59

Chapter 59: Chapter 43: The StormChapter Text

"Ours is the Fury."

-House words of House Baratheon

110 AC, Tower of the Hand

The sound the documents made as they landed on the table felt like the final nail in a coffin. The crack of the whip. The firing of a gun.

In an instant, both Rhaenys and Lord Boremund sat bolt upright, blue eyes razor sharp glints of sapphire as the lines on their faces grew sharper than Valyrian steel. The sheer focus in the room was suffocating, as both Baratheons gave me their full and undiluted attention.

Lord Boremund gauntlets made a grounding sound as he clenched his fists. Like both Stormlands fashion and etiquette dictated, the man was dressed for both the ballroom and the battlefield. He wore a full suit of ornate steel plate, the jet black metal polished until it could be used as a mirror and inlaid with shiny gold rims. His gorget was gilded, with a herd of crowned stags enamelled onto it. The ceremonial longsword at his hip was gilded and polished, but I knew better than to think it was anything other than razor sharp.

The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands looked like a god of war straight from the storybooks. Built like a bear and nearly seven feet tall, with a magnificent beard of black lined with silver. Lord Boremund was an imposing tower of dark steel and brute force, as grand as he was deadly. Ready to shatter all foes beneath his gauntleted fists and grind enemy hosts beneath his thick boots. His glare and focus was ferocious and withering. Lesser men would have fled from the sight alone. I idly wondered if this was how Robert Baratheon looked in his prime. A towering slab of muscle and steel. Strength personified.

If so, then I could see why the Targaryens had lost against him. Getting into a one-on-one melee with a monster like him was suicidal. Why, even giants might be hard pressed to match such an impressive specimen of musculature in pure strength.

Regardless, I deliberately forced myself to relax, making all the tension flow out of me as steel was hammered into my spine. I met his gaze, straight-backed and unflinching.

"Ser Borros Baratheon stands accused of these charges." I begun, unfolding the appropriate scroll. "Twenty-seven cases of Unprovoked Assault. Eleven of which warrant an additional charge of Battery with a Weapon. Thirteen cases of Insubordination, ten cases of Coercion, nine cases of Drunk on Duty, seven cases of Drunk and Disorderly, four cases of Indecent Behaviour and two cases of Absence Without Official Leave."

"That's quite a number of charges." Rhaenys noted.

"I'm not even to the nasty stuff yet." I drily said.

Lord Boremund massaged his temples at that.

"By all means, let us hear the nasty stuff." He sighed, gesturing for me to 'get it over with'.

"Three cases of Attempted Murder. Two cases of Attempted Rape. One case of Lèse Majesté. One case of Mutiny. Another for Incitement of Mutiny. And one last charge for Treason Against the Crown."

"That many?" Lord Boremund asked, sounding impressed in the worst possible manner.

"Those are the only ones which we have sufficient evidence for a conviction." I replied, passing over another scroll that was thrice as long. "These are the other charges that the prosecution has decided not to press."

"Seven Hells." Rhaenys cussed, glaring at the scroll as though it murdered her firstborn. Beside her, Lord Boremund Baratheon was slowly growing redder and redder as he saw the crimes of his heir. I wordlessly topped off his goblet to the brim with wine, which he knocked back once he was done reading, the empty cup slamming back down onto the table.

"Lord Boremund. I shall be frank." I said, pouring another cup of wine for the man. "I'm trapped between a rock and a hard place right now. I can write off a great many of these crimes, but not all of them. There have to be consequences."

"You mean to execute my son." Lord Baratheon thundered, voice like stone breaking.

"Uncle, you have to admit, this was worse than we expected." Rhaenys said, putting a hand on his arm. "If the Crown lets Borros walk free, it's making a travesty of justice."

"But he's my son!" Lord Boremund shouted, shaking off her hand. "I will not stand here and let my own flesh and blood be slaughtered like a pig."

