A Struggle of Stags (ASOIAF AU)

[HypoSoc]

Willas I​

The royal court at Highgarden was garden of opulence and arrogance. The high nobility of the Reach had gathered at his father's seat to feast and frolic, to congratulate one another for the victory that had not yet come, yet they all unthinkingly assumed was guaranteed.

Mere months ago, the greatest debate dividing the court was whether the capital of the kingdom would remain in King's Landing, or if it would be relocated to somewhere more pleasant. Months ago, the only concern whose daughter among them would marry the king and become the new queen. Matters of war and of trade were barely on the agenda, except when it served to glorify one house or another. But martial glory was treated the same as any other source of esteem, as though the war hardly mattered at all.

It was sickening how the nobles of the Reach, how his own father, seemed incapable of realizing just how fragile their position truly was. They saw the winds of fortune in their sails and never considered that it might ever be otherwise. They did not recognize how perilous their victories were, how close they had been at times to the momentum shifting, how deadly each encounter might have been. They had been self-assured in the gallantry of the Reach's chivalry, backed by the power of the Stormlords and the spears of Dorne. They did not consider any other kingdom worthy of consideration.

They did not even consider what would happen after the war. It did not matter how one dressed it up. It did not matter how nobly they presented themselves. It did not matter if the Faith supported them, even with King Joffrey's own brother. His family, his father, had made a naked power grab for the throne, and all would recognize it.

The court at Highgarden did not seem capable of considering the consequences of such an action, but for the immediate power and prestige their victory would bring. They did not consider the deep grudges of the other kingdoms, or how the realm would remain divided in hate for their actions. Nor did they seem to notice just how many second and third sons of the Reach flocked for the Highgarden Court.

If they won, if they made a mockery of primogeniture and inheritance, just how many families would fall into infighting? How many of the Reach would become as miserable as the Frey? His father didn't recognize how much he endangered the stability of his own family. Even if Garlan had no personal designs on Highgarden, how many of their vassals would prefer the younger, gallant knight to the older, crippled heir? House Fossoway would certainly enjoy having him deposed so that Garlan and his children stood in line for Highgarden.

Even victory would bring great strife to the Lord of the Reach, and yet they had feasted and drank and danced and gossiped in joy, and Willas had few clear-eyed companions to share his concerns. Certainly not his father, who delighted in the attention. And not his sister who had so many weights upon her pitiable shoulders.

But they were not certain to win. The fragility of the Reach had been revealed in the worst way. Sitting upon the throne, beside his sister Magaery, was Borros, their newly crowned king. And he was simply a boy.

Steffon had been a boy as well. Anyone with eyes could see. But the Reach had only seen the heroic knight they wished to believe in. Borros was younger, and his age was all the more obvious for it. And the haze of Arbor Red was absent from the court's eyes now.

The court reacted as if it were the first time they even conceived of failure. All the problems that had been lurking under the surface now rose so that even the greatest dullard could not delude themselves anymore. Like wildfire, the terror spread through the court.

"You have to do something about this Bloody Flux!" Lord Florent demanded. He was a puffed up man, who had scorned Steffon when the battles first started, but had raced to Highgarden to curry favor as soon as the first battle was won. Duplicitous and greedy, Willas had little respect for the man. "My maester tells me the damned disease has reached the towns outside Brightwater Keep! My heir had to institute a quarantine! My smallfolk are battering down my doors!"

"We understand, your concerns, Lord Florent," Renly said, a smile plastered to his face. His brother's lover was perhaps the worst example of the lot. Though a Stormlord by blood, the Hand of the King was a Reacher by choice, and had picked up the worst examples of their kingdom. Pageantry and prestige appealed to him. The cold, hard facts of war mattered little. More than once Willas had attempted to sway his course, but the Hand had ignored him. "Know that the disease is of the greatest concern of the crown. We are consulting with the Citadel of Oldtown, and following all their directions. The best minds in the Seven Kingdoms are working to end this plague. And the Faith assures us that this trial will end shortly."

It was a lie. Willas knew it well. The Hand and his father only implemented the measures that they did not consider onerous. They had scoffed at the initial concerns of the maesters and had let the matter grow worse. Only now, too late, did they deign to look up from their cups. And asking the setpons for prayer against the epidemic did nothing but reduce panic.

"Your Majesty!" the heir of Costayne interrupted. He was a portly fellow, with a sharp mind for court politics, but little attention for matters outside of it. "We demand an accounting for Peake! My father reports he has been commandeering the levies and knights of other households, and sending them into wasteful engagements. He has taken the raven of the maester to send only news which glorifies him and silences all facts which show the truth!"

