The hour was late, yet the manse still glowed with candles and soft gold light. The great hall hummed with quiet conversation, steel glinting at belts, cloaks draped over chairs, and the smell of roast boar and spiced arbor red thick in the air. Though it was a feast, no one had come merely to eat.
Arthur sat at the head of the long oaken table, Wendel at his right, Donnel standing behind him like a shadow carved in iron. The lords who had pledged their names for the war filled the hall, bright cloaks, heavy rings, polished steel. Some spoke softly, others watched Arthur with the eyes of men weighing a commander before battle.
Lord Renly Baratheon lounged in his seat with easy charm, wine in hand and a smile that revealed nothing. Beside him Lord Mace Tyrell ate with gusto while Ser Loras Tyrell sat straight-backed, saying little, eyes sharp.
The Royce men, Lord Yohn and his sons Andar and Robar, were stone-faced beneath their runed bronze. Lord Beric Dondarrion, tall and fair, sparkled like sunlight on a blade, while his cousin Manfred brooded quietly behind him. The Redwyne twins whispered to each other, smirking. The Frey knights sat stiff and humorless. Lord Bryce Caron and Ser Rolland Storm kept to themselves, both warriors to the bone.
All of them had sworn to this cause. All waited for Arthur to explain how the great holy war would progress.
Lord Yohn spoke, his voice deep as a drum. "How soon shall we make way for Andalos, Ser Arthur?"
Every set of eyes in the hall shifted to him.
Arthur leaned forward slightly. His voice was quiet, "Within six to nine moons, my lords. That shall give us time enough to gather provisions, and strengthen stores. A campaign across the Narrow Sea is no small undertaking."
A few nods. A few frowns.
"And in that time," Arthur continued, "we shall secure the Stepstones."
A ripple passed through the table. Murmurs rose, hushed but sharp.
Lord Mathis Rowan cleared his throat, a steady, level-headed man whose judgment was well respected by most. "Pray tell, ser… why must we squander time and blood on those pirate-ridden rocks?"
He spoke calmly, but many leaned forward as if Mathis had struck the table with a gauntlet.
Arthur knew this moment would come. Some would whisper later that he did it to fatten his own holdings, that he wished to carve a kingdom in the Narrow Sea. The truth was both simpler and more complicated.
"I understand the concern, my lord," Arthur said. "The Stepstones seem but a scatter of barren rocks to many. But they are the keystone of all our designs."
Ser Hosteen Frey snorted. "Keystone? They're infested with cutthroats."
"Aye," Arthur replied calmly. "Cutthroats who prey on every ship that sails south of Dorne or east of Driftmark. Cutthroats who will prey on our ships once our armies begin crossing to Andalos. How can we wage a war if half our fleet never reaches the far shore?"
That earned a murmur of agreement.
Arthur rested his palms lightly upon the table, his tone measured, yet carrying the calm confidence of a man who had thought long on these matters. "My lord," he said to Rowan, "you have fought more battles than I have years in me. You know the bells of war far better than I could ever hope to. Yet, in my humble view, the Stepstones are no trifle to be ignored. They are the gateway to the Narrow Sea… and in turn to Westeros itself."
Faces around the table sharpened with interest.
"If ever foreign foes sought to carve a foothold upon our shores," Arthur continued, "they would look to three places first, Dragonstone, Tarth, and the Stepstones. From there a man may choke trade, raid coasts, or land an army. If we march north into Andalos, we must first ensure no dagger finds its way into our back."
"In order to go north, my lords… we must go south. Secure the channels. Silence the pirates. Plant the banners of Westeros where others might plant their own."
Renly Baratheon gave a bright, agreeable laugh. "Hear, hear. Well spoken, ser. And true. Word reaches court that Tyrosh eyes the isles as well. They would claim them if they could, and bleed us dry."
"And the Tyroshi are quite friendly with the dragons," Perwyn Frey added, shifting a little as though expecting someone to mock him.
Ser Loras inclined his head beside him, though his gaze remained fixed on Arthur, studying.
A murmur traveled the hall.
"Aye," Yohn Royce rumbled darkly, his runic bronze glinting in the lamplight. "Those painted bastards fought against us when the Blackfyres rose for the last time. Different colors then, yet still dragons."
A ripple of unease passed some faces, young knights who had lived only in times of peace. Lord Yohn alone here had seen the Blackfyre pretenders, had crossed steel with sellswords and princes.
Wendel Manderly rumbled, "Leave those rocks untended, and the pirates will swarm us like flies around a corpse. Better we burn them out before they breed."
