Letters, so many letters. Jon was an incredible multi-tasker, of course. This was no exaggeration, for even now he was listening to those letters being read whilst playing a game of cards, chess, and reading a book. But perhaps it was age, perhaps it was frustration at the repetition of this over-exertion, but he grew weary of it. The droning on and on, of reports of chaos erupting amidst this fracticide. So tiresome, but something that Jon had seen coming. Without him, that incompetent inbred on the throne would meet an even more inglorious fate than his father. He had already seemed to be accumulating a paunch in its infancy, seeming to want to emulate the worst examples his predecessor set. Well, so be it. All that he could do was laugh, truly. The dance of dragons had made the family somewhat reticent to truly engage in the full extent of the politicking of Westeros. Jon had certainly made a concerted effort to become the hand of the King, but he wouldn’t arrange something along the lines of his predecessor. He had no patience for a civil war, and rather stability was what he sought to arrange despite everything. Perhaps keeping the King’s loins sated was a bit too large within the balance-sheet of needs to keep the realm boring, but Jon felt that he could hardly be blamed for what followed. If he had remained hand, he would have navigated into peace and calm. Instead, ruin was coming, and the more he read into it, the more he read of what Maesters had heard from the more successfully prophetic of witches and septons alike, the more he laughed. The strike to his ego would be compensated tenfold with how things would turn out for the House of the Dragon after this, that he knew. Still, his children made this all too annoying. He could hardly enjoy what was to come as age started to mar him if he knew his own house would be ruined. “Shut up, all of you.” He announced loudly, thinking for a moment, wondering where exactly his children were. [hr] Morgan looked in the mirror, turning this way and that. He had already dismissed the beauticians, their efforts to hide the wrinkles far beyond his years failing. In the end he settled for the more stately appearance he gave them, even as the other advisors spoke of how the rest of his dress would interact with the appearance of skin and hair. “That garment is too ostentatious, my Lord. They will think you are celebrating, or take it as a sign of you flaunting funds you haven’t spend in defence of the crown.” The man sighed. That was true enough. Where would he be without these crones? “I think this is all that I haven’t tried on.” The Lord replied, spreading his arms for the servants to take the jacket off of him, and donning a new one. Yes, it was perfect. It was decorated with small frills as if to resemble the battlements of a tower - the High Tower - but it was nonetheless solemn for the occasion. “Are you ready for the next rehearsal, my Lord?” “Of course, you can be swifter this time.” Morgan declared, turning this way and that, feeling the fit of the garment. No amount of preparation could make him ready for every question that might be levelled to him at the summit, but he could get close, especially if he managed to be just quiet enough that he didn’t bring attention to himself as representative of his House, yet not so quiet as to arouse suspicion. Of course, it would be difficult anyway. It [i]always[/i] was. [hr][hr] The girls chuckled, running hand in hand down the stairs. The disparity in their age had made most expect that they’d have little interest in each other’s company, but the shock of what the rest of their family thought and expected of them had ensured their mutual company was a rare respite. Sara was faithful, she knew that even in private this was more than a mere ruse to threaten her male kin’s plots with. But her Sisters in devotion rather than blood were all much younger or much older than the mere decade gap between her and Fiona. They understood each other’s world all too well, most other women in their lives being previously nobles of lower standing, those with aspirations and especially obligations much lower by orders of magnitude. It was a much reciprocated feeling by Sara, for her days ever more seemed to… empty. Ever since father’s failure to wed her to a man with white hair, she hardly seemed to exist. It seemed that was the culmination of her existence, and its failure to materialize meant she served no purpose. Oh yes, the good mornings and good nights and any other amount of pleasantries were there. But it seemed that father had already handed her off in his mind, and the woman that remained merely a phantom. Both opened their mouths to speak at once, and giggled as the interruption got in the way. They turned their heads to the grunt of a Guard in the House’s colours, the man staring at the contact he found slightly too intimate given the rumours the boys told him between pints. The man shook himself out of his stupor however, and then barked out a summons to see their Father. [hr][hr] Hengist looked upon the assorted mass of hedge-Knights. This was technically treason, for it was the plump arse of a man called Targaryen, not Blackfyre that warmed it. That was something he had gotten from his father. He couldn’t remember the exact verbage, but was something along the lines that sitting on a throne did not mean did not make you a ruler, it merely meant one had a bottom. He did not understand what this meant, until he just once gazed upon his new so-called King. The image hardened his resolve, and so he took off his ornate helm in the shape of his family’s titular seat. Approaching them, he knew it