3 Chapter 3

When Aelor Targaryen held a feast, he held a feast.

It had taken a week and a half for the Prince's bannermen to muster their levies and arrive in and around Duskendale. In that time, he had somehow stocked the larder with vast quantities of boar and deer, acquired the services of both the bard Cellador of White Harbor and a troupe of Tyroshi acrobats, and had forged a new blade for each of his bannermen and household knights. Even now, Sers Gullian Elwood and Alester were engrossed in discussing their respective swords, though they had both drank enough by then that the conversation mostly consisted of repeating the same details over and over amidst rounds of boisterous laughter. The Northman bard played and the Tyroshi enamored the crowd with flips and other acts of agility, each act earning more and more applause as the guests dove deeper and deeper into their cups.

Aelor Targaryen, despite not having touched a drop of wine, was smiling wider than anyone else in the room. "For the sake of the Mother, Renfred, smile."

Lord Renfred Rykker, in direct contrast to his liege and friend, looked like he would rather be dueling the Warrior himself than be there. "I don't know if I can do this, Aelor."

The Targaryen laughed, violet eyes filled with mirth. "Well it's too late to back out now, old friend. You have the wedded down, the bedded to go."

Renfred turned red, contrasting with his dark blue doublet. "Exactly."

"Oh come now, Renfred. Half the handmaidens in the Red Keep knew you were more than capable by the time you were fourteen, and from what Heavy Hallie told me you haven't lost your touch." Renfred's blush doubled at the mention of the extremely well-endowed courtesan Aelor had had waiting in his friend's chambers the night before, as a wedding gift of sorts. It was impressive in truth, for Rykker's face had already been as red as the Targaryen sigil.

Aelor turned towards the table from the alcove he had found his friend hiding in, gesturing towards the slightly plump girl seated there, laughing along with several other young ladies. "Look at Malessa. She is having a grand time, and I dare say she has much more to fear from tonight than you do." The eldest daughter of Lord Buckwell had seemed completely calm and confident since the moment she arrived that morning, putting her new husband to shame in truth. Rykker had been fidgeting restlessly for three days now.

"I have no experience with….maidens."

Aelor grinned mischievously. "Well, it's like Willem Darry always told us; practice makes perfect." Before Rykker could stop him, Aelor had stridden out towards the middle of the chamber, calling out to the waiting lords and ladies. "Time for the bedding!"

Renfred's curses were swept away by the cry of the crowd, as men converged on Malessa and ladies on Rykker, Lady Byrch already working on his breeches as if she had been waiting all night for the chance. With a laugh, Aelor realized she probably had.

Aelor made no move towards the throng of men surrounding Malessa Buckwell, leaving the removal of clothes to those more inebriated, but he did nod at Ser Manfred Darke. The knight, bigger than Rykker and half as tall, muscled through the crowd and scooped the already mostly naked maiden into his arms, striding toward the chamber with the other partiers stumbling along behind. Aelor had instructed the man to make sure Malessa made it to the bedding chamber unscathed, and while Ser Manfred was rude and perpetually angry, he was as loyal a man as Aelor had ever known. The new Lady Rykker would make it to the chamber unmarked if the short, wide knight had to break arms to make it happen.

Aelor was laughing after the crowd of revealers when Ser Barristan stepped up beside him, materializing out of nowhere. "Your Grace, I have news."

The Prince nodded, chuckling once more before turning to his trusted mentor. "Good or bad?"

"Expected, Your Grace." The Kingsguard gestured to another man, dressed in heavy boots and a rumpled cloak. "A man from Gulltown in the Vale, arrived on a galley just this night."

Aelor nodded, the mirth draining from his face to be replaced by the clenched jaw and furrowed brow the Prince adopted when he focused on matters of high importance. "Your name?"

The man, half a boy in truth, was short and slightly built with wispy hair and a harelip, which quivered as he gulped nervously. "Ronald, my lord. I have information."

Aelor nodded. "I look forward to hearing all about it."

Aelor's solar was smaller than one might expect for a castle such as the Dun Fort, but it overlooked the city of Duskendale and all its splendor. Ronald was fidgeting nervously, apparently unsure if he was supposed to be looking at the view out the solar window, the plate of roasted boar in front of him, or the fair dragonlord seated across from him. Aelor ended his uncertainty quickly. "Eat."

The man obliged, albeit nervously, eyes periodically darting up to either Aelor or Ser Barristan, who was standing behind the Prince with his arms folded. "You claim to have information," the dragonlord began after a time. When Ronald nodded, Aelor leaned forward slightly. "Concerning what, exactly?"

Ronald swallowed, his fidgeting increasing. "Lord Arryn, my lord."

