear it.

"Excellent," I said, rubbing my hands together in barely suppressed glee. "I presume that once the steel is removed, there will be more precious materials? Gold, gems, dragonbone?" Eldon nodded. "Good. Keep the rubies from the crown, but have the rest added to the Master of Work's budget for improving the capital's infrastructure. Waste not, want not, eh?"

"But ... but ... that candlestick was presented to the King by Lord Stark's great grandfather," spluttered a robed functionary, who I vaguely understood was an underbutler or some such, responsible for the decoration and maintenance of the Royal Quarters. "It is traditional to bring it out and use on the occasion of the Lord Paramount of the North's visits, as a symbol of their fealty and loyalty! It would be an insult of the highest order to -"

"I'm pretty sure Ned doesn't need any reminders of the bonds between us," I said dismissively. "Besides: it was gifted to the Targaryens: to the victor go the spoils and all that. Besides," I grinned, rubbing my hands together again, "I have something a lot more practical in mind for this metal ..."

*** *** ***

... I read with great interest your missive regarding the fortress of Moat Cailin: I agree with you that the position is far too valuable to be allowed to remain a ruin. Not only from a military standpoint - although I cannot at this time imagine a force that could overwhelm either the lands above the neck or those below, the danger of an enemy, perhaps from across the sea, splitting the Realm in half in a single stroke is far too great to ignore - but also from the standpoint of trade. In years to come, I believe that the trade between North and South will only grow, so it is quite seemly to have a well fortified outpost to help control that trade and for the purposes of tolls. I have discussed this matter with my Master of Coin, and he has suggested some items which may be to your profit to begin exporting south, and others you already harvest that you may wish to increase efforts regarding. Additionally, with this letter I have also sent you the gears and blades of one of our new harvesters, along with detailed drawings and several men who are practiced with its assembly and use. Ned, this is important: I know how hard it is to grow crops up your way: this could help feed your people this coming Winter.

I also include a gift for your lady wife: a full copy of the Seven Pointed Star, copied and bound by the brothers at Jahenis' septry in King's Landing, as well as two copies produced by their new printing press - a marvelous device for producing many copies of a text quickly. I hope the bright colours of the illumination and lettering will provide her a little relief from the overwhelming grey stone and white snow you Northerners love so well ... I jest, Ned, truly I jest! In any case, the press is becoming more popular in the capital: the High Septon has taken to having hundreds of copies of his sermons printed every week, so that more of the smallfolk can benefit from his wisdom and magnificent holiness - don't shake your head like that, Ned, not all of us can preserve our souls by kneeling in front of a tree!

More solemnly, I read the copy of Benjen's first report regarding the Gifts and Castle Black ... if his missives regarding the other forts along the Wall are as grim reading, then we have a serious problem. It has been a long time since the last King Beyond the Wall decided to take a walk in warmer weather, but if the Watch has barely two thousand men ... I know that the Knight's Watch is not under my authority, but the Realms of Men placed a great deal of responsibility in their hands a long time ago. If they can no longer discharge that duty, then the time may have come for change. Do not fear, I have no intention of charging North and putting Stannis in charge of the Wall, but ignoring problems doesn't make them go away.

Stop laughing, Ned.

In any case, the lesson I have most strongly taken from your letters is that the North is short of men - of people in general, in fact. You have spent far too many of your lives fighting in the South, and you require more hands to gather less food than in warmer climes. Hopefully, the harvester - and those your craftsmen build to copy it - will help with the latter, allowing you to plant and harvest far larger fields in a shorter time. For the former ... King's Landing and the Crownlands in general have more than ample smallfolk, and young knights and lords eager to inherit more than a place at their elder brother's tables.

Oh, I have no intention of sending a tidal flood of Southerners to invade your lands, but you admit in your own words that you have far too many idle farms and empty towns, and I have folk who would travel far to have land of their own to till. Perhaps a call to those in the South who still honour your gods?