Beric Dondarrion nodded, "Ser Arthur speaks wisely," he said, "The Stepstones have been the hinge of war a dozen times in a dozen generations. To leave them unclaimed is folly."
Mathis Rowan folded his hands, thoughtful. "I see the shape of your reasoning now, ser. Create a shield before drawing your blade."
"A strong shield," Arthur replied, "with harbors, garrisons, and watchtowers. Any fleet sailing east or west must pass through our fingers. And our ships will sail with steady supply, unharried."
Yet before the weight of his words could settle, Lord Mace Tyrell straightened, puffing his chest as though it were a tourney pavilion he wished to widen.
"Still," Mace declared loudly, brushing aside shadow and memory alike, "I fail to see any gain in those pebbles and goat-shit. Why linger? We should sail for Andalos at once and strike the heathens where they lie."
Arthur regarded the Lord of Highgarden with the smooth courtesy of a man used to dealing with lords who mistook pomp for strategy.
"My lord," Arthur said gently, "I understand the desire to thrust the sword quickly. The songs always hasten to the last blow. Yet wars are not won in their endings."
Mace blinked, not accustomed to being contradicted in such even tones.
"Grain, salted meats, timber, ballistae, arrows, tents, wagons, horses, all of it must be shipped across the Narrow Sea. Tens of thousands of men must be fed and sustained. If even a handful of pirate fleets strike at the supply lines, we may lose months… or the war entire. And those pirates may serve a greater master than we know."
Yohn Royce gave a low grunt of approval.
Renly, smiling around the rim of his goblet, added, "It seems to me, my lord of Highgarden, that the good ser seeks not glory but victory."
Mace Tyrell shifted in his seat, pride warring with prudence. At last he cleared his throat. "If it must be so… then we secure the Stepstones," he said, as though the idea had been his own, "And then sail to Andalos."
"And we shall, my lord," Arthur said, letting his voice carry just enough to steady the restless murmurs. "Our host shall not march as one unwieldy beast. It will move in stages. The first wave secures the Stepstones. Those among you who take part shall be granted lands there, titles, incomes, holdings in your own right."
That caught them. A lord's ears always sharpen fastest at the sound of ownership.
"What can a man earn from rocks?" asked Ser Loras.
Arthur smiled faintly. "They are not entirely rocks, ser. I have walked their ground. Two of the isles answer to me now. Their soil is much like Dorne's, harsh in places, stubborn, but rewarding to those who tend it. One may grow olives, citrus, lemons, plums… and spices enough to make a Dornishman blush. There is game in the hills, some fawn now and again, and the surrounding waters teem with fish."
That earned a few nods of mild interest.
Arthur let a beat pass, then said quietly, "But that is not where the true wealth lies."
Lord Bryce Caron leaned in, as did half the table. "Where, then?"
Arthur folded his hands. "Tolls."
"Tolls?" several echoed at once, Bryce loudest among them. Even Mace Tyrell's small eyes sharpened.
Arthur met each gaze in turn, slow and steady. "Aye, my lords. Tolls. Through port harbors in towns and cities raised in the name of King Robert, built upon the conquered lands The Stepstones sit upon the throat of trade. Every ship from the east bound for Westeros must sail through that narrow vein."
The lords grew silent, listening as though to a father reading his will.
"If we tame the Stepstones," Arthur continued, "we do not merely gain land. We gain the trade entire. We grant safe passage. We become the shield against pirate nests and the coin-chest for traders. Gold will flow through those ports as freely as sand runs upon the beach. And whoever governs those harbors…." his eyes grazed over the eager faces "....governs that gold."
A low murmur swelled around the table, no longer doubtful but hungry. Arthur leaned back, letting their imaginations race ahead of him. "Seize the Stepstones," he concluded, "and we seize the sea."
"And how shall one gain this income?" asked Hosteen Frey, his thick arms crossed over a chest like a smith's anvil. The man looked as though he'd been carved out of oaks, broad, blunt, and built for breaking things.
Arthur inclined his head. "By right of strength, ser. All who join this holy venture, those who march for our gods and for our king, shall bring with them their own men-at-arms. Not farmers with pitchforks, nor butcher's boys with borrowed axes. I want soldiers. Men of iron, not mud."
"The size and contribution of each company," Arthur went on, "shall determine that lord's share in what we build. The greater the victory you bring, the greater your rewards."
Lord Royce's voice rumbled through the hall. "This would foster greed among the men. Greed leads to quarrels. Quarrels to blood."
Arthur met his gaze without flinching. "Aye, my lord. Greed is ever a companion to ambition." He let his words settle, then added more softly, "But greed is also the hammer that shapes men to act. We cannot sail with lukewarm hearts. Let us hunger for reward so long as the feast is just."
