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A Golden Path: Foundation 2.2 (ch. 11)
🕑 Added 2024-12-16 16:01:33 +0000 UTC“So the rumors were true. You really can smell shit from ten miles away,” Brandon mused next to Ned, seated upon his horse as they were joined by a company of guards and sons of nobility. He wasn't wrong, though. They had smelled King's Landing long before they saw it, cresting a hill to grant them a view of the capital. A city that boasted a population of a million people.
Though, by the looks of things, the city couldn't contain everyone that had come for the royal wedding. It cut an impressive figure, with the city itself almost dropped over a climbing cliff and its borders marked with tall walls. The Red Keep in particular stood proudly at the heart of King's Landing, looming over it. The sea of farmland around the city, however, was co-opted by an army of people setting up camp outside the city’s gates. For miles in about every direction around King's Landing, except for the sea, was an ocean of tents from where nobility and knights alike were forced to take refuge.
To say nothing of the smallfolk who didn't even have so much as a tent to their name.
“Not enough southern perfumes to drown out that stench, aye,” Ned replied. “How many people are outside the city, do you reckon?”
“Has to be a hundred thousand. More, probably. Two hundred thousand?” Brandon mused, his lips twitching even as his nose crinkled. “Gods -- odds are they've shoved half of the North's whole population in that city. What a nightmare.”
“A nightmare we’ll be much acquainted with over the next month,” Paul noted, seated upon his own horse some men down. “Provided that we all don't die of disease.”
Next to him, Jon Umber snorted at the remark and he didn't look happy that he found it as amusing as he did. “This lot would be better served by treating it like a siege than a fair. Fuck me, do they not know what a latrine is?” He groused under his breath.
“That many people? Bet they're full and shits flowing like a river,” Brandon remarked, and Ned realized he was probably right.
It also didn't help that they would only be adding to the sum. The whole of the North mobilized in ways it only managed during times of war -- every house sent a representative with the Stark party. Sons, brothers, uncles, or they even brought the whole of their family. Each nobleman brought servants and guards. Ned wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but over the course of a month, their party had swelled to number in the thousands.
And, from where they sat, they could see a steady stream of men still trickling up the Kingsroad, setting up new tents as the sea grew even larger.
“Suppose we'll find out,” Ned remarked before he urged his horse forward. There were precious few times that Ned was ever grateful that he was of the highest nobility in the Seven Kingdoms, but this was one of them as they pressed on into the camp to find a sea of squalor.
Almost immediately they were under surge by smallfolk that begging for alms. The guards kept them at bay, letting them push on towards the city itself. A tourney and wedding like this didn't just attract knights and lords, the desperate also came in droves. Their procession did start to break up as they neared the city, and that was partly why he was glad to a Stark in this situation.
As a Stark, he and his kin were entitled to quarters within the Red Keep. The lower nobility would struggle to find lodgings within the city, especially when the Northern party would be amongst the last to arrive. There would be a separate district for the nobility in the sea of tents around King's Landing, for those that either couldn't find lodging or weren't important enough to be catered to. Ned didn't envy them as the dirt roads of the tent sea was a thick mud that reeked of waste.
The city itself wasn't that much better, Ned noted as their party was led through the large gates. The roads were made of cobblestone, the buildings of stone, wood, and clay -- it was a unique sight. However, it was marred by the people. King's Landing was full to the point of bursting. Moving through the winding roads was slow simply because there wasn't enough room to shove people out of the way.
“What a shithole,” Brandon summarized his thoughts, thoroughly unimpressed with the city. “I couldn't imagine living in this place. What a nightmare.”
“Keep your thoughts to yourself, Brandon,” Their father rebuked lightly, a tension in his voice that set Ned's teeth on edge. “This place is a den of snakes of the worst sorts. The only privacy you'll have here is inside your own mind, so always be aware of that. Any action you take, every word you speak -- all of it is being watched, and someone can use it against you. Always.”
Brandon offered a small nod in response, his expression tightening. The warning was for Ned and Lyanna, who was in the carriage behind them, as it was for Brandon. Their father had harped on the fact insistently the entire trip down -- they were stepping foot into a world unlike the North and he did his best to prepare them for it. In a fit of irony, Ned himself was likely the most prepared for what they would encounter.
The Red Keep was impressive in its own way, Ned could admit when they eventually arrived at its gates. It lacked the weight of history that you could feel walking through the halls of Winterfell, but it was a castle worthy of a king. While it couldn't build wide, it instead built up with tall walls and towers.
They were greeted by a servant, who ushered them into the castle and towards their quarters. And, as nice as it was to wash away the road, Ned was hardly feeling relaxed as they once more gathered, now dressed in their lifestyle clothing. Lyanna wore a dress of their house colors, a blue rose in her hair that was preserved for the occasion. Both he and Brandon both dressed similar to their father.