On a slightly different topic, I was walking in the Keep's Godswood when I came across the great oak that serves as our heart tree. It is a fine specimen of its kind, overgrown with smokeberry vines, but when I looked upon it I remembered all those times you described the heart tree at Winterfell ... I wonder, what would it take to bring a weirwood tree to take its place? As I said, there are still those of your faith in the capital, and it would be a fitting message to send, that I am not only the ruler of the faithful of the Seven, but of all of the people of Westeros ... I trust your judgement, Ned, and seek your advice ...

I placed down my pen - thank you, Horin, for finally getting a metal nib working: it may scratch and scrape, but its leagues ahead of a quill - and stood up from my desk, arching my back and working my shoulders. Deciding to stretch my legs, I crossed the floor of my solar and entered the main room of the royal apartments, where Horin and Cersei were examining sketches, diagrams and notes scattered across the table.

"... and there is no way that should have happened," insisted Cersei, just this side of a screech. "The ropes were sound, the weights twice as heavy as for the last one! There is no reason that balloon should have ripped its way free like that!"

"Your Grace," sighed Horin, smoothing out a charcoal sketch of a large balloon, "while it is true that our workers made this latest prototype twice as tall and twice as wide, in actual fact it made the resulting balloon eight times as voluminous," he straightened up to gesture with his hands, as though encompassing a large fruit.

Cersei gaped at him. "But that doesn't ... I mean, it makes no sense!" she muttered, bending again over the papers.

I smiled as I approached: while not exactly a mental giant, especially in terms of mathematics, Cersei was nothing if not stubborn ... and she hated to be beaten by anything, even if simply by physics. "Was there a problem with our latest balloon?" I asked in a friendly tone, and Cersei straightened up, a look of surprise and embarrassment on her face.

"Not at all," Horin insisted smoothly, sketching a bow. "I'm sure the people of Pentos will be delighted to see it once the easterly winds finish blowing it across the Narrow Sea."

"Then it was hardly wasted, was it?" I asked with a grin, and slipped an arm around Cersei's waist, kissing her cheek. "Consider, my love, a chest of gold, alongside one of the same dimensions, but twice as long, twice as high and twice as wide: is the second chest twice the weight of the first?"

She frowned. "Well, no, but ..." Her brow furrowed.

Before we could get further into discussions of volume vs area, there was a knock on the door, and Ser Baristan stepped inside, followed by Jon and Master of Arms Tyrek. I began to smile, but my face fell as I saw their expressions. "Jon?"

"Word arrived this morning," the Hand said seriously, placing a rolled map on the table, and rolling it out, "It seems that Lord Alan Cressey of Mosborough has publicly declared for Prince Viserys Targaryen, and has begun gathering swords to forcibly overthrow the Realm."

As he placed weights at the corners of the map of the Crownlands, my mind cast back to my conversation with Varys some weeks before. "Cressey ... he threw out some tax collectors, didn't he?"

Jon nodded, pointing to the province that was the location of the troublesome lord. "It happens sometimes, but this time it looks like he's serious. The Cresseys were always Targaryen loyalists, and he's never made any bones about the fact that he doesn't exactly like you ... "

I listened with one ear while I wracked my brain, trying to remember if there was any hint of a major uprising during Robert's reign in the books. Other than the Greyjoy Rebellion, none came to mind ...

"How ... how dare he! He's little more than a jumped up landed knight!" screeched Cersei, and I placed a hand on her arm to stop her from grabbing the map. Good gods, I was hoping we'd avoid her showing off her flair for tearing things up, I mused as I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and held her close, even as she breathed hard with suppressed rage.

"Where's Varys?" I demanded, and just as I spoke the eunuch rushed in, hiking up the hem of his robe in order to move faster, his bald head shining with sweat.

"I am here, Your Grace, and may I say I am as shocked as you are about this shameful -"

"I should hope you aren't as shocked as I am," I thundered, glaring at the smaller man. "A rebellion in the Crownlands, and you're not the first to tell me about it?"

"If you recall, Your Grace, we did have a discussion regarding this very lord not so long ago," countered Varys, backpedaling as fast as he could.

"A discussion where you claimed you'd tell me if anything more happened: guess what? Something bloody happened!"