"I don't want to do this either." I replied placatingly. "But it's one thing to overlook and pardon minor crimes. Another to let a would-be usurper walk free.

"Tell me, Lord Boremund. If Lord Swann one day decided that he would no longer swear fealty to you and attempt to usurp House Baratheon's position as Lord Paramount, would you take it lying down? Would you not take Lord Swann's life and punish his house for their insolence and overreach?" I patiently spoke, keeping my voice soothing and even. "General Edric Dondarrion has to press those charges. Lest we set an even worse problem in the heart of our professional army."

The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands let out a truly long and tired sigh. He knew, as well as I did, that I had no choice in the matter. Borros had to be punished.

"You know, none of this would have happened, if you didn't treat Borros like a mere lowborn foot soldier instead of the highborn knight he is." Rhaenys spoke up, drumming her fingers on the table.

Like her uncle, Rhaenys had come garbed for war, though unlike him, my future mother-in-law had doffed full ceremonial plate for a lighter brigantine instead, with a long skirt worn below, it's pleats embroidered to resemble Meleys' red scales. 

Huh, hadn't seen a skirt for quite a while. Everyone I'd seen so far preferred full-length dresses. Maybe I ought to commission a few and start wearing them in court. Make them more popular.

Regardless, it was her brigantine that drew my eye.

The brigantine was the more common and popular choice of formal attire among the Stormlords, as it was both cheaper and easier to maintain than plate, being made out of smaller pieces of metal sewn onto the underside of a padded jacket. The brigantine was a fashion item as well as a practical garment of war, as its cloth exterior was very easy to decorate with dyes, traceries or embroidery, like the two golden stags that adorned Rhaenys' black brigantine. The choice of heraldry did not go unnoticed to me. The Lady of the Tides had picked a side, and it wasn't mine.

I idly wondered if the Queen who Never Was could even wear plate any more. She'd been injured badly in the Battle of Driftmark, shattering her left ankle. I'd used sorcery to bind the bones together to the best of my ability and Grand Maester Gerardys had personally overseen her recovery, but the wound was rather crippling. She'd have a limp for the rest of her life.

Regardless, despite all my training, Rhaenys was still the better fighter, and routinely tore me apart on the training yard. And in some ways, her crippling had benefited her. She now had a socially valid excuse to carry around a long and heavy stick of wood wherever she went. And I knew for a fact that she was just as adept at using her brass-topped cane as a weapon as she was the ceremonial shortsword at her hip.

"Legion regulations state that only those whom are literate can be promoted. What use is an officer that cannot write reports or read his superior's commands?" I asked back, staring down Rhaenys. "Borros could neither read nor write, and refused to attend the literacy lessons held every night. He was given the opportunity to rise up the ranks. He did not take it."

"That is not how an army works." The Queen who Never Was disagreed. "Countless armies have been raised and wars fought across thousands of battlefields. The ability to read is not a necessity for victory on the field of battle. Only strength and stratagem matters. Borros had the first in spades and a Lord's education on battlefield matters. While I will concede it was foolish of him to demand generalship, he should have been appointed to a high station based solely on his blood."

"For barbarian hordes and undisciplined rabble mayhaps, but wars are growing more and more elaborate." I retorted disdainfully "New tactics, strategies and weapons are created single year. You've seen the last war. Seen how much things have changed from the norm. Skycarts and wildfire and anti-dragon siege engines. The wars to come will be even worse. For that, we can no longer afford brute bumbling and imprecision. Literacy is now as much a part of the modern soldier's arsenal as his sword, as triplicate forms, after-action reports and detailed records of the movements of battle become an ever-increasing part of warfare."

"There is no need to reinvent the wheel." Rhaenys shouted, rising to her feet in anger. "You're making this too elaborate and complicated. At the end of the day, there is the enemy in front, and your country at the back. Valour and power will carry the day, as it has for the past ten thousand years!"

