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A Golden Path: Foundation 2.4 (ch. 13)
🕑 Added 2025-02-03 15:47:13 +0000 UTCWhoever said that Cyvasse had ballocks for brains and not an ounce of good sense, Robert Baratheon decided as he sat at a board with the pieces arranged mid battle with a graveyard filled with pieces on both sides. Even as a tool to teach tactics, it was middling at best. He wasn't sure why people were so obsessed with the game, enough so that it got its own contest at the tourney.
As Robert moved a pawn forward, setting it in motion without much thought, he knew it was the kind of game that made you look smarter if you were good at it. Load of piss that was -- he had always been good at the game, and he was an idiot. So, for the life of him, he couldn't understand what the fuss was.
In battle, the pieces didn't snap and have petty rules that they had to follow. A mounted contingent of knights would sure fuckin’ destroy a bunch of peasant levies in most circumstances. Big horse, armored, moving forward at a breakneck pace -- few things hit harder than a cavalry charge. But maybe it rained the day before and the land between you and the peasants became a quagmire of mud? What if the smallfolk knew enough that a properly wielded pike in formation in the hands of people who didn't lose their nerve at the charge was a mounted knights worst nightmare?
In that case, the knights got fucked and fucked hard. Because the charge was led by some lording filled with piss and vinegar, hungry for glory, who thought that because he played a board game well enough he knew a dawned thing about anything.
“How in the seven hells did I make it to the bloody finals? I hate this game,” Robert remarked to his opponent, who calmly moved a rook forward to blame his bishop. And what the fuck was a bishop doing on the battlefield?
“I imagine it has something to do with you being the heir to the Stormlands, and now son to the Hand of the King,” Paul remarked idly, flipping over there small hourglass. The games had to be quick to make room for everything else. Robert heard that these games could last days. Weeks even. What a sodding nightmare- wait, what?!
Robert jerked in surprise, “Huh?” They fuckin’ wut? They let him win? Oh, that sent fire through his veins. He'd shove this shitty board game down their throat to choke on it, then put his foot so far up their asses, he'd kick it loose.
“You're talented, but you're not that good. Check in three moves,” Paul informed him, making him look down at the board. His king was free as a bird at the moment. The fuck he mean, ‘check in three?’
“You winding me up?” Robert asked, scratching at his cheek.
“About people letting you win or the check?”
“Both,” Robert answered, spying the trap after a few moments of thought. Conniving little bastard. Maybe the trap would have caught him off guard if he hadn't seen that display over on Skagos. That half wildling lord all but placed his head in an offered noose and kicked the stool from out underneath him as if to save Paul the effort.
“I don't believe the thought is unthinkable to you. As heir to the Stormlands, you were already one of the most important people in the Seven Kingdoms by default. Now your father has risen even higher, second only to the king.” Robert scowled at the reminder -- both that his father had become Hand, and that people had let him win growing up. At least until people wisened up and learned that there weren't many ways to piss him off faster.
Robert decided to switch it up and go on the defensive -- secure the king. But, as soon as he made the move, Paul continued. “And yes. Check in two,” Paul said, moving a piece up across the board.
“What the fuck?” Robert muttered under his breath, looking down at the board with befuddlement. How had he done a thing like that? He moved a single damn piece, and all of a sudden his king was surrounded. If he stayed where he was, then that was check. He moved forward, that was check. To the sides… “Well, at least someone won't run scared because of my father's name,” he acknowledged, moving his king to buy him a turn to deal with the would-be assassin rook. “More the fool you are. I'll run straight to father, you know.”
That got probably the closest thing he had heard from Paul that he could have called a laugh. It was, at most, a huff of amusement. “I'll take my chances,” Paul replied, moving up a bloody pawn of all things. That little fucker. He bluffed him!
“Hm. Probably wouldn't have the time for my whinging anyway,” Robert mused. His father being made Hand was a surprise to everyone, including his father. Though, not as much as he presented to the public. The king had made noises about a reward for finding the prince a bride and, as Paul said, there were only so many things you could give one of the highest lords in the realm. If Aerys had a daughter, then Robert likely would have been betrothed to her. But, as the King only had sons, it narrowed down the list considerably.
What had shocked everyone was the manner in which Tywin had been dismissed. Robert didn't have a head for politics. Wasn't in his nature. He figured he'd leave all that boring shite to Stannis since he had such a hard on for ‘Duty.’ But, even he, someone who heard the word politics, which in turn had every word that followed go in one ear and out the other, paid attention to the scandal.
Especially considering that the king had all but threatened the lord Lannister, the former Hand of twenty years, with accusations of treason should he leave before the celebrations were over. Not in so many words, of course. Something something, ‘a loyal vassal would see his future king married,’ something something. So, Tywin and his kids were still here. Just silently fuming as they waited for the wedding to be over, and they had a long way to go.
