Karmic Acumen
Well-known member
A/N: From here, the plot begins picking up speed again.
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“-. 278 AC .-“
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“-. 278 AC .-“
The sun was shining, the clouds were drifting, summer was ending, and a few ambles along the wall were about as long as Robert Baratheon lasted before he couldn’t take Jon’s silence anymore.
“Well?” he demanded, leaning next to the window and looking at Jon over Ned’s head, ignoring the septon completely. “Are you going to arbitrate already, Jon?”
“I am thinking,” Jon said.
“No shit. What about? What could be more important, than, oh, only one half of this mess of a debate being done in good faith?”
“I am thinking about all these things that Ned has said, about my ancestors. The things you yourself clearly believe, don’t deny it.”
Robert most certainly didn’t deny it. “What of it?”
“It’s something I’d been pondering for some time, as these disasters of make-believe rhetoric progressed. Then something occurred to me just the other week. You know what occurred to me? You're both just boys. You don't have the faintest idea the depths you still have to delve.”
Robert bit back his first instinct to cast damnations as Ned’s face twisted in frustration. In the corner of his eye, Robes sat back in his chair, looking satisfied.
“It's all right,” Jon continued. “You've never travelled more than fifty leagues away from your beds. So if I asked you about history, you'd probably give me a list of excerpts from every history and chronicle in my library. Tristifer Mudd, for example, I bet you know a lot about him. His life, his beliefs, his ninety-nine battles, wife, lovers, children, everything about his years, isn’t that right?”
Robert scowled but nodded since Ned seemed to have turned into a statue well on the way to his chair grinding a furrow in the floor with how hard his stare pushed against Robes’.
“But I'll wager you can't tell me what it smells like in the Citadel Hall of Records. You can’t describe the look of the Starry Sept as the crystal at the summit casts its rainbow light amidst the specks of candle light in that seven-pointed star of pitch darkness. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that ceiling. Seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a rundown about your personal preferences. You may even wax poetically about the demure eyes and voluptuous hips that most stand out on the list of wenches and whores you’ve lain with. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy.”
There was a great, dark cloud gathering at the back of his mind, thick and lumbering. If Robes was going to emanate any more smugness, Robert was going to change his angle of attack so it mysteriously passed right through the space he occupied, see if he doesn’t!
“And if I'd ask you about war,” Jon said, grimly now. “You'd probably boast of your prowess in the tilts and your skill with a sword or hammer, yes? Perhaps quote whoever you chose as your hero from all the chronicles and tales you’ve read for this. Once more unto the breach, my friends. Victory or death. But you've never been near one. You've never held your father’s head in your lap, and watched him gasp his last breath looking to you for reassurance.”
Now that was a dirty blow, to bring up his father and grandfather. Robert didn’t think Jon would ever do such a thing. No, he still didn’t think Jon would do such a thing. The fuck was all this?
“I'd ask you about love, and at least one of you would probably quote me a poem. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like the Maiden herself came down from the heavens just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of the deepest hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her knight in shining armor, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through good and ill and the bed of blood slowly sapping her life away as she fades after the child she just lost, asking about her parents, siblings and everyone else that left before her. You wouldn't know about sitting up at her bedside for days, holding her hand, because the Maester could see in your eyes that the notion of sleep was foreign to you. You don't know about real loss, because that only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself.”
Jon's first wife was Jeyne Royce. He had been betrothed to her from an early age and married her after his father's death. Everyone agreed they were a good match, but then she died in childbed, their daughter stillborn. Jon’s second marriage was to Rowena Arryn, a cousin, who died of a winter chill during a childless marriage. It’s why Jon had no children and was raising Elbert to succeed him instead, the son of his brother Ronnel, who’d died of a bad belly at around the same time Elbert was born. And that didn’t even begin to compare to how Elys and Alys ended up with just Alyssa despite having nine children together.
None of which explained what Jon was thinking pulling a Robes and going on a tangent that had nothing to do with anything!
“You’re clever boys, Ned, Robert. I’ll never deny that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But since you want me to intervene despite the talk having gone more or less smoothly, strong feelings aside, then let it be this: don’t presume to know everything about the one you’re talking to, let alone their ancestors, just because you read it in a book. One of you is from a seaside fortress at the edge of a land of rolling hills and forest beset by storms every other day. The other hails from a land and culture different from any of ours. Do you think I'd know the first thing about what your life has been like because I read Kin of the Stag? Do you think I know how you feel, who you are, what views of the past you treasure, because I read Winter’s Kings? Does that encapsulate you? What does it say that I can't learn anything from you I can't read in some book in my own time?”
It says that Jon went way out of his way to be so harsh while saying a whole lot of nothing about nothing Ned never even touched during the disaster of a ‘debate’ that had just finished and wait a minute… “Jon…” Robert said slowly. “You talk good, and usually you even have interesting things to say, but this time I have no idea where you’re going with any of this.”
