12 Chapter 12: Fucking Politicking - 105 AC

As the year 105 AC neared its end, the tranquil ambiance of Claw Isle remained undisturbed. The industrious men tirelessly toiled on their ongoing constructions, while ships gracefully sailed in and out of the harbor, orchestrating a dance of commerce. A constant flow of goods flowed through the vibrant warehouse district, an ebb and flow of prosperity. But amidst this harmonious rhythm, a ship adorned with the majestic Targaryen banner gracefully graced the shores, bearing a herald from the capital city. Once the letter's authenticity had been duly confirmed, the vigilant port guards promptly guided the messenger towards the formidable stronghold nestled in the heart of the isle - Crab's Return.

Now, the messenger found himself walking through the corridor towards the hall that had undergone a splendid transformation. This exalted chamber that he was going to was none other than the lord's seat, a space where distinguished guests were warmly received and important audiences conducted. In times past, it had languished as a dreary seat of authority, devoid of splendor. Yet, thanks to Clement's unwavering insistence on revitalizing the house's image, the hall had been utterly reborn. Adorned upon the walls were resplendent tapestries depicting majestic crabs and their crustaceous brethren. Proudly displayed just behind the seat itself was a painting of the Lord Bartimos, while his heir, Clement, found his rightful place on the left. Regrettably, the right side remained vacant, patiently awaiting the future arrival of the lady of Claw Isle, a void yet to be filled.

Even the seat itself had undergone a metamorphosis. No longer a mere mundane wooden chair adorned with meager ornaments, it had been meticulously crafted into a peerless masterpiece. Fashioned from dark wood, lustrous bronze, and adorned with the gleaming rubies held within the family's secure vault, the chair commanded attention. While the seat's surface remained flat, the majestic backrest was sculpted into a colossal crabshell, the epitome of opulence. Bedecked with radiant rubies and lavishly gilded with resplendent bronze, the crabshell's form may not have been flawlessly executed, for the carpenters and artisans of the isle were not renowned for their expertise. Yet, Bartimos himself saw beauty in its rough-hewn design, an appeal born of imperfection.

Thus, Bartimos sat enthroned, his son standing dutifully at his left, as the messenger from the city of King's Landing crossed the threshold into the resplendent hall.

As the great doors of the hall swung open, a figure clad in resplendent black and red armor, emblematic of the Targaryen household guard, made his entrance. Evidently driven by haste, he sought to expedite this momentous encounter.

"Lord Bartimos Celtigar," he pronounced, humbly bowing before continuing, "I bring words from King Viserys Targaryen, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

"You seem hasty, lad. What has happened?" Inquired Bartimos with an ever-curious and patient demeanor.

"My sincere apologies, my lord, but the king's command necessitates swift delivery of this missive." The man then produced a sealed letter, embellished with the distinguished Targaryen sigil. With a gentle touch, he broke the seal and proceeded to relay its contents.

"Greetings and blessings upon you and your noble house. I, King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, write to you with utmost urgency and a matter of great importance. It is with great—"

"Pardon me, ser," Clement interjected. "I mean no discourtesy, but could you provide a succinct summary of the letter's essence? Given the urgency you espouse, let us not dwell on pleasantries any longer."

Upon hearing this, the messenger nodded and entrusted the letter to the nearest guard for safekeeping. "The queen has passed away, my lord, along with the newly born Prince Baelon."

"Gods be good…" Bartimos whispered. "And the king... is he well?"

"That is why I am dispatched hither," the messenger carried on. "The king has decreed that every noble lord within the realm must journey to King's Landing to pledge allegiance to his newly appointed heir, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen."

"Princess… Rhaenyra?" Bartimos frowned. "Not Prince Daemon?"

The messenger, his countenance steeped in deference, averted his eyes to the ground, eschewing a verbal response. Observing this act of humility, Bartimos, inquisitive, turned to Clement, finding no trace of astonishment upon his countenance.

"I express my heartfelt gratitude for your dutiful service, ser," Bartimos acknowledged with a dignified nod. "Without delay, I shall embark upon a journey to King's Landing." His gaze shifted, contemplating the imminent tasks ahead. "During this interim, my retinue shall endeavor to procure for you a respiteful chamber where you may rejuvenate your weary spirit."

"Your benevolence bestows upon me great honor, my lord," the messenger expressed, executing yet another respectful bow. Bartimos, in turn, summoned the guards with a subtle gesture, beseeching them to escort the messenger forthwith, a command they executed with swiftness and obedience. The hallowed hall, bereft of all but Bartimos and Clement, descended into a profound stillness, like the hush of a somber nightfall.