Nothing had happened so far, but even he had noticed how the air just seemed to leave the room whenever a Lannister walked into it. Not so much as hostile, but more… it was like the moments before a fight. There was just a tension hanging over the festivities that was so thick you could choke on it. It wasn't really a matter of if something happened, but a matter of when.
But, bringing his attention back to the board, He decided to ignore the bait of the rook trying to check his king. The only way out of a trap was to go through it, after all.
At least, that's what he thought until Paul moved a knight forward, “Check.”
That bloody little pawn was the assassin, Robert realized. If he hadn't moved his king, then he would have been checked by the rook. If he had moved to the side, he would have been checked by the knight in a few more turns. Now, to avoid getting checked by either of them, he had to walk his king into death's embrace by a pawn.
He crossed his arms for a moment, his lips thinning as he realized the prior traps were just bait. A tricky bastard, Paul was. Worse, he played Robert like a damn lyre. “Fuck it,” Robert decided, pushing his king into the strking range of the pawn. He wouldn't take the cowards way out and surrender, even in a shitty board game like this.
“Checkmate,” Paul said, taking his king with the pawn. The game was over. “And to answer your initial question -- yes, I was.”
He lost. All that boasting, thinking he was too clever to fall for Paul's tricks… Robert couldn't help it. He threw his head back and laughed, “Easy money for you, eh?” He said, congratulating him with a clap on the shoulder. It was still a shit game, but this part wasn't so bad. Most days, he still didn't know what to make of Paul but, if nothing else, he had a spine in him and that was more than he could say about the lackspittles that started that politely clapped for the winner of the competition.
It was a small one, one that was housed in a tavern that was just barely large enough for a score of noblemen to sit down and play at a time. And almost as soon as the competition was done, another was already moving in before the overseer approached. A short portly man who bathed in perfume by the sound of it.
“Your prize, Lord Baratheon. Five hundred golden dragons,” he said while a servant approached and set a lockbox before him and lifted it. It was filled with gold coins, minted with a three headed dragon. Freshly minted too as there wasn't any scoring marks where people whittled what they could from the edges.
“Thank ya’,” Robert said, already having plans for the reward. He had already participated in three competitions so far, and he scored in the top three for all of them. The real good ones hadn't started yet -- like the joust and melee -- so he was going to amass a fortune then put it all on himself winning the melee. He wanted to make some coin counters eyes bugger out when they realized his payout. What he would do after that was anyone's guess, but Robert himself suspected it would involve a lot of drinking.
“And, to first place, Lord Atreides has won a sum of one thousand golden dragons,” the overseer said just a bit too loudly, drawing attention to Paul as a servant placed a lockbox that was twice the size of Robert's. Contained twice as much coin as well. Paul received the prize neutrally with a small inclination of his head.
Accepting their prizes, third place was some Reach lording that Robert forgot as soon as he hears his name and, with that, they left the tavern for the busy streets of King’s landing. Good news was that, eventually, you did get used to the stench of shit and unwashed bodies, and even the people that all but drowned themselves in perfume. It made everything else about the city far more enjoyable.
You couldn't walk down any street in the city and not see something that wouldn't catch your eye -- from a man balancing on a barrel as he juggled knives, whores with their bits and babs all but hanging out as they sought to pay their trade, merchants from all corners of the world hawking wares that were just as likely to be real as they were to be fake. In the space between, you could find competitions both big and small -- there were so many that even the nobility had to made do with taverns, inns, and warehouses. The smallfolk competed in their own games where they could.
“Now, where's Ned gotten off to? Poor things probably getting dragged into all sorts of trouble,” Robert mused -- Ned was thoroughly overwhelmed by the sheer density of people in King's Landing. From what Robert saw of the Borth, it probably wasn't that far off to say that there were as many people in the city as there were in the North. It was nothing less than madness to think that you could spend days walking up the kingsroad and not see a single village.
“He's likely retreated to the Red Keep,” Paul ventured. “It might be wise to join him, unless you want to carry those with you all day.” He noted, looking at the other two lockboxes in Robert's hands that contained his other winnings.
He probably was right on the mark, there, though Robert didn't exactly relish the idea of going to the Red Keep. That was its own kind of sniffling tension that put a damper on things. Especially if he saw a Lannister stalking through the halls.
“Aye, likely,” he agreed, swallowing a sigh. Maybe he'd get lucky and he could be in, grab Ned, and get out before anyone was the wiser? “Come on then, let's go.” He decided easily, beckoning Paul to follow as much as he did his own hanger ons. Guards and noblemen alike. Another unwelcome change since he returned to the Stormlands.