Renly lifted his cup, green velvet sleeves shimmering in the candlelight.
"And should any of you find your coffers too light for such a grand undertaking," he said, sweeping an arm over the gathered lords, "fear not. There'll be no need to go crawling to some Essosi moneylender with a forked beard. The Merlins will lend, and the High Septon himself stands ready with the keys to the Faith's treasury."
A few lords chuckled; others exchanged looks both relieved and wary.
Mace Tyrell beamed as though Renly had just announced a tourney in his honor. "Well spoken, Lord Renly! With such support, even the poorest knight may join this holy enterprise."
"Provided he brings men who can hold a line," Ser Loras added dryly, earning a ripple of laughter.
Lord Royce grunted. "Coin makes fools bold. Let us pray it does not make corpses of them."
Renly only grinned wider. "That is why the king has chosen Ser Arthur for, my lord. To keep our bold fools alive long enough to win glory."
A hum of assent swept the table, some eager, some resigned, yet all accepting. The hall's tension eased, though ambition still flickered behind more than one pair of eyes.
Donnel, behind Arthur, shifted like a sentinel. Arthur raised his cup at last.
"To the Holy Lands," he said. "And to the safety of Westeros, by sea and by sword. Gods wills it!"
"Gods wills it!"
The hall had thinned to embers and murmurs, the great feast fading into the soft clatter of servants clearing trenchers and the low drone of departing lords. Only a handful of candles still burned bright upon the long table, their flames dancing in the drafts that crept through the stone.
Lord Yohn Royce and his sons had drawn Uncle Wendel aside near the hearth, their voices rumbling low beneath the bronze gleam of Royce's runic armor. Whatever they spoke of, it had the weight of kinship and futures. Betrothal talk, surely. Wendel wore the same thoughtful frown he always sprouted when measuring coins and alliances.
Arthur left them to it, a man mustn't linger over his own marriage prospects. He turned instead to the Redwyne twins, who hovered like two wine-scented hawks waiting their moment.
Horas began, ever the more solemn-faced of the pair. "Our lord father has pledged the full strength of the Redwyne fleet for the crusade. Dromonds, longships, and supply cogs. All that the Arbor can muster."
Hobber leaned closer, grinning wide. "And in turn, he hopes you'll honor your end of the bargain."
Arthur inclined his head. "I am grateful for Lord Paxter's support. And yes, our agreement stands. When the Stepstones are taken and organized, ten major isles will be divided. One of those shall go to House Redwyne."
Horas smiled smug as a cat. "Excellent. Our father will be most pleased."
Arthur lifted a brow. "You will recall, however, that on whichever isle is named yours, House Manderly shall maintain a garrisoned harbor. The tolls, the customs, and the trade will pass through White Harbor's keeping."
Hobber gave a theatrical sigh, waving a hand. "Yes, yes, ser, we know. So long as coin finds its way into our coffers, Father will not quibble whether it arrives from tolls, tariffs, or the gods' own pockets."
"Practical men are easy allies," Arthur said softly.
The twins exchanged a knowing look.
Horas leaned in, voice lowering to something sly. "And speaking of alliances… how did you find our sister Desmara? We spied you dancing with her at the feast."
Hobber's grin widened. "Aye, Dezy is quite taken with you. She has not stopped talking since."
For a heartbeat, Arthur felt the faint warmth of amusement, a rare, but welcome feeling, after a night of heavy talk and heavier expectations. Desmara Redwyne had danced with a fluid grace. She had laughed easily too, without guile, and by the end of the dance her face matched the hue of her hair.
Arthur let a small smile touch his lips. "Lady Desmara is a gracious woman, clever and kind. I was honored to share a dance with her."
Horas smirked. "Honored, he says. Seven save me, Dezy will swoon if she hears it."
Hobber clapped Arthur lightly on the arm. "If you seek a match with her, ser, you will find no lack of enthusiasm on the Arbor."
Horas leaned closer, losing some of his playful sharpness. "Our father is very impressed with you, ser. As are many others in the realm we're sure. Yet you'll find us a better ally than most."
Arthur felt the weight of the words, compliment and calculation woven together like twin strands of a sailor's knot. He answered carefully, keeping his voice soft. "Betrothals are delicate matters, my lord. Should you wish to speak of such things, my uncle Wendel is the wiser man to approach."
Hobber snorted and flicked his gaze across the hall, toward where Wendel stood deep in talk with Lord Yohn Royce and his sons. "Aye, and we shall. Still…" His grin turned wicked. "Think on it, ser. Redwynes are far finer company than those bronze-clad shepherds."