"The king understands your concerns." The hand smiled his bitter smile. "This is not the first time we have heard reports to this effect. We will launch an inquiry into the matter."

"What of Garlan's failures?" a second son of Beesbury, more brave than prudent, demanded. "Why were the Riverlanders able to retreat so many times? Why were they in a position to recover after each victory we extracted. Why did Ser Garlan Tyrell never demand pursuit as prudence demanded? Will the king permit House Tyrell to be called to account, or does the Queen Mother's family avoid such scrutiny?"

Willas frowned. Beesbury would not be confident enough to speak unless Hightower gave him the message to deliver. He eyed Hightower, who seemed to be observing silently among the ruckus.

The question went unanswered as another lord spoke up. "We have bigger issues! The Stormlords are refusing orders in the field." A knight representing House Tarly proclaimed. "Lord Dondarion has been rejecting the chain of command, refusing to meet with Lord Dickon, and keeping his forces separate. Your majesty, you must take these uppity Stormlords to account! If the Stormlanders won't obey the chain of command the crown has set forth, then the damned Dornish might follow suit!"

Renly seemed to have lost control of the lot as grievances were being spewed left and right.

"Your Majesty!" the lady of House Meadows screeched. "You must do something about the grain! Our storehouses were picked clean to feed the army. Payment was delivered, yes, but no one is selling. Our people are starving in our keep!"

"Your Majesty, you must do something about the damned Dornish!" The Lord of Ashford demanded. "They have raided deep into our lands, burned our supplies and stolen countless flocks and herds! Why are we fighting in the Riverlands when raiders encroach on our borders?!"

"Our fleet is in disarray!" the brother of Lord Redwyne exclaimed. "The Royal Fleet has smashed us against the rocks! The Ironborn reave our shores with impunity! The Lady Chester has been taken as a salt wife, damn it all!" The cry shook through the court. "Your majesty, we must defend our shores. Can we not spare the men?!"

Willas could see the fervor of the crowd. He could see the quiet panic of their boy king, as he sat in silence under the barrage of the requests, barely holding himself together. He would not dare speak. He had been instructed to never speak unless specifically coached. He could see his sister, holding herself stoically, as though she were holding the weight of the Seven Heavens on her shoulders.

And he could see Renly growing more and more agitated as he lost control of the court.

"Quiet!" He yelled. "Order, I say! Or I will have the Rainbow Guard enforce it!" And the chosen champions of the king, Loras at their head, stepped forth in silent threat.

So quickly had these men and women gone from thinking that it was impossible to lose to thinking it impossible to win. The truth was where it had always been, somewhere in between. Forward thinking men were needed to steer their rebellion from disaster. But that had been true from the start. An able hand on the reigns may yet deliver victory.

"Are we calm? Good. All your grievances are heard. Lady Meadows, Lord Ashford, House Tyrell will offer food from our larders to aid you at this time. The king will send a contingent of knights led by one of our very own Rainbow guard to throw off Dornish invaders. Lord Redwyne, we will send money for the construction of additional ships. We will trust you to see to our defense at sea. You will be permitted to recall your levies from the front in order to defend against the traitorous Ironborn."

"Money is nothing if we don't have time!" Redwyne exclaimed. "Where do you think the ships will come from? From where will we source timber when our ports are blockaded? We are not the Braavosi Arsenal to simply shit out ships! We have nothing to defend ourself with anymore!"

"Sellsails will be hired then." Renly seemed to ignore the man's distress, but Willas knew the man well enough to see the subtle signs of aggravation. "Lords. Ladies. This is a troubling time, to be sure, but this is a trial we will overcome. The Seven are on our side. So long as we strive for righteousness, to strike against the Tyrant who unjustly sits on the Iron Throne, we will see victory in the end. Trust the king, who has been ordained by the Seven, to see us to victory. Have our gallant knights not proven our valor on the field? Does this not prove how our success is ordained by the Seven above?" Renly clasped his hand over his heart. "Patience, my good Lords and Ladies. Patience! Our discomfort is temporary, our triumph is imminent!"

His words seemed to weave a blanket of calm over the crowd. But a lone voice stepped forth.