Bartimos sighed, turning to his son once more. "What do you want to do?"

"Me? Nothing." Clement shrugged, walking away from the throne, down off the platform. "It is you who were told to swear your allegiance to the princess, not me."

The man leaned against his throne, went into deep thought. "The king is… laden with grief, to think he would call all the lords to swear allegiance to the princess. He chose his daughter rather than his brother. I mean, not that the lords would choose the prince to be king, but… the princess is, well, a girl. No queen has ever sat on the iron throne."

"You supported Laenor's claim during the Great Council, were you not?" Clement asked. "You chose the female line rather than the male line. Though ultimately that failed miserably."

With a thoughtful hum, Bartimos acknowledged his son's recollection. "Indeed, my son, you speak true. How ironic it is, isn't it? Viserys himself ascended the throne by virtue of that very law, which preferred males over females. And yet, in this instance, he desires the recognition of every lord, affirming his daughter as his named heir to the iron throne."

"He's the king," Clement interjected, his voice tinged with deference. "His whims and desires hold sway over all."

Bartimos responded with a disapproving shake of his head, his countenance weighted with concern. "However, such prerogative does not exempt him from the repercussions that follow. Soon, an assemblage of opportunistic courtiers will flock to him, weaving webs of matrimonial arrangements. And when that day arrives, a new heir shall be borne, another son. And what will he do then? Keep the princess as his heir? Soon schemes will echo in the Red Keep, great houses will want their blood on the Iron Throne."

At long last, Bartimos rose from his ornate seat, descending the elevated platform with measured steps, traversing toward the door. "During my absence, you shall assume the role of my regent. Your uncle's imminent arrival beckons, so make the necessary preparations. In the meantime I shall… bathe myself in this fucking cutthroat politicking."

Clement simply nodded, his eyes fixated on the retreating figure of Bartimos. "As you wish, father."

As the doors slowly closed, Clement turned his gaze to the vacant lord's seat, exhaling a profound sigh. With a heavy step, he departed, his own duties awaiting him.

======

Within the grand hall of the Iron Throne, nestled deep within the impenetrable walls of the Red Keep, Bartimos found himself amidst an assembly of esteemed noble lords hailing from all corners of the seven kingdoms. The expanse of the chamber teemed with an ocean of men, their movements measured and deliberate as they traversed the expanse towards the throne's commanding presence. Lord Stark, seldom seen within the confines of King's Landing, stood alongside Lord Greyjoy and the Maiden of the Vale, evoking an air of rarity and significance. Yet, dominating this gathering of illustrious figures was the King himself, seated regally upon the resplendent throne. At the very base of this congregation, delicate and poised, stood the youthful Princess Rhaenyra, her countenance unyielding as, one by one, the noble lords humbled themselves, offering their fealty through genuflection.

The resounding oaths of these noble lords reverberated through the grand hall, each vow carrying its own weight and solemnity. Their pledges, varied in tone and depth, were nonetheless bound by an unbreakable commitment to the princess. To defy such sacred promises would be to invite the dire consequences of treason. At last, the Septon positioned beside the princess called Bartimos with his title, beckoning him to step forward from the distinguished assembly. With measured steps, Bartimos gracefully traversed the central aisle, his every movement exuding deference and respect. As he reached the princess, he knelt before her, his head bowed in deference.

For a fleeting moment, Bartimos cast a discerning gaze upon the youthful maiden, as if seeking to fathom the depths of her emotions. Not seeing anything, he beckons to speak his fealty. "I, Bartimos Celtigar, Lord of Claw Isle, promise to be faithful to King Viserys, and his named heir, the princess Rhaenyra. I pledge fealty to them, and shall defend them against all enemies, in good faith, and without deceit. I swear this, by the Old Gods and the new."

Without awaiting a reply, Bartimos gracefully rose to his feet, moving backward with measured steps while still keeping his countenance directed toward the king and his heir. Thus, he gracefully returned to his designated position within the ranks.

======

Once the opulent ceremony had drawn to a close, King Viserys graciously hosted a modest feast for the lords. Bartimos found himself nestled in a corner of the grand hall, his delicate hand cradling a goblet of wine. With a thoughtful gaze, he beheld the scene before him—the lords and ladies engaged in animated conversations, their voices carrying the cadence of pleasant exchanges and effusive adulations.

It was in this captivating tableau that a conspicuously attired man, garbed in a resplendent robe of light aquamarine adorned with a trident emblem, ambled towards Bartimos, bearing his own chalice of wine. Breaking the tranquil air, he cordially addressed Bartimos. "Good-brother, I trust all has been well with you?"

