Chapter Text
"You know what I call that man", remarked Prince Gendry, to Jon. He glanced up, as the major domo announced the new arrival to the assembled gathering.
"His Excellency, Petyr Baelish, Marquis of Rosby, Principal Secretary of State to his Majesty, King Renly Baratheon."
"Do tell me."
"Shit in a silk stocking.". Jon laughed.
"He's negotiating on behalf of your uncle, my Lord Prince."
"I know. It doesn't mean that I have to like him. He turned his coat, with perfect timing, from serving the Committee of Public Safety, to the Directorate. Then, he served the Empress, before abandoning her, and somehow he persuaded my uncle that he'd always been a Baratheon loyalist. He's a traitor."
"They say that treason is simply a matter of dates. I see he's making his making his way towards us. Ah! he's taken the arm of Lord Varys."
"Vice, leaning on the arm of Crime. Another turncoat." The two men approached them. As if by magic, servants appeared, offering them all fresh glasses of champagne and sweetmeats. Lord Baelish bowed to both men. He had a pointed chin beard, Jon noted. For some reason, it irritated him.
"Allow me to say what an honour it is, at long last, to meet the Conqueror, of the Conqueror of the World." He held out his hand, and politeness required Jon to shake it.
"You have performed a service to humanity, your Excellency", remarked Lord Varys. His hand was limp, and the man wore a scent which smelled like violets. He knew him to be King Renly's Minister of the Interior, a man who likewise, had deftly switched from one regime to the next. He had a formidable reputation for cruelty.
"I am surprised to see you here in Oldtown, my lord. Surely, the Empress has her loyalists back at home, who bear watching."
"She's finished, for ever, and her people know it. The country, I can assure you, is quite tranquil. In due time, our excellent Prince," and here he bowed to Gendry, "will ascend the throne, to the universal acclaim of his subjects." It was a fairly open secret, in diplomatic circles, that the King of the Crownlands was not a ladies' man, and would never have children of his own. An act which remained a crime in his own country, had been made legal by the revolutionaries, when they seized power. The Empress had not sought to reverse that change, nor, obviously, would the new monarch.
"I assume that you have already met my Lord Manderly", he remarked to Baelish, his own country's Foreign Secretary.
"I had the honour of breaking my fast with him, this morning. A most formidable man." Opinions differed, among the governments of the Seven Kingdoms. Some, led by Prince Tywin, First Minister of the Westerlands, favoured making a harsh example of the Crownlands, exacting a huge indemnity from their beaten enemy, along with substantial territorial concessions. Jon knew that privately, his own government trusted the ambitious rulers of the Westerlands and The Vale, less even than their recent enemy. "The Crownlands must be punished, yes", Manderly had told him. "But, not to the extent that they'll plan a war of revenge in the future. Who knows? Five years from now, they might be our allies”.
And that had been the Empress’ chief fault. She had imposed terms on her enemies which left them no option, but to return to war eventually. That, and her Dornish invasion. Dorne of course, was where he had made his reputation. Sensing an opportunity, and commanding the Western Sea, his own government had sent him there, at the head of an expeditionary force. Dorne’s army, and the partisans who harassed the invaders, had taken their toll. But, it was the Northmen and Free Folk, who’d won the decisive victories, that drove the imperial armies back into the Stormlands. He had been rewarded with the Marquessate of Moat Cailin, and a most handsome pension, from a grateful Parliament.
”A question, my Lord, if I may”, remarked Baelish. “In my country, all young men are eligible to serve, rich or poor. That was the Empress’ decree, exempting only those with widowed mothers or young children, to support. In yours, only the very poorest join the army, other than the officers. How is it, they achieved so much? “ A good question.
”It’s true. We recruit the desperate. Thieves, drunkards, gamblers, men who’ve failed in life. The Scum of the Earth, truly. And yet, you’ve seen what fine fellows we made of them. Discipline, pride in their regiments and love of comrades, that’s what turns them into soldiers. For the first time in their lives, they’ve been taught to respect themselves.” Baelish nodded. The man had seemed genuinely interested, not merely trying to flatter him.
Baelish glanced at the entrance, gasped out loud, then asked, "What Goddesses are these?" It was his cousin, Sansa, Countess of Last Hearth, and her mother, Catelyn, the Duchess of Winterfell, accompanied by a very young man, wearing the black and silver undress uniform of a lieutenant in Lord Rowan's Hussars. He wore a pelisse over his left shoulder, a useless garment, but highly fashionable among cavalry officers. He was very handsome, no doubt extremely arrogant, and in all likelihood, the latest paramour of one of the two women, or maybe both of them.
"Allow me to introduce you to my cousin, and my step-mother." He led his companions over towards the women, and made the introductions. Prince Gendry was affable, but slightly reserved, as befitted royalty, whereas Baelish positively grovelled towards them - well, he was one of the most eminent lechers in the Seven Kingdoms. Of course, the ladies revelled in the flattery, each of them possessing an atrocious taste in men. Eventually, he drew Sansa aside. She looked quite beautiful this evening, wearing a low cut gown of maroon velvet, and a ruby necklace which matched her red hair perfectly. "Is he yours or Mama’s?" he enquired, glancing at the young officer.
"A friend of mine," replied Sansa. Jon rolled his eyes. "Oh come now Jon, I should think you are the very last man on earth who could lecture me on the subject of infidelity?" Like most of his class, Jon had enjoyed a number of discreet affairs.
"I just think, you could do a lot better for yourself."
"Oh, Rudi is sweet, and very ardent. Of course, it won't last." Sansa gave a wicked smile. "Lord Rosby seems to have taken a keen interest in me. And, Mama. Perhaps we can serve our country, by seducing him, and persuading him to spill his secrets."