wasn’t quite the gleaming legion of Sers. But they were Knights. The Hightowers were not the Lannisters, but with the banking based in Oldtown, the tithes from their peasants and vassals, and the other businesses his father left in his hands, Hengist had more than enough to spare for ravens and other messengers to martial Sers without land. Some were surprisingly well armed, even bearing the funds for barding upon their horses. Others were so clearly stricken by poverty they had a moth-eaten gambeson as their armour, their shields seeming more like chipped bits of driftwood and old planks than anything truly useful in battle, not to speak of presentable. One man Hengist was all but certain was a grave-robber, for indeed he was well armed and armoured, but between the rust and the suspiciously old design he couldn’t believe it was from well-gotten gains. But the Knight’s credentials were legitimate, and there was no proof Hengist could level that this man’s trappings were illegitimately gained and hence he left him be. But as much as he could decry the merits of these men, they were better than any kind of levy, and he would hazard to guess that they were better than most sellswords too. His speech to them was brief, perhaps more laden with calls to scripture and formality than such people would appreciate, but from their reactions it was good. He laid out the moral case of ending the bastard, he promised them great riches and land as reward for following their Blackfyre King, and he laid out the great knowledge assembled about the forces they could soon encounter. Thus he had played to all three of their main senses. He had stoked their greed, their jealousy for the many landed Knights, promising them an end to the unfortunate unofficial prefix to their titles as Knights. Hengist had played on their self-righteousness, their beliefs in their oaths at least for the ones that had meant them sincerely. Finally, he had assuaged some of their martial concerns for despite everything even the worst of the men here was still a warrior, and they did not wish to walk into things blind. It was an unfortunate thing that he was dissatisfied in doing, but a few carefully planted men within the assembly cheered at the completion of his words, which started the chorus. A few left amidst the cacophony. Hengist knew this and (despite a whisper he’d receive later to kill them lest they join with the loyalists) he let them leave; if their cause was honourable, it ought to survive without such treachery. Thus a very brief feast was had, the finale of what was promised to these men to entice them. It was all about as cheap and quick as Hengist could get it, but for the most of them it was still better fare than what they were used to, not to speak of the fact most of it was warm. Their bellies were stuffed and so smiles were aplenty, even if the whores they had expected were not arranged by the more puritanical member of the Hightower sons. But morning came as it always did, and so they marched. [hr][hr] The assembly of Parlan was in strong contrast to that of his twin. Sellswords haggard and professional alike, some of them were certainly aware of their lot in life. Nobody wanted to be the anvil, everybody wanted to be the hammer. But ultimately, greed motivated these men even more than the Hedge Knights of his brother. The money promised was carefully calculated to be plausible, yet more than they could typically expect. Moreover, a great many of these men were criminals of one sort or another. Petty enough that nobody would ever bother collecting their bounties, especially as far from home as they were. But, with lies and promises of pardons combined with veiled threats that their pursuers were near, it wasn’t hard to add a hefty sum of brigands to the ranks he had. If people knew the full extent of how Parlan had obtained these soldiers, then history would be cruel to him. But that would only happen if he lost, and if he lost then history would be cruel to him regardless. It was a cynical reality that was the default in which so many in Westeros operated. His brother didn’t want it to be so of course, but that was why his brother would lose. Plugging his nose at the smell of these gentlemen, he nonetheless grinned at his own genius, if only because he knew he had spent a lot less on this than whatever scheme he could imagine his sibling conjured up. [hr][hr] Jon had finished wetting his lips, and so spoke to the scribe. “My dear sons. I do not particularly care which of you reads this, as the message is the same and so it will be copied as such thrice. Your schemes are as infantile as they are lacking in morals. But I will tolerate them, for there may be a lesson in them, or a chance to prove I am underestimating you. I will tell you know that you may do as you wish to your ends, a trial to see which of you bears the most merit. But should you directly scheme towards the death of your siblings, you will be considered as dead to me. Should they result in reprisal against our family that yields death within it, you will also be considered as dead to me. Your cousins, fruitless as they are, at least would then have proven to be able to temper their ambition amidst their mediocrity, unlike you. I hope. Cut that part out. No a bit- here I’ll cross it out myself. There. Now, if you wish your sisters any part, you will have to return and make your case to me personally, in their presence. Shrewish as they may be, I still have love and duty to them. Do not disappoint me. Leave it at that.” What a nuisance. He had to remind himself, it wasn’t arrogance if you really were wiser than everyone else in the room.