Worst part was, he'd probably get on with most of them but they were too busy trying to kiss his arse all hours of the day.
Still, they were at least a little convenient to have around as with them, they were able to force their way throw the chaotic crowds and head back to the Red Keep. It wasn't a particularly long journey, but the crowd made it take ten times longer than it should have. And when they arrived, the courtyard wasn't much better -- just for different reasons.
The courtyard was filled with nobles who were watching a duel and, as they entered, Robert caught a glimpse of red and gold. He almost looked away, wanting to steer clear of that clusterfuck and pretend it had absolutely nothing to do with him, but he found that he couldn’t when he saw the bladework.
He wore a helmet in the shape of a roaring lion, hiding his face, but there was no mistaking who was in the makeshift ring. Jamie Lannister. There simply was no mistaking that skill with the blade. He was good. The kind of good that few men were -- that perfect blend of outrageous talent honed to perfection with a single-minded dedication. Robert recognized it.
After all, he was the same way. He was born stronger than any other man that he had ever met. And even wielding his hammer, something that most men struggled to even pick up, he was faster than most wielding a blade.
There was an itch in his hands that ached for his hammer, wanting to join in on the fun as Jamie scored a point -- his opponent was no slouch, but Jamie made jabbing at the weak points in his armor look easy. Graceful even. Even better, Robert spied Ned in the crowd. And the nobility parted for him the moment they glanced over to see who was shoving past them -- he could practically see them swallowing whatever sharp words they were about to say. So, maybe, his father being Hand had some up sides.
Ned glanced at him from the corner of his eye before he inclined to the ring, “Lord Jamie fights well.” He noted, his tone serious. He was scoping out the competition for the melee. Robert was hoping that Ned would compete, but he didn’t see a point in them and he was running out of time to convince him.
“Aye, he does. But I imagine he’d have a lot harder of a time prancing around like that in a battle,” Robert agreed. He was wearing armor, but he still weaved around the attacking blade as if the plate armor would part like butter. Jamie Lannister liked to move in a fight, Robert saw.
But he also wasn’t showing off anything that Robert hadn’t seen before. The duelist competitions were extensive, with several happening right now across the city. They had been going on for days now, and they would go on for days more until the brackets got smaller. Jamie was one of the favorites to win the whole thing, so Robert had paid attention when he fought.
At least that was true until Jamie rounded and, through the crowd and his narrow visor, he felt their gazes meet across the field. Jamie suddenly pounced on the man, taking a step into his opponent using his crossguard to hook the grip of his opponent's sword before ripping it from his grasp before following it up with a pommel blow that knocked him off his feet.
The action was met with cheering, people enjoying the show. Jamie’s opponent had to be carried off the field while Jamie was allowed his showboating. Robert himself had a duel later in the day against some Riverlander. Jamie made sure to look through the crowd directly at him, making his intent clear. A grin found it's way onto Robert's face -- he wasn't one to ever back down from a challenge.
Only before he could take a step forward and accept it, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and leaned in. “Lord Robert, your father has requested your presence.”
Ahh, piss.
That wiped the grin from his face and a huge sigh heaved out of him. “Right. On me way then,” Robert replied, knowing he had been caught. He offered a small nod of his head to Jamie, telling him that his challenge was heard and accepted… just not here and now.
Leaving behind Ned and Paul, he followed the servant into the Red Keep. It was a different kind of madhouse with drunk lords half being carried by their servants up and down stairs, or just passing out in the hallways. It was easy to over indulge when every day was a celebration, Robert found. Moderation wasn't one of his strongest points, but his love of winning beat out his love of drinking.
Before long, he was led to the Hand's tower where he found his father seated behind a desk. “I've heard about your winnings, son. What in the seven hells had you competing in poetry readings?”
“I was walking by when the competition started,” Robert admitted. “I won a hundred dragons from it,” he said, setting his three lockboxes on a nearby table. “What's this about, then?” Be asked, taking a seat across from his father.
Robert felt like he was looking into his future at times when he looked at his father -- everyone always said that they looked just alike, they had been similar in personality when his father was his age… but then he saw that hand necklace around his neck, and the gut straining against his tunic. That, Robert swore to himself, wouldn't happen to him.
He'd die before he got too fat to fit in his armor.
“Your marriage,” His father said, suddenly making Robert regret setting down. It made it harder to flee the room. “Talks have stalled with Rickard -- it's no surprise, there. He burnt through some good will by bringing in Atreides, and his lords are short sighted as much as they dislike change.”
Robert felt his heart start to drop, “So, I won't be marrying Lyanna?” He asked, feeling… conflicted. Lyanna was a bit young for his tastes, but there was no question that she'd grow up to be beautiful. She was fierce and he noticed the swordsman calluses on her hands. He figured that they could be happy together, but mostly it would make Ned family in law.