Horas gave a low chuckle. "Indeed. And we sons of the seas ought to keep together, don't you think? Arbor and White Harbor, wine and fish, ships and silver. A natural harmony."
Arthur let a small smile pull at his mouth. "I am honored by your regard, my lords. Truly. And I would count myself fortunate to be matched with a lady as gracious as Desmara. But such matters rest with my elders."
Hobber nodded, satisfied enough. "Of course, ser. Leave that to us, we shall speak with them in due course."
Horas's grin sharpened again, mischief rekindled. "In the meantime, I offer you luck in the tourney. May you ride well and crown our sister when you win."
Hobber barked a laugh. "Seven hells, she might die of joy on the spot!"
Arthur chuckled under his breath, the sound held a strange wistfulness. "Let us pray she does not. I'd hate to bear such guilt."
The twins laughed together, clapped him on the shoulders, and drifted away like two matching sails catching the same wind, leaving Arthur in the hush of guttering candles and the quiet press of responsibilities.
When the lords had taken their leave and the manse settled into silence, Arthur entered his solar along with Donnel and Chataya who had stepped through the hidden paths with the smooth assurance of a woman long accustomed to shadows and secrets.
Arthur bade her seat, then gestured for Donnel as well. The knight hesitated a heartbeat before lowering himself beside his lord.
Chataya's eyes glittered with mischief as she regarded him. "Such a pleasure to see you again, my good ser."
Donnel managed a bow of his head, though color rose beneath his beard. "The pleasure is mine, my lady."
"I do not doubt that," she purred, leaning forward just enough to make Donnel swallow hard. "I'm sure you longed to see me again. But should you want more pleasures beyond this view, come to my establishment. I would be delighted to show you what you have been missing."
Donnel's face went crimson, and Arthur's mouth twitched despite himself. Still, he stepped in before his sworn shield melted into the floor.
"That is enough, Chataya," Arthur said, voice mild but firm. "Leave Donnel be. Tell me, have the reports from the Westerlands arrived?"
Her smile slid away like a mask set aside. "The Westerlands remain much as they ever are, my lord. Silent. Shuttered. Lord Tywin hides within the Rock and speaks to no one. For years he kept one of our girls, discreetly, of course, but he has not summoned her in some time. So we know little of the rock." She folded her hands. "But it is confirmed that the Lannisters are gathering swords. Slowly and quietly. A few men here, a few there."
"Lord Tywin?! With a whore?!" Donnel's brows shot up. "Seven save us… but why gather swords? Do they mean to go to war?"
Arthur answered mostly to himself, "It seems plain enough. Rumors have trickled to us for moons now, small things, easy to dismiss, easier still to doubt. But with the Tyrell plot in motion…."
Donnel asked, confusion furrowing his brow. "Tyrell plot? What plot?"
Chataya answered, her voice smooth. "Lord Renly and Ser Loras Tyrell intend to cast aside Queen Cersei and place Lady Margaery in her stead."
Donnel blinked as though she had struck him. "Replace her? But… Cersei is the queen. She and Robert have three children."
Chataya tilted her head, earrings swaying. "Marie has learned that Renly means to whisper in King Robert's ear that Margaery is Lyanna reborn. Renly believes Robert's heart still beats for the dead wolf-girl, and that his hatred for the lioness burns just as fiercely."
Marie's name lingered in Arthur's thoughts like a half-forgotten song, soft, distant, and bittersweet. She had not come to see him. He had waited, longer than reason allowed, watching the hidden door for a shadow that never appeared. When at last he sent word through Alayaya, the parchment returned with a single stroke of ink. No.
Arthur smothered the sting of it before it could reach his face. Marie had chosen distance. He could not fault her. In truth, such distance might save them both from worse grief to come.
Chataya's voice cut cleanly through the silence. "Renly also means to use the High Septon to dissolve the king's marriage. With one decree, Cersei cast aside… and name the children bastards. Leaving the queen with neither crown nor protection."
Donnel stared, disbelief plain. "The Lannisters would never stand for it. And Lady Margaery, lovely as she is, is not Lady Lyanna. Surely King Robert will know the difference."
A sly smile curved along Chataya's lips. "Will he? The king remembers black hair and a slender frame, and that is all. I should know, ser. He sends for whores of that very sort near every moon."
Something in Donnel snapped taut. His face flushed red. "Do not compare Lyanna Stark to some common whores. You never saw her."
"Ah," Chataya lifted her brows, amused, "And someone saw her more than proper, I see."
"You dare!" Donnel surged to his feet, the chair clattering against the floor. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw. "If you were not valuable to Arthur, I would strike you down where you stand."