"It is strange to me, Lord Hand, how we can win every battle yet still be worse off for it." Baelor Hightower spoke with calm gentleness, but it put Willas all the more on edge than any panicking noble. "You claim these are temporary setbacks. That may be true. You claim victory will come, and you may be correct. But victory cannot truly replace the ashes of what was lost. I find myself wondering if the kingdom you promise will be better than the kingdom we had before you Tyrells launched this war." The words were not outright seditious, but they were near enough. "Lord Redwyne, as my troops do little but sit idle, threatening the Lannisters, I will have some diverted to guard the coasts. Lady Meadows, Lord Ashford, I will offer my own aid as I can, that which is not required to combat the plague in our lands. Lords and Ladies of the Reach, I implore you to not simply ask what may be done, but to act, and see that the losses we suffer in this… temporary downturn… are not as grave as inaction would have them be. We, as the whole of the Reach, must come together in these trying times."

The subtext was blatant. The Tyrells are unable to solve everything themselves, the noble houses needed to take charge. It was a refutation of the crown and the Tyrells in specific, without outright stating such.

Renly could see the same. He stepped forward to speak, but a panicked voice cried out before he could.

"Gods! The Bloody Flux is here! The Red Death is in Highgarden!"

And then there was chaos.

 

[Crouchinghiddenwriter]

the spears fo Dorne.

Click to shrink...

 

[HypoSoc]

Tyrion II​

Baelor Brightsmile, Lord of Hightower, Voice of Oldtown sat comfortably in the seat across from Tyrion. The Lord of Casterly Rock wondered how much of it was an act. Was he too, like Tyrion, projecting a degree of serenity? Were both men lying to one another, putting on a mummers play as they failed to fool one another? Or was Hightower as confident as he seemed, with only Tyrion feeling the anxiety of this meeting which should never have happened in person.

The lord of Hightower stirred the wine in his goblet, taking a sip. He hummed appreciatively. "It's a good vintage, this Arbor Gold. It was a good year. Late 301, I would guess? From the Miraculous Spring? There's a certain fullness to the grapes planted right after the Sunless Moon."

"I do not know or care much, to be honest. I simply had a servant fetch the closest bottle." Tyrion shrugged. "The particulars of wine never mattered to me. If it can get me drunk, I enjoy it. If it tastes good, that's simply a bonus. White wine or red is as far as I've come to care about these days. I'm surprised you did not complain I served you something so common to your kingdom."

"Good wine is good wine, Lord Lannister. And it is ironic as it may sound, I've needed to ration my supply of Reach wines. We do not keep so great a quantity of Reach wines in the Hightower, not when it is normally so easily available. But with all the disruptions…" He shrugged.

"I am glad the cellars of Casterly Rock are serving you well. I've made it my mission to drain them dry, since my ascension. But it is a task I am liable to fail."

The Reacher lord smiled thinly. "It's strange to think," the man mused. "In another life, we might have been good brothers, had our fathers come to an agreement."

Had Tyrion not been born a dwarf, he meant. His father had never forgiven Leyton Hightower for rejecting a match between Tyrion and his daughters. In truth, Tyrion felt lingering resentment for the family himself. But rulership made for strange bed fellows.

"Now," Tyrion pressed, "I presume you weren't just here to drink my wine. What brings you here, in person? Should I expect the Red Death to have joined you as a guest in my home?"

"Don't be absurd, Tyrion. The Bloody Flux is not some mythical plague. It is a well understood disease, which the maesters at the citadel are learning more and more about every passing day. Even in Oldtown itself, myself and my family can be safe with proper precautions. The maximum incubation period is five days. I've had myself and my entourage isolate for a full seven without symptoms, proving our health. If one avoids the carriers and avoid the contaminants in the water, the disease will not infect you."

"Ah, so simple a disease to handle. It is a wonder that so many thousands have perished. Your own king, even." Tyrion had no particular love, nor hatred, for the Tyrell Baratheons. They were inoffensive the very few times he had met them. He certainly did not believe that a boy so young served to meet his end shitting himself to death.

Joffrey would have deserved that. The cruel tyrant he called his nephew had all the evil of his sister, distilled inside someone with the legitimacy to actually rule. The indirect insults of House Hightower were something Tyrion had learned to tolerate. The vile insults of his own kin only filled him with spite.

Family… whether father, or sister, or nephew, had only been a source of hatred to him. Those of his kin he did not loathe he was apathetic towards, for the little and nothing they showed him. Jaime he loved as a brother, but he expected nothing of the fool, and offered nothing in return.

Lord Hightower frowned. "Though the matter of the disease is simple, it is not easy. Panicking smallfolk can do great harm. As can greedy merchants or impatient sailors. And I perhaps overstate the ease of avoiding contaminants. Multiple drinking wells in Oldtown were found to be within the drainage path of sick houses. But the maesters have learned to track the disease and find these sources of plague. But few other cities posses the sewers of Oldtown. I am certain you know of the difficulties of such infrastructure."