"Your Grace," Barristan corrected from behind Aelor.

"Y-your Grace," the man corrected quickly. "I'm sorry, Your Grace."

Aelor leaned forward. "Calm yourself, Ronald. I am not my father." The man, too much weight on his small frame to be a peasant but much too nervous to be familiar with dealing with nobility, relaxed ever so slightly, though his eyes were still wary and his knee did not slow its rapid up and down motion. "Where are you from?"

"Gulltown, Your Grace."

"And what do you do there?"

"My father is the steward for Ser Arstan Saul, Your Grace. I assist him"

Ser Barristan cut in, filling in the blanks for his Prince. "A knightly house sworn to House Grafton, Your Grace. They control a towerhouse guarding one of Gulltown's gates."

Aelor nodded. "And you, Ronald, decided to board a galley and sail here to Duskendale with information for Prince Aelor Targaryen. Well, here you are, and here I am. I'm listening."

Ronald gulped again, eyes dancing between the other two men in the room. Aelor knew that whatever information the lad possessed, he had intended on being rewarded for it. Aelor didn't necessarily hold that against him; nothing came free in this world, and information could be more valuable than all the gold in the Westerlands. While Ronald certainly would be rewarded if his information proved worth his time, Aelor didn't intend to promise anything. Spies and turncloaks had their uses, but their nature roiled his stomach.

Aelor sharpened his gaze, letting the dark violet mingle with the shadows of the candlelight to darken his face intimidatingly. "I don't have all night, lad. And while I'm not my father, I do not like to be kept waiting." Aelor let his jaw clench ever harder, blazing his gaze into the young man across from him.

Whatever Ronald had been intending to ask for in return for this information must've suddenly become unimportant, because he opened up rather quickly. "Lord Arryn has called his banners, Your Grace. There are rumors in Gulltown that he is opposing your father."

Aelor nodded. Looks like I was correct about our war. Gods I hate being right sometimes. "And Lord Grafton?"

"He is going to answer the call to arms, Your Grace. He has already ordered Ser Saul and his sons to raise levies."

"What else?"

Ronald shrugged nervously. "That is all I know, Your Grace."

"Any talk of Lords remaining loyal to the crown? Rumors of mercenaries, news of that nature?"

"No, Your Grace, I promise. I have told you all I know."

Aelor leaned back, regarding the young man across from him coolly. "Apparently you don't know too much, Ronald, although what you have told me is useful." Aelor looked towards the door of the solar, ignoring the Valeman for a moment. "Ser Manfred!"

The broad shouldered and ugly knight opened the door at once, stepping through. "Your Grace?"

Aelor stood, and after a moment Ronald realized he should stand as well, nearly knocking his chair over in his rush to gain his feet. "This man has proven his loyalty to the crown. Ten golden dragons and a mug of ale for him."

"Thank you, Your Grace!" Ronald's face lit up as he answered, but Aelor was already moving past him, Ser Barristan at his heels. Aelor clapped Ser Manfred on the shoulder as he passed. "He also arrived at my home intending to sell information he should have given me freely. He leaves Duskendale with a few less teeth than he arrived with."

Aelor and Ser Barristan were out the door before the sound of Manfred's fist connecting with Ronald's face filled the room. "That may have been a poor move, Your Grace. The man gave us valuable information."

Aelor nodded, not slowing his stride. "Yes, he did, and you're probably right. I suppose I have seen too many treacheries for money in King's Landing; it has turned me hostile to those who turn on their family for so little a motive as gold."

"You have never lacked for gold, Your Grace. Those who have see it much differently."

Aelor couldn't argue that. "A true statement. That's why I like you, Barristan, you put me in my place. I'll give him another dragon for the teeth." Aelor returned to the dining hall, finding that after the bedding many of the guests had stumbled to their chambers. Servants scurried about, cleaning the spills and reorganizing the disarray the visitors had left his hall in. A few were helping this knight or that Lord to their feet and herding them off to their chambers.

Aelor chuckled quietly. "I see I wasn't missed. Ser Barristan, rest well. We rise early in the morning. There are peasants to train, hangovers to cure."

Barristan the Bold nodded. "Of course Your Grace. Shall I convene a war council in the morning?"

Aelor nodded even as he turned to meander towards his chambers by the Narrow Sea. "Of course, old friend. As Ronald so kindly confirmed, we are fighting a war after all."

How Barristan had managed to assemble his bannermen and top knights so early in the morning Aelor would never know, yet when he entered the private dining hall they were almost all already in

place, struggling through a breakfast of fresh fish from the docks. Struggling was the apt term, as most of them were moving sluggishly slow and Lord Byrch seemed to be more asleep than awake, but they were there in body if not mind.