"Strike me if you will, ser," Chataya replied coolly, "Yet truth remains truth, whether spoken softly or with a slap."
Donnel could not find words, simmering anger flushed his neck and tightened his jaw. He stared at the table, fists balled, breathing like a man forcing back a shout.
Arthur felt a pang of regret twist through him. Donnel had been steel and shelter both since Arthur was a boy, sworn shield, mentor, a second father in all but name. Yet he never saw the man beneath that steel, never learned how this fury of his came not from pride, but from love.
Arthur rose, voice steady. "Enough. Both of you. I will not have infighting beneath my roof when there are snakes and lions circling beyond its walls."
Stepping between them, Arthur continued calmly. "Donnel, she meant no slight against Lady Lyanna. She speaks of the king's desires, not of the woman herself."
Donnel swallowed, still trembling with fury. "She mocks her memory."
Arthur placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Peace. The realm is fraying enough without us adding to its tears. Chataya, apologize."
Chataya's smile was small and knowing. "Of course, my lord. Ser Donnel, take no offence. My tongue runs faster than sense."
Donnel grunted, though he did not quite soften. The room held its breath.
Arthur straightened. "Donnel, I have a task for you."
The knight looked up at once, his loyalty eclipsing all else. "What?"
"You are to guard someone, for a day only, as they carry out a mission of utmost importance. Disrupting a plot aimed at me. Should it succeed…" Arthur let the words hang, "I may lose my head."
All color drained from Donnel's face. "I won't let that happen."
"I know," Arthur said quietly. "That is why I trust this to you above all others."
"Who am I protecting?" Donnel asked.
Chataya's lips curved, not in mockery this time, but in something quieter, wearier. "My daughter, ser," she said. "A whore's daughter. Will your honor stomach that? Or must I fear for her life should she walk beside you?"
The words were barbed, but there was no venom in them, only the testing edge of a mother's fear. Arthur watched Donnel stiffen, the insult pricking him, yet not as sharply as it might have minutes before. Something in Chataya's tone, or perhaps in the weight of what had been spoken already, softened him.
Donnel's shoulders eased, his eyes gentled. "I will protect her with my life, my lady," He said, low but firm. "For she will be protecting my lord's."
Chataya studied him, her dark eyes narrowing slightly, measuring the truth of him. Whatever she saw there satisfied her. "Then, perhaps, she is in good hands," she murmured.
Arthur dismissed them at last, as their footsteps faded away and the manse fell still, he found himself drawn to the balcony. The night air was cold, sharp enough to sting his lungs, but it steadied him. His thoughts had drifted north to the empty grave he had left behind.
A grave for a friend.
Stout, laughing, loyal Barney Took, whose hands had helped raise the very foundations of Arthur's new harbor; who had followed Arthur from the days of nothing to the days of everything; who had trusted him enough to die for him.
And now that very trust had brought him a grave.
Arthur braced both hands upon the stone balustrade, knuckles whitening. The vision struck like a mailed fist, Barney's last words, the moment steel found him, the look in his eyes when life fled. It broke something inside him anew each time he thought of it.
A vision Arthur did not want to see and yet one he could never forget. A breath shuddered out of him. His throat tightened. How many more shall die for his sins? How many lives would satisfy his ambitions?
"Forgive me… my friend," Arthur whispered, voice cracking. "I… gods, I wish I could have changed it."
Arthur bowed his head, and a tear slipped down, warm against the cold. Another followed.
The night answered his cries with a soft flutter of wings.
A familiar crow sat upon the balcony's edge. One red eye glowed like a dying ember; the other socket was hollow, dark as a grave. Its feathers were ragged, but its presence carried a strange weight, unnatural, knowing.
It laughed. A thin, rasping sound, too monstrous to be a bird's. "There's no forgiveness for you."
Arthur stiffened, a cold shiver coursing down his spine. Yet he forced steel into his voice.
"Begone, crow," he muttered. "I have no patience for you now."
The crow's head tilted, its single red eye gleaming. "You chose this," it croaked, almost gloating. "You chose me."
Arthur clenched his jaw. "I defeated you once. And I will again if I must. So begone."
The crow's laugh deepened, echoing strangely in the night air, as though more than one voice spoke through that ruined beak.
"You will give what you owe," it hissed. "The leviathan will fall."
Something within Arthur, old, hidden, yet never forgotten, stirred at the word leviathan, as though a chain had been tugged.
Arthur inhaled, steadying himself, then whispered, "Fara burt, kráka."
The crow shrieked, the voice mixed with laughter sharp enough to curdle blood. Then it burst into black smoke.