"Sometimes, the wheel needs reinventing." I shouted back, standing up as well. I'd worn a Stormlands style dress today, and it helped pad out my figure and make me look more imposing. "Wars are decided by the smallest details. The Legions are the face of the future, mark my words. A precise machine of relentless professionalism and unyielding discipline. One that takes what it cannot break and breaks what it cannot take."

The motto of the Legions of Valyria, that. The Legions of Valyria as they first were raised were very different than those used by Valyria in its heyday, for they were an ever-evolving beast. What they couldn't break, they took for themselves and improved. They took heavy lockstep infantry from the Ghiscari. Sorcery from the Asshai'i. Heavy calvary from the Andals. And what they couldn't take, they devised methods to break. Sappers to raise battlefield fortifications quickly and counter Dothraki hordes. Alchemies such as wildfire to burn the incredibly tough Ibbenese ships. Siege engines to outrange and overpower Andal longbowmen and Tolosi slingers.

Dragons may have been the most powerful weapon in this world, but the Valyrians were far from complacent. Their military power came from this constant doctrine of learning on the field of battle. What worked once against them rarely did the second. Valyria pushed the envelope in both technology and strategy constantly. In an era where bronze was the rule, Valyria wielded steel. When most powers fielded warriors, Valyria was organising soldiers into companies. When chariots were the norm for calvary, Valyria used stirrups and saddles.

"I know my history of the Legions of Valyria." Rhaenys replied, with forced patience. "But what worked for them will not work for us. Westeros is a far different beast than Valyria. Here, the highborn have far more power than the Freeholders of the Freehold."

"I understand and appreciate that." I got out between gritted teeth. "But the Legions are a meritocracy. It is competence, not blood or birth, than earns one promotions in the institution. This is not the Goldcloaks where highborn can demand a rank solely because of their name. Borros knew what he signed onto, and refused to follow the rules he swore to obey. There have to be consequences."

"Niece, I get what you are saying, I really do." Rhaenys forced out. "But this whole mess is your own fault. One does not tell the heir to a Kingdom to serve under unwashed commoners and expect there not to be trouble. My cousin is not the first highborn to protest and will hardly be the last."

"That is a problem for another day. One Marshal Darry and I are moving to rectify, but the point of the matter is that we cannot let Borros' mutiny stand." I shot back with forced calm. "It is pointless to play the blame game today."

My aunt opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced when her uncle raised a hand to stop her. The two of us looked back at Lord Boremund. We'd forgotten he was in the room while arguing.

"I will accept this judgement over Borros." Lord Boremund sadly said. "But I shall not allow you to kill my son."

I nodded.

"Then I shall sentence him to a hard flogging for his various lesser crimes and exile for the major charges. I think… ten years of hard labour in the Stepstones." I offered. "Once he finishes his sentence, he may return back as Heir to the Stormlands."

"Agreed on the flogging, but ten years of hard labour? Surely that is rather excessive." Lord Boremund tried, but he knew his bargaining position wasn't particularly strong. Not after I waived the death penalty.

Still, I went along with it. Bending my neck a bit lower would be a trivial difference for me, but a massive boon for Lord Boremund. It was worth throwing him that bone to keep him happy and supportive.

"I am willing to offer a reduced sentence if Ser Borros pleads guilty and willingly confesses to his all of crimes. He shall offer apologies and restitution to all of the wronged parties, and to demonstrate his sincerity, will perform either the Sinner's Scourge or the Walk of Atonement from the Great Sept of Aemma." I smilingly offered. "In exchange, I shall sentence him to fewer years of hard labour."

"How many years?" Lord Boremund asked, tacitly agreeing.

"If he does as I say, for his major crimes, Ser Borros will instead be sentenced to seven years of hard labour following one year of atonement as a penitent on the Quiet Isle. The lesser crimes will be doled out by lashes of the cane, the exact number to be decided on the trial date itself."

"Aye. That'll do."

We shook on it, and I prayed that I hadn't just made the first blunder of my reign.