His father confirmed it with a shake of his head, “Not likely. Rickard intends to delay her marriage by a few years, and that's longer than I'm willing to wait for you.” That wasn't exactly surprising. He was a man grown now. It would be one thing if he was betrothed, but by his age, it was expected that he'd have a wife and a child by now. Well, he had the latter but not the former.
“So… do you want me to guess or are you going to tell me?” Robert said, crossing his arms as he sank into his chair, bracing himself for the worst.
His father snorted at his sulking, “You're acting like I'm going to marry you to a shrew.”
That was a good sign, “You aren't?”
“Hardly. You were already spoiled for choice as my heir, but now that I'm Hand…” he trailed off before a flicker of a grimace passed over his face. Tywin wasn't the only one who had a distaste for how his father became Hand. Robert heard the stories growing up, even if it seemed hard to believe now, but the king, Tywin, and his father had all been fast friends once. As close as brothers. “I've kept your request about your bastard in mind when making my choice.”
Robert swallowed a twitch at the word bastard. Born out of wedlock she might be, but Mya was his daughter and he'd slap the word out of anyone else's mouth that called her as much. “Do you want me to guess?” Robert asked again, impatient.
“I'm speaking to Dorian Martell about arranging a betrothal between you and Elia Martell,” his father informed him at last.
Robert leaned back, “Dorne?” He echoed, surprised by the choice. Very surprised. The history of the Stormlands and Dorne was a long one that was written in blood. The marchers at the border still had to deal with the historic raids back and forth as old grievances were renewed each generation.
“It won't be a popular choice with some of our lords,” his father admitted. “But the match is good for both our Kingdoms. In particular, Prince Dorian understands that Dorne is in a precarious position.”
Uh… what? “It is?” Robert echoed, unsure what happened there. Dorne… well, it was a bit like what Skagos was to the North, just to the Seven Kingdoms. It was apart of the Seven Kingdoms, taxes were collected, they sore the oaths, yada yada yada -- but, when it came right down to it, the Crown kept its nose out of Dorne while Dorne kept its nose out of the Crown's affairs.
His father held his gaze for a moment, giving Robert the impression that he messed up somehow. Was he already supposed to know that? However, hks father just sighed, “There is a budding trade war taking root between Westeros and Essos. Dorne has always acted as the front door to the Seven Kingdoms for the Three Daughters in particular. It's the closest to them so it's ports have always been the most convenient, and even when ships intend to make their way to Old Town or Lannisport, Dorne is what they have to sail around.”
Ah -- that did sound vaguely familiar. He must have forgotten when he learned that the trade war was between coin counters and not an actual war.
His father continued, “The Crown is looking to make investments in the North. The King has been convinced that the coin that we spent on imports would better be served by remaining in the Seven Kingdoms, so even if this trade war doesn't become a true conflict, Dorne won't regain that lost trade. They'll be weakened, and made vulnerable.”
“Will it become a real conflict?” Robert asked, not really caring about the rest. The fate of Dorne wasn't his concern and he left the matters of money to those that actually cared about stuff like tariffs, import, taxes and whatnot- so long as he had enough to buy what he wanted, he didn't care how he had enough.
His father considered the question for a long moment, and that was enough for his hopes to start to rise. “The option hasn't been taken off the table,” his father admitted. “Which plays into why I'm arranging your marriage now. You will be joining an expedition to pacify pirates in the stepstones, led by Prince Rheagar. However-” His father stressed before he jumped out of his seat in excitement. “A condition I'm attaching is that you must be married and have an heir.”
“I'll go put one in her right now,” Robert agreed swiftly. “Elia Martell, was it?” He said, standing up with a pep in his step.
“Don't let her brother hear you saying that. He has a soft spot for his sister and one of the conditions he imposed on such a betrothal was that she contented to have you as a husband.” That was fair, Robert reasoned, and not something he was particularly concerned about. “You have time, son. Use this wedding to woo her. Ask for her favor, give her gifts -- charm her. Your head is a bit empty, but you're handsome. Get her to agree to the marriage and the Stormlands will reap the benefits for generations to come.”
Robert grinned at the ribbing, not truly understanding how the Stormlands stood to gain from the alliance… but he didn't need to. His father was clever and knew what he was doing, so Robert had no problem just trusting what he said.
Elia Martell? His future wife. He wouldn't be brothers-in-law with Ned, but if half the things he heard about Dornish women were true, then bis future was looking bright.
Comments
Luthanor
Repost? Didn’t this come out a week ago?
Mike
"Whoever said that Cyvasse had ballocks for brains" I think you may have meant bollocks? It also looks like there's a word missing somewhere, unless not-chess itself is stupid