"Ah, Lord Desmond, my dear good-brother," Bartimos responded, mustering a feeble smile. "I have managed to endure these days."

With a serene demeanor, Lord Desmond inquired, "And how fares my nephew? The memory of his triumphant tourney victory from last year still brings a giddy joy to my heart. I nearly burst into fits of laughter witnessing his countenance upon removing his helmet."

"He is an enigma," Bartimos replied with a shrug, his tone tinged with a hint of resignation. "At first glance, he resembles Alys, but once his attention is elsewhere, he becomes an entirely different person."

"In what manner, pray tell?" Lord Desmond probed further, his interest piqued.

"Much like Alys, conversing with him is an arduous task, as his remarks often verge on the impolite and offensive," Bartimos chuckled lightly. "Yet, when he immerses himself in his endeavors, his determination shines through, and he dismisses levity with unwavering focus."

Lord Desmond's laughter resonated deeply, echoing through the hall. "Indeed, the former sentiment does bear a striking resemblance to my dear sister." He took a sip of his wine, his eyes surveying the gathering of lords. "I trust your lands continue to flourish, good-brother. It appears that with each passing year, your prosperity burgeons. My sailors regale me with tales of the ongoing construction of Claw Isle—how the fortifications slowly materialize, and stones are painstakingly transported to an arduous rocky island for a lighthouse to be erected."

"Indeed," Bartimos assented with a nod, his countenance both proud and solemn. "However, regrettably, our current fortune hinges on the Stepstones incursions. Without such ventures, I fear our rapid progress would be impeded."

Lord Desmond's expression grew pensive. "I understand. The trade in White Harbor has been dwindling for years, but it has not reached dire straits. Our mercantile endeavors primarily rely on King's Landing, Braavos, and Pentos."

"Then let us thank the gods for their benevolence and mercy," Bartimos replied, his smile reflecting a touch of gratitude, as he, too, indulged in his wine.

Desmond let out a heartfelt sigh. "Listen, good-brother, I earnestly hope that one day I shall have the honor of paying my respects at my sister's resting place."

Bartimos offered a comforting pat on Desmond's shoulder. "When that time comes, I shall humbly extend my warmest welcome, good-brother."

======

Clement stood before the harbor of Brackyore, his eyes wide with astonishment as he beheld the arrival of his newly appeared uncle. Awe-struck, he observed the man's formidable figure, accompanied by a vessel of fresh craftsmanship, replacing the unfortunate vessel that had apparently succumbed irreparably to a tempest of unimaginable force. Yet, it was not the sight of the ship alone that stirred Clement's soul; it was the presence of a newborn babe cradled in his uncle's arms, a child with raven tresses that captivated his attention.

Approaching his nephew with a countenance of somber contemplation, his furrowed brow a testament to unspoken concerns, the uncle spoke. "After my prolonged absence, is this the sole reception I am granted?" he queried, his arched eyebrows accentuating his inquiry.

Clement, a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity adorning his countenance, offered his response with casuality. "Father has embarked upon a journey to the halls of King's Landing, summoned by the king's decree." Pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts, he continued, seeking clarity in the face of the enigmatic situation. "What is that… 'thing' in your arms?"

A hint of a smile played upon the uncle's lips, as he spoke with a touch of pride. "Why, it is your cousin," he replied, cradling the infant tenderly. "I have named him Arthor."

Startled, Clement's confusion grew palpable. "Wait, what?" he exclaimed, struggling to comprehend. "Your bastard?"

Gromond, with a scoff of noble disdain, swiftly dismissed such accusations. "My son is no bastard. He is trueborn, legitimate in every essence."

Elevating his brow in skepticism, Clement probed further. "So, you've married a woman, then? I don't see her."

His uncle's response carried an air of intrigue. "Alas, she is currently indisposed.."

Taken aback by the evasive answer, Clement pressed on with determination. "Indisposed? She's dead?"

Gromond's voice resonated with a mix of conviction and mystery. "No, nephew, she is not dead. She is merely preoccupied."

Perplexed, Clement sought clarification once more. "And where is your wife now?"

"In Lys."

"Lys? How did the fuck did you get there with all the pirates on the Stepstones?"

"It's a long story." Gromond sighed. "I'm tired, nephew, guide me to the castle. I do see many improvements being constructed around here, good job."

A pang of concern welled within Clement's heart as he realized a pressing matter. "Yet, who shall nurture and nourish the youngling in your absence?"

With an air of nonchalance, Gromond assured his nephew. "Fear not, for the wet nurse shall tend to his every need, ensuring his well-being."