Within the hour, Ned found himself trailing alongside his brother and sister behind their father through the halls of the Red Keep. Their party was small, only their highest lords joining them… alongside Paul Atreides, as he had received a personal invitation. There was a tension in his father that Ned had never seen before, and it was hard to not feel the same. Even as none of them broke stride towards a double door that began to crack open at their approach.
Ned glanced at Brandon, who was staring straight ahead, but he caught Lyanna's gaze. He offered her a quick reassuring smile to help put herself at ease. It helped some. Just a bit. Enough so that she could return the gesture with a thin lipped smile.
“Presenting Rickard Stark, of House Stark, Warden of the North! Along with his family -- Brandon Stark, heir to the North, Eddard Stark, and Lyanna Stark,” a presenter announced as they strode into the throne room and Ned fought to keep his expression blank.
He had heard the tales about dragons growing up -- it was impossible not to -- but seeing their skulls and bones adoring the throne room was something else entirely. Hanging above them was a completed skeleton of a dragon, complete with a head the size of a wagon that was curled to look over the Iron Throne, and it was almost as eye catching as the dark dragon bones. It was a hideous mass of jagged edges, hundreds of swords carelessly melted together with a rough seat hammered into the mess.
Upon the throne was Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms. He… looked… off. Even as they approached, Ned could see the touches of make up that hid how haggard he was. How his violet eyes were sunken in, gazing upon them with almost naked hostility.
Before the Iron Throne were lesser thrones -- in them were those of a more noble bearing. The Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, almost looked like he stepped out of a story. He was almost beautiful in his handsomeness with silver white hair, violet eyes, dressed in his family's colors. Next to him, Ned reasoned, was the future queen. She was a peerless beauty. Similar features to Rhaegar, almost as if they could be related…
They weren't. At least not in the closeness that Targaryens preferred. Still, the similarities were striking.
It was because he was looking at the pair that he noticed their reaction to Paul's name being announced. Rhaegar immediately shifted in his seat, his gaze growing intense as it slid over himself to turn upon Paul, who brought up the rear of their procession. Ned felt like that was a hint at who had sent Paul the invitation, but it was a question of why.
Ned’s thoughts came to an abrupt end when his father dropped to a knee and Ned followed suit without hesitation. His father bowed his head low, “My king. It is an honor to be here once more, and for a far more joyous occasion than a pretender’s war. Your family has my sincerest best wishes for the union, and my prayers that it is fruitful.”
“We are pleased to receive our vassals of the North. So rarely do you venture south,” King Aerys began, saying the words expected but Ned was surprised to hear a lack of… sincerity in them. They sounded like words he had repeated a thousand times before, and he couldn't muster the effort anymore. “Your arrival is a most timely one, my lords. The festivities shall soon begin, and as is your right, you shall have a place of honor.”
Ned caught a subtle glance from Brandon, his expression giving nothing away but it was clear to Ned that the… lack of respect was getting under his skin. Not terribly so. But enough.
“I am honored, my king,” Father replied as if he had somehow missed the king's tone. “My children are eager to drink in the sights of the South, as are my vassals, I suspect. As you said, we so rarely venture to the lower half of the Seven Kingdoms, and such opportunities come but once in a lifetime.”
“Then I shall not keep you, my lords. Be well, with this gift of bread and salt,” King Aerys said and, with a gesture, servants approached with bread and salt. It was almost alarming how relieved Ned felt once he had partook in the ritual, placing him and his kin under guest rights. With the granting of hospitality, regardless how the King might feel about them, he wouldn't endanger their lives.
Which was a dangerous thought to have about your own King.
Thankfully, the reception was a brief thing. Almost to the point of being an insult, but only saved by their father subjecting himself to the king and finding an excuse to dismiss the rest of them. Which was how Ned found himself walking next to Brandon as they left the throne room.
Brandon let out a long breath that betrayed how he felt, but he said nothing else. Instead, he turned to the small group of lords that were had followed them -- Jon Umber, Roose Bolton, and a few others. He plastered on a smile Ned could tell was a brittle thing, “This is meant to be a celebration. Let's go introduce ourselves, shall we?”
Brandon managed to be convincing, though Ned found that he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. With how things were set up… odds were that those at the Red Keep would be amongst the highest nobility of the Seven Kingdoms.
And that brief encounter with the king already proved to be exhausting.
…
“It's him. It's undoubtedly him… but…!” Rhaegar uttered in a fierce whisper to Arthur and Jon, both amongst the few that knew of his dreams. The few he could trust without reservation. They walked through the halls and Rhaegar was glad to be dismissed by his father as Rickard Stark was pulled into a small gathering of the Small Council, likely to question him about the influx of trade coming from the North. A small matter, but his father would love to lord it over one of the Great Houses.