"Many birds sing me many songs, but even a spider can be surprised," he defended himself, and Jon interrupted.

"Whoever's fault it is, the fact remains that Cressey is throwing around gold like water, and sellswords and hedge knights are flocking to his banner. Some of his neighbours have already joined him: at last raven, his forces number over a thousand lances."

Too many, too quickly: this isn't a spur of the moment thing. This is planned, this is prepared, this is financed. I wonder how many of those coins were struck in Casterly Rock?

"Then we had better move," I said decisively. I glanced at Tyrek. "Any change since your last report?"

The Master of Arms shook his head, his helm propped under one arm. "We have four full cohorts ready to march at a day's notice. There are more men, but the rest are trainees and their instructors. If we take them, we may muster another half-cohort -"

"Which is underprepared, ill disciplined and will put the training program back weeks, win or lose," I grumbled. "Alright. Have them gear up and be ready to march in the morning: first light." I glanced at Jon. "Send ravens to lords Rosby, Rollingford and Hayford, and have them raise their banners and march for Stokesworth's keep. Gather all Baratheon, Arryn and -" I glanced down at my wife, who hesitated, then nodded. "Lannister knights and armsmen in the city, and have them gather on the tourney fields." I grinned savagely. "One of the few benefits of having so many lords and nobles present in the capital, hanging about, drinking my ale and swiving my serving wenches: that means a lot of sword swingers about when everything goes to pot."

*** *** ***

When dawn broke, I was already in the courtyard, my squires and servants bustling about strapping my armour into place. A workmanlike affair of plates over a chain hauberk, underneath a tabard of yellow embroidered by a black stag, it was hardly the most kingly of panoply's, yet it had seen me through the last war well enough. I'd probably better look at investing in some heavier plate before the Greyjoys kick off their own little temper tantrum ... if they do at all: what if I've sent too many butterflies out into the world, flapping their wings for all they're worth? What if all my 'future knowledge' is becoming less useful every day? As I brooded, I almost failed to notice the approach of the queen, spectacularly dressed in a dress of red silk with a green overdress, laced up the front to expose a considerable amount of cleavage, cut to flatter her growing figure and draped with necklaces of gold and emeralds. Behind her walked her ladies in waiting, dressed somewhat more demurely, but still impressive, as much decorations as her jewels.

I waved my servants aside as Cersei glided across the flagstones, and she took my leather gauntleted hands in hers, her tiny, slender fingers juxtaposing against my massive paws. "You would have left without allowing me to say goodbye, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice carrying across the courtyard.

So: theatre, is it? I can do theatre. "Forgive me, my queen: you looked too beautiful where you lay asleep. I dared not awaken you, for fear of disturbing that beauty. I see now I was foolish: Cersei awake is even more beautiful than Cersei in slumber."

She laughed, and even though I knew she was playing the crowd, the knights and soldiers about us, and the servants, ladies, nobles and others who watched from the windows and corridors of the Red Keep, I saw a glint in her eye that could possibly be mistaken for actual affection. "Has the crown turned the mighty warrior I married into a poet? Will you fight the rebel with paintbrush and quill?"

I raised her hands to my mouth, and kissed them gently. "If I am an artist, my queen, then I paint only in red. The peace of the Realms has been disturbed: I shall not rest until it is restored."

"Then take this," she said, letting go of my hands and accepting a strip of scarlet cloth embroidered with golden thread, bright in comparison to my own livery. "For while I cannot join you on the field, I pray to the Warrior and the Father than some part of my spirit will go with you, and perhaps bring you luck." In the time honoured tradition of Andal womanhood, she bound the cloth about my forearm.

"With such a token, surely I cannot fail," I proclaimed as I stepped back a pace, then accepted the long handle of my warhammer from my squire. "Warriors of the Realm! Men of Westeros! The banner of the Dragon has been raised again, and so we march again! For the peace of the Realm! For the safety of our homes! And for the honour of our Queen! For Ours is the Fury!" I cried, and around me Baratheon knights and Kingsguard drew their own weapons and howled their own determination.

"Ours is the Fury! Ours is the Fury! Ours is the Fury!"