Tyrion did not bristle under the insult. His experience with the cisterns and drains of Casterly Rock was often mocked, as his father intended, but Tyrion's own insult had been worse.

"I suppose managing terrified smallfolk is a task of great difficulty."

"Indeed. But we and the masters are doing our best. And they have been monitoring the wells that the Hightower draws from, for contamination. So, safety can still be found, even among the epidemic, for those of privilege." The man shook his head. "In truth, I believe the tragedy at Highgarden falls upon the shoulders of those highborn less accustomed to obeying the wisdom of the citadel compared to House Hightower. The information was distributed, yes, but it only takes a single fool to put everyone else at risk. A battle against a disease is like a battle against men: the greatest risk is when your allies break ranks."

"Hrm. I will take your word for it. I imagine you have been learning far more about the subject than myself." Tyrion was not totally ignorant of these facts. An epidemic in a neighboring kingdom was a matter of grave concern. But the state of war made it all the easier to block the paths into the kingdom and impose strict restrictions of the ships attempting to enter Lannisport. Any ship whose manifest included a stop in the Reach would not be permitted to dock. Multiple plague ships had already been identified, and have been forced to stay at sea under thread of being sunk.

But diseases spread and it was likely only a matter of time. It was a subject he did not want to consider further. So he poured himself another goblet of wine.

"You mention battle," Tyrion mused. "Is that what this meeting is about? Shall the glorious Lannister knights cross into the Reach and put some castle or other to siege? Or do you require the opposite? Because I will need greater concessions if I permit my lands to become under threat."

"Perhaps," Hightower drummed his fingers. "The movements of my levies to deal with the the Ironborn incursions opens some possibilities." Damn the Ironborn. Tyrion did not believe there was a single person in all of the mainland of the Seven Kingdoms who liked the duplicitous, back-stabbing raiders. He strongly doubted the worthless pirates much liked themselves either. "But that is not why I have come here today."

"Oh?" Tyrion gestured for him to continue.

"As the disease was discovered among the royal court at Highgarden, there was a good bit of chaos. During that time I had agents of mine act to… secure the prince. This was before Boros passed, you understand. For his safety, Orys Baratheon is now residing with one of my vassals, well protected."

How aggressive of the man. Tyrion had not believe him capable of such. Taking Robert Baratheon's last son by the Withered Rose out the Tyrell's hands… Hightower was powerful, yes, but the Reach lords were like crabs in a bucket, pulling one another down if any grew too high.

That Baelor Hightower felt comfortable enough to make such an audacious play against his nominal overlords spoke of great confidence in himself. Or it spoke of the utter weakness of the Tyrells among their own vassals.

"Shall I congratulate your granddaughter on her upcoming nuptials? I'll make sure to send Arbor Gold as a gift, since you mentioned you were lacking."

Lord Hightower closed his eyes. "I do not believe I will be joining my family with the young king's. It is not a card that I believe serves me well. Rather, my plan is to call for a Great Council, to formally determine the status of the kingship."

Tyrion blinked, trying to process the words. He examined his goblet, wondering if he had drunk more cups than he could recall. Because he did not think he was impeded enough to hallucinate such nonsense. "Are you mad, Brightsmile? Do you think there is any way that a Great Council can end favorably? Joffrey might be a tyranical shit, but there is no way in the Seven Hells that a boy like Orys would receive a majority of votes."

White of hair, white of skin, red of eye, and stunted of growth, Orys was born as much of a freak as Tyrion himself. He was plagued by sickness and nightmares, it was said. And he lacked the knightly continence of either of his brothers.

Orys had been born in the middle of the Sunless Moon. He would have been considered cursed for that misfortune alone, even without his deformities. That Magaery Tyrell suffered monstrous stillbirths ever after was considered proof of his evil nature.

Tyrion sympathized for him, truly. It was hard not to see the similarities, as the youngest child of powerful men, born freaks with oder siblings held as paragons of beauty. Tyrion truly wished no harm for the poor ad, but he knew the prejudices of the Seven Kingdom's well. He suffered them personally.

Orys had been kept out of the royal court, both royal courts, for all his life. He commanded no personal loyalty, and was but a child himself.

Steffon could have emerged victorious at a Great Council. With the Faith at their side and with the support of so many lords, it was conceivable, if one ignored how it completely violated all precedent of inheritance. Borros might have succeeded as well. But Orys? Tyrion could not imagine a world where anyone proclaimed the boy king over Joffrey.