“But?” Jon prompted in a quiet voice as they walked by a balcony that overlooked the gardens. Within, he saw a private party belonging to some of the Great Houses. Willas Tyrell stood out, sitting on a bench as he had a shockingly amiable conversation with Prince Oberyn Martell, the man who had crippled him. The Prince of Dorne was laughing at something Willas said, offering a toast in agreement.
Something to pay attention to, but at the moment his thoughts were consumed by one man.
Paul Atreides.
“His eyes were wrong,” Rhaegar answered. Paul possessed the same intense blue eyes, but that color didn't bleed into the whites. It was still him. The man that haunted his dreams. But, it was a question of why was that different? What did that difference symbolize? What had he missed?
“You've said it yourself that the details are often lost or misattributed in prophecy, my Prince. Perhaps it would be best to put that detail aside and focus on the fact that… Paul Atreides is who you've seen in your dreams,” Jon advised, sounding almost unnerved.
He had believed, Rhaegar knew, but it was different seeing proof. He wouldn't begrudge his friend any doubts -- it was better to have someone doubt him and still help than to have someone enable him down the wrong path out of blind belief.
There was a weight of tension had settled on the center of his chest. “You're right. I mustn't be overeager. For now, I want him watched. I want to know everything he says or does. I'll approach him subtly to take a measure of him,” he said, knowing that was the plan but… it was different, Rhaegar knew and why he couldn't begrudge Jon. It hardly felt real.
A man walked out of his dream into the waking world and all he knew was that Paul Atreides was dangerous. How or why wasn't entirely clear, but Rhaegar could never forget the sight of Paul bringing the storm to the Wall.
Jon bowed his head, breaking off from the group to carry out the order while Arthur lingered. “There's an opportunity now, my Prince. Your presence is expected in the gardens.”
Yes. That would be perfect. It would make Paul enter his orbit rather than forcing Rhaegar to make the approach. That was good. The nerves were clearly getting to him, he admitted quietly to himself. “Then let us go,” He decided, almost feeling like he was marching off to war instead of a garden party.
A servant opened the door for him as he left the castle and entered the gardens of the keep -- an immaculate and carefully curated garden of flowers and hedges, all carefully shaped to be pleasing to the eye and to give the illusion of privacy. His presence was like a stone being tossed into a still pond, the ripples spreading across the surface as everyone turned their attention to the source of the disruption.
Rhaegar could almost feel the factionalism in the gardens. The clear divide between insider and outsider. Noble ladies coalesced in small groups, gossiping with other groups of a similar noble rank. The men were more divided but naturally fell in the orbit of the highest of nobility, where they rubbed shoulders and curry favor with one another. Naturally, most stuck to their respective kingdoms and they halfway divided the garden between them.
It was an exhausting state of affairs.
“Ned!” Robert Baratheon, in his own way, was another stone that disrupted Rhaegar’s ripples. His cousin broke away easily from his own retinue of followers to approach the second son of the Stark family, and embrace him in what looked like a rib shattering bear hug.
“Robert. Our reunion will be short lived if you don't let go!” Eddard Stark protested, sounding like the air was being squeezed from his lungs.
With a loud boisterous laugh, Robert let go, clapping Eddard on the shoulder. Rhaegar was thankful for the disruption, and it even provided an opening to approach, letting catch some of the budding conversation as he did. “- I can't compete in everything! The bastards doubled up on events to keep me out of some of ‘em. Too afraid I'd take first place for them all!” Robert boasted with an easy laugh.
“I wasn't aware you were a fan of poetry, cousin,” Rhaegar announced his presence, making Robert's head swivel to him while the rest of the Northern nobility eyed Rhaegar with a cautious unease. Not suspicion or distrust -- only with a keen understanding of who he was.
Robert, however, had no such presumptions. “I knew a lewd limerick or two. Want to hear a verse?” He questioned, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows with a grin.
“I wouldn't want to deprive you of your best material,” Rhaegar replied dryly, making Robert laugh as he clapped Rhaegar on the shoulder. Arthur stiffened behind him but made no move to correct the gesture.
Largely because he knew Rhaegar found Robert… refreshing. He treated everyone the same, from highborn to smallfolk, and that was as a trusted friend. He was an easy man to like.
Turning his attention to the heir of the North, Rhaegar knew him to be a popular man in the North. Rowdy, fierce… rough, for lack of a better word. But, what he found was a guarded man looking back at him, waiting him to make the first move. So, he did, “A pleasure, Lord Brandon. I hope I didn’t intrude upon your conversation.”