"That one hasn't come as far as he has by spilling secrets."
Before his cousin could reply, the major domo cried out:
"Your Highnesses, Your Excellencies, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen, dinner is now served!" They adjourned to the dining room, although the words "dining room" hardly did this chamber, in the Hightowers' Palace, justice. It was a vast room, the ceiling and walls bearing frescoes which depicted the Long Night, illuminated by priceless crystal chandeliers. Perhaps two hundred were gathered for the feast, all to be seated strictly in accordance with precedence. With one exception. It would not do for the foremost commander of the era to be seated anywhere other than on the top table, along with those royalty present.
"It is a privilege to be seated next to you, my Lord", remarked the lady to his right, Princess Desmera, the niece to the King of the Reach. She was quite stunning, with auburn hair and green eyes, and displaying a generous amount of cleveage.
"The honour is mine, your Highness."
"Oh dear."
"What is the matter?"
"The soup. Look, they're serving it in golden bowls. The Hightowers are so frightfully vulgar, you might almost imagine they had risen out of the ranks of the herd. Besides, gold makes food go cold so quickly." He tried the soup. It was turtle, delicious.
"I can assure you, Ma'am, at Moat Cailin, the soup is served out of china." She laughed at that, and they talked at length about his military career. She had this knack, he realised, of making you think you were the most important person in her life. The soup was removed, and replaced with fresh sea bream, cooked with fennel.
"Changing the subject, the Hightowers may be vulgar, but their art collection is unparalelled. Have you seen it? "
"Not yet, I'm afraid. My time has been taken up with the negotiations, and answering invitations to dinners and balls."
"I heard that two nights ago, a group of Crownlands officers were disgracefully rude, at Queen Alerie's ball. Her Majesty told me that they turned their backs on you."
"Tis no matter. I saw their backs often enough in Dorne!" She burst out laughing, before whispering to him, "I think we had best converse with our neighbours." She turned away from him, and he began to talk to Prince Quentyn of Dorne, an earnest if dull young man. The man was full of awe about Jon's exploits in his own country, assuring him of their undying gratitude. The Prince might admire him, but he was sceptical about his country's nobility. The Dornish had accepted Northern aid, and most were brave. But, it had shamed them that they could not liberate their own country, without such aid. Relations with the Dornish generals had never been easy ones.
"Tell it true, my Lord, what do you think of our armies?" A difficult subject, yet he decided that the truth would be best. This man would rule Dorne, in years to come, and so he was owed honesty.
"I have nothing but praise for the Dornish infantry. They are valiant, well-disciplined, and they keep their heads under fire. Your artillery is competent, but lacking in numbers. Your irregular forces proved invaluable to me. But your cavalry ... I'm afraid, that was a disaster." That was simply the truth. Time and again, Dornish cavalry had broken, in the face of their Imperial counterparts, leaving the rest of the army to its fate. "And, whilst I believe that many of your officers are able men, too many of your commanders are appointed on the basis of political favouritism. Men like Yrnwood and Uller! I'd have had them cashiered!" The Prince looked shocked. "Believe me, your Highness, we appointed our own share of incompetents, in the early years of the war, but they were weeded out eventually."
”I shall bear that in mind”, the Prince said finally, as the next course arrived, roast rack of lamb, with rosemary. The man sighed, before remarking, “the war has left us bankrupt, and our colonies are on the brink of revolt.” Lord Manderly had briefed Jon on the matter. Lys, Myr, and the Stepstones, all long subject to Dorne were looking to break away. The Dornish wanted military aid from the other kingdoms, to put down the rebels. The Foreign Secretary had told him his own government’s sympathies lay with the latter, seeing them as potential trading partners. “The gentry want the income tax abolished and either this government must do it, or they’ll elect another. The last thing we want is another expensive war, against people who simply wish to be independent.” That the Free Folk chafed at Northern rule, went unmentioned.
He resumed conversation, with Desmera, who by now, was gently stroking his foot with her own, as ices were served. "Of course, you will wish shortly to retire with the other gentlemen, for brandy and cigars, but afterwards .... I would like to show you the picture gallery. " In due course, the dinner ended, and he left for the smoking room, exchanging pleasantries as he sipped an extremely fine thirty year old brandy from the Arbour. He did not smoke, and after perhaps thirty minutes, he excused himself. She was waiting for him in the gallery, which was empty. She took his arm, and showed him the old masters, which were indeed outstanding. Afterwards, she suggested he might like to join him in her chambers.
"And your husband, Ma'am?"
"He is a long way from here. As indeed, is the Lady of Moat Cailin." That was true enough. His marriage had proved unsuccessful, and the pair led mainly separate lives.
Princess Desmera proved to be a most skilful lover. He had no doubt, he was far from her only conquest. He left her chamber before dawn, then bathed, and broke his fast. He had learned, whilst on campaign, to rise early. There then followed hours of turgid negotiations, as each of the parties set out their positions. Of course, the real negotiations would take place, well away from the plenary sessions, at breakfasts, informal lunches, even at dances, or while out hunting. His step-mother had rented a mansion adjoining the city's ancient university, the Citadel, and had arranged a ball, for that night. It was while he danced with Sansa, that she told him the news, flushed with excitement.
"I've just heard Jon, from Prince Tywin himself." The Old Lion was one of the guests at the ball. Plainly, Sansa wished to savour the moment.
"Heard what."
"A rumour, no more. They say the Empress has left her exile on Driftmark, and is to march on Kings Landing."
Sir John Cerwyn, Marquess of Moat Cailin.