"You are correct," Lord Hightower nodded. "I do not expect Orys to succeed. I do not see any means for the Tyrell's foolish rebellion to succeed anymore. Naught can be done but bleed the realm dry even more. The purpose of the Great Council is to negotiate a peace, and to set ourselves up for the best terms possible in the kingdom that will follow." The man took a sip of his wine. His tone was calm, as though the matters he were discussing were nothing more serious than a man discussing drink. "Orys serves as an excellent bargaining chip for my purposes. He is legitimate enough to be a threat, but unpopular enough that the Iron Throne will have little to fear from a Great Council. I believe his wroth can be directed to the Tyrells and their allies, while my house and my allies can come out of the matter much improved. As far as negotiated surrenders go, it seems the most beneficial path forward."

"And all it takes is throwing your liege lords to the wolves. How loyal you Reacher lords are."

Hightower did not rise to the insult. "The lords of the Reach remember our Gardner kings fondly. None of us have forgotten how the stewards became Lord Paramount of the Mander. Perhaps if the Casterlys were as beloved, your Westermen would feel the same as we do."

"Ah, but it is not just dynasties. Your own sister is the grandmother of your king. It's your own blood you stab in the back."

"Blood ties join all houses in the Seven Kingdoms if one travels far enough back. If they are not renewed regulrarly, they are forgotten." Hightower shook his head. "The Tyrells took a gamble for the throne. We were content to follow along when we believed we could benefit. Now that the tide has turned, it is simple prudence to abandon the folly before it drowns us all."

"How high-minded of you."

"It costs me little to be blunt. It is important you understand my aims. When I call for the Great Council, I request that you offer support. Convince your nephew that he can win much in the peace. Plant the seeds that he might be able to seduce me to his side, as it were, so that he thinks to offer me preferential treatment."

"Ah, so that is why you came all the way over here. I had wondered why a letter wouldn't suffice. Though, I am still left with another question." Tyrion leveled his best glare at the man. He had been reliably informed that his gaze could be horrifying. There was some benefit in being so malformed at times. "Why should I do any of that? You say that the rebel cause is lost? You say my revenge against Joffrey is thwarted? Fine. I have dealt with disappointment. But why should I act in your interests now that you have given me nothing that I desire? Our alliance was always one of convenience, in keeping our levies from bleeding stupidly against one another. You demand much for little benefit to me."

"Come now, Tyrion. I'd like to believe we are closer than that. I certainly have letters to prove it."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "Do you think me an idiot? I have never sent a letter containing a treasonous word. Suspect, yes, but I was as careful as you were in your missives." He had been particularly careful in his correspondance, their agreement hiding in implications, in threats that could be understood as intentions. Tyrion was not a fool enough to commit any crimes to pen.

"'Suspect' may be enough. Especially if augmented by a few choice additions. Your nephew is quite a tyrant, after all. The Queen Mother and his own Master of Coin both imprisoned without a trial? I don't believe it would take much."

"And if I were to do the same for you? If I am a traitor, so are you."

"You aren't a fool, Tyrion. The difference is I have my king in custody and you do not have yours." He shook his head. "But enough of the threats and posturing. We are both reasonable men, Tyrion. I have no desire to see you come to harm. You overstate how much I demand of you. And the Great Council can be an opprotunity for you all the same. Truly, you should take your prize from the Reach. Take from the Tyrells, from the Redwynes, from the Florents. Have the Arbor and the Shield Islands added to your personal holdings. I do not mind if the whole of the Reach is diminished so long as Oldtown remains the greatest part of it." He stroked his chin. "If that is not enough, I can offer proof of my intentions. My sister, Malora, is still unwed. We can tie our houses together, as your father desired so long ago."

"Malora? The Mad Maid? Has her womb not yet shrivelled to dust?"

This insult seemed to drive visible irritation in the man. But Hightower smothered it with wine. "My brother, Garth, also has a daughter if that is more to your liking."

It was galling. Hightower was using him, without even bothering to hide it. The blackmailing attempt could not be ignored, no matter how much Brightsmile glossed over it. But it was a true and deadly threat to Tyrion's health, especially if the rebellion were dissolving entirely.

"Damn you. I'll think it over," he grumbled. "Get the hells out of my solar, you knave. I will be more positively inclined if I don't have to see your conniving face."

Lord Hightower nodded, and left. Tyrion rubbed his forehead.

He was not drunk enough for this.