The caution faded ever so slightly as a wirey grin tugged at Brandon’s lips. “More like you saved my brother's life,” he remarked idly. The tension had been broken, however slightly. And that was part of why Rhaegar found Robert’s willful belligerence so refreshing. Every conversation that Rhaegar had felt like it was filled with trepidation, with the other party feeling as if they had to walk on eggshells to avoid making some offence.
With that, there were another quick round of introductions. Eddard and Lyanna were both quickly introduced to Rhaegar in a more personal manner. Eddard, to his knowledge, was a quiet and dutiful second son. He was of potential interest, but for the most part someone that Rhaegar could ignore.
Lyanna, on the other hand… was strange to see a woman that he could have married. She had been a strong consideration, a way to bind the North tighter to the Iron Throne in preparation for the Long Night. She was young. Young enough that he could mold her into being the woman that would have stood beside him. She possessed a long face with steel gray eyes, a blue rose in her braided hair -- hints that when she fully grew into herself, she would be a beautiful woman.
But what was meant to be meant little. What was and what shall be meant more, and, for better or worse, he was marrying a foreign bride.
There were others of course. Nobles of note that were worthy of his attention, even if only because they would be relevant in the battles to come. However, he found it difficult to focus on them as Paul Atreides remained on the fringe of the conversation that developed around Rhaegar. He was involved in a polite conversation with Roose Bolton, hardly paying Rhaegar much mind…
And it was driving Rhaegar mad. He felt it like an itch under his skin -- the man in his dreams was before him, and there was so much he wanted to ask. Answers he wanted to demand. He couldn't shake that image, and there was no small part of him that wondered if he should simply drive his sword into Paul's heart. It would see Rhaegar condemned, but it was better for that than to risk the Long Night come again.
To that end, Robert was an invaluable ally as he controlled the conversation. “It's too late to sign up for the early stuff, so it looks like I won't to get to see you in the singing competition.”
“A shame, truly,” Eddard responded dryly.
“But there still plenty of time for the real meat of the tourney -- the martial competitions,” Robert continued, leaving Rhaegar to helpfully elaborate.
“It was decided it would be best to hold off until after the wedding was over. If someone dies in a poetry reading competition, then that can only be the fault of the gods,” Rhaegar said and Brandon nodded, accepting the reasoning.
“The melee is going to be the stuff of legends! Paul, you better get in on this! I want to see you try that flipping shite on Stormlanders.” Robert half demanded, and Rhaegar noticed how Eddard stilled at the mention. Something he found distasteful, or was that perhaps a secret he didn't want mentioned in public?
Paul offered a polite smile, “I'm afraid that decision is out of my hands, Robert.” Interesting. Robert, despite being heir to the Stormlands, cared less than nothing about proprietary, so it wasn't surprising that Robert would insist that any lord title be left off when addressing him. However, it spoke to a certain… closeness that Paul would feel comfortable doing so on such high company, especially with his house being so newly founded.
Robert, predictably, looked at Eddard with the eyes of a puppy begging for a second lunch. Much to the ire of the other Northmen present. The reason was rather simple -- there were only so many places in the melee, and granting one such space to a fresh noble, even if this melee promised to be larger than most.
Each kingdom would choose a hundred men to represent them -- North, Westerlands, Vale, Riverlands, Reach, Stromlands, Dorne, and the Crownlands. It promised to essentially be a small battle between eight sides with great glory to be found for the victor and those that competed. And lords of the Seven Kingdoms cared for little as much as they did glory.
This was, however, an opportunity. “I would relish the chance to face such stiff competition,” Rhaegar added his own opinion, which dramatically changed things. He was the heir to the throne. Even when he didn’t wish it so, when he asked, it had the weight of a demand. “Especially against one who Lord Baratheon has such high respect for his martial prowess.”
Paul met his gaze, his expression betraying nothing. Rhaegar felt his heart lurch in his chest, uncertainty and determination plaguing him in equal measures. Yet, he said nothing, leaving it to Robert to clap him on the shoulder.
“Respect is a word for it. Bloody terror on the battlefield. I’ve been taking a look at it myself, you know? Might surprise you during the melee,” he said, making Paul offer a thin smile as Robert made it sound like his participation was a forgone conclusion. Which further soured the mood of the Northern nobility around him, but if he minded, then he didn’t show it.
Rhaegar wanted to see it. He wanted to know what he was up against. He wanted to understand what could be his enemy that visited his dreams almost nightly.
Yet, all the same, Paul looked to Brandon, saying nothing as he waited for his liege lord to make the verdict. It was unexpectedly… loyal of him, Rhaegar noted, while Brandon wore a wolfish smile.
“So long as no one starts crying when they lose.”