Aelor waved them down as they tried to rise upon his entrance, taking his seat at the head of the table and returning the chorus of greetings from his bannermen. A servant brought him his own dish of steaming cod and a flagon of ale, and Aelor ate quickly and quietly as the men around him returned to nursing their hangovers, chuckling to himself when Lord Renfred Rykker entered and was met with a round of good nature ribbing. He sat beside Aelor, giving his longtime friend a shove in the shoulder when the Targaryen smirked at him.

He looks happy. Good. The world needs more happiness.

After several minutes, he cleared his throat. "My lords, we have received word from the Vale." Each of the lords and knights, no matter their stage of sickness from the night before, instantly gave him their full attention. "Jon Arryn has called his banners. We are at war."

Each of the men took the news calmly, nodding their heads. Lord Cleyton Byrch, apparently more awake than he seemed, spoke first. He was a burly man though a shade short, a few years shy of thirty, with a belly already beginning to grow portly. He kept his blonde hair short and his face clean shaven, with brown eyes and a slightly large nose. Though loyal to Aelor, he could be ambitious and arrogant, as well as perpetually paranoid about losing what was his. That paranoia had driven both of his younger brothers, the handsome Balman and rail-thin Morgan, to leave Byrch Hall, and Aelor had taken them in as household knights in his personal retinue. It served both Lord Byrch and the Dragon of Duskendale well; Lord Cleyton could rest easier without his irrational fear of treachery from his brothers, and Aelor got two very capable swords. "What are your plans, Your Grace?"

"That's what we are here to discuss, my friend. I have sent a raven to King's Landing informing my father of what has happened, though I expect Varys already knows. The King will call his own banners of course, and the raven summoning me may well be on the way. I intend to already be marching by the time it arrives."

"The peasant levies have only just began training, Your Grace," cautioned Lord Donnel Buckwell of Antlers. Malessa's father was in his forties, of average height and build with a head of balding black hair peppered with gray and a drooping mustache. An honorable man, he had earned his knighthood in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and while he was no strategist or master with a blade, he was solid and steady.

Buckwell's new goodson answered for Aelor. "We can train as we march," Renfred said with a nod to the other men. "We have the men to do so. Call a halt an hour or two before daylight and drill them until nightfall. By the time we reach an actual battlefield they'll be as ready as they're ever going to get."

"Levies are unreliable no matter their training," Lord Cleyton countered. "The knights and retinues are the only fore we can depend on."

Ser Barristan spoke from his standing position behind Aelor. "That is true, Lord Byrch, but with proper support levy spears can turn a battle. While most of the levies had never held a weapon before we armed them as you arrived, they can learn."

Ser Manfred, his voice like stone breaking and face scowling as it always was, spoke for the first time in Aelor's memory without cursing every other word. "They will fight as a wall. Alone, the fuckers won't know which end of the spear to stick where and in whom, but together they'll do fine."

"What are our numbers?" Asked the quiet Lord Elwood Harte, short and thin with a few stray copper hairs he tried to pass for a beard. Nineteen, he had been a Lord since he was two years old, when a round of illness had taken his Lord father and most of his household, leaving the young toddler Elwood as the sole survivor of House Harte.

"We have over six thousand men total," answered Ser Barristan. "The majority are trained men-at-arms or knights."

"A relatively small army," Aelor admitted, "but we are already assembled. The Vale is only just beginning to muster, and Lord Arryn will have to smuggle Eddard Stark north and Robert Baratheon to the Stormlands to rally their own bannermen."

"We can strike first," piped in Ser Balman, notably standing as far from his older brother as he could. While they were relatively civil to one another, there was no love lost between the two eldest Byrch's. "We should hit the Valemen or Stormlords before they can assemble." Aelor had been thinking along the same lines, as had most of the other knights and Lords present judging by the wave of nods that followed Ser Balman's proposal.

"They stand a better chance once they unite," agreed Rykker. "We hold the advantage of having the largest force already amassed and equipped."

"The King will insist on your presence in King's Landing, Your Grace," cautioned Ser Barristan. "While Ser Balman's suggestion is credible, your father will expect you to reinforce the capital first."

Aelor nodded. "And so I shall, though I will not remain there. We will march to King's Landing, training our levies as we go, and swell our numbers once there. Then we march through the Stormlands. I intend to scatter as many Stormlord hosts as we can. If we take them piecemeal, we may be able to end this rebellion before it begins."

"The King may not approve, Your Grace."

"The King started this war, with no small amount of help from my brother. I intend to end it, whether he approves or not." Aelor rose to his feet, prompting the others to do the same. "Go to your men my lords. War is upon us. We march for King's Landing by dusk."