To the side, Robes scoffed as if Jon hadn’t just talked completely around the point of his presence there and thus avoided actually endorsing him and hold on there- “He’s telling you not to go delving for things you won’t like when you find.”
If he hadn’t been watching for it, Robert would have missed the look that passed over Jon’s face. He had no idea what it was, but it sure was something. Something Robes was too busy putting on airs to catch.
“For all the talent you profess to have acquired in reading between the lines, much still escapes you.” Robes acted like he was talking to both of them like Jon had, but it was still Ned he was looking at. “Like certain implications not as palatable to sensibilities so far removed as yours. You needn’t even delve too deeply in obscure records or lore to stumble over them. It can be anything as common as the latest bard song, or, say, how wonderful it would be to come into possession of valyrian steel. That’s always a popular topic among youth, isn’t it? It’s almost like there’s no dark secret just waiting to be uncovered.”
“Blood sacrifice,” Ned said flatly. “Yes, we know.”
“Never mind that, we’re talking about history here,” Robes dismissed. “Have you never wondered about the almost total mystery about when it actually started coming to Westeros? We know that some weapons are six hundred years old. House Corbray’s Lady Forlorn is the only one that we know has been here for longer, at least a thousand years, and even then there are claims the current sword only inherited the name. Reading the histories indicates the turning point was the destruction of the Rhoynar. Two centuries passed, centuries in which the coveted Valyrian steel began to trickle into the Seven Kingdoms more swiftly than before, though not swiftly enough for all the lords and kings who desired it. For some reason, Valyrians accelerated trade in Valyrian swords after the fall of Chroyane. Those swords also couldn’t have come through regular trade, since it would have favoured wealthy Houses and the lesser Houses would have nothing. Yet it’s mostly the other way around. Secondary Houses like Corbrays and Reynes somehow procured valyrian steel weapons even though some of the great houses did not, the Arryns themselves among them.”
… Was he arguing past based on present again?
“Now, what else do we know about Valyrians? They relied heavily on slaves mining gold in their fire mountains. They even started wars to keep their mines stocked. With the destruction of Rhoynar and conquest of most neighbours, Valyria may have been running out of cheap, expendable slaves they could burn through in the mines. So it is entirely possible that Valyrian trade was not done in coin, but flesh.”
The eye of the storm settled upon the world before the thunder. Robert didn’t think it could happen.
“And so we see the other uniting characteristic of Valyrian steel-owning Houses: – though not necessarily the richest, they tend to be close to the coast. Harlaws, Mormonts, Cobrays, Reyenes, Royces, Hightowers, Lannisters, and so on. Very convenient if one is to organize illicit slave trade – in the form of ‘unexpected’ slaver raids, ‘lost’ ships and such perhaps? Valyrian Steel, this coveted symbol of prestige... wouldn’t it be just like this world for it to actually be a badge of collaboration with dragon-riding slavers, payed in blood of peasants who burned in infernal fires a continent away from home?”
The sun peeked right through the window now, which felt completely out of place because there was no end to the dark clouds at the back of Robert’s mind.
“Not all such houses would have the means, I grant you – Durrandon lands were thinly peopled and every peasant counted in the wars with the Dornish and numerically superior Reachmen. But others? Corbrays and Royces could secretly poach the mountain clans, especially the Royces who have ports of their own. Lannisters and Hightowers may be the richest already, so no questions about their trade. And then there are those who may not be nearly as rich, or even coastal themselves as opposed to their vassal lords, but rule lands where surplus people are regularly sent to die in snows or raids during winter. There’s your seedy underbelly of hist–“
CRASH.
The storm burst into the world like a hurricane and sheared the space between two points in an instant.
“Robert,” Ned growled amidst the ringing smash of the second chair he’d just sent toppling back in apoplectic rage. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hugging my friend!” Robert cried, wrapping himself around Ned as tight as he could. “My bestest friend who was just about to swear a blood feud against an arse who doesn’t believe a word he says!”
“He just called my whole family a bloodline of slavers!”
“Well what do you know, the fabled well-read moron does exist!”
“I swear I’ll-“
“No!”
“Let me go.”
“Nay!”
“Let me go, Robert.”
“I SHAN’T!”
“… I can’t just do nothing, Robert.”
“He’s just goading you, Ned! He doesn’t believe a word he says, but said them anyway because he wanted to get a rise out of you so you’d think he was mad and you’d go mad mad! Then he’d be able to put a feather in his cap that the only reason he couldn’t reach you and win your soul for you was because you were crazy! Well he’s not that crazy! He’s just pretending to maybe be oblivious enough to how his words could be taken, all so you’d lose your shit and he can remorsefully make you out as a savage later! Don’t fall for it!”
“Well I say!" Robes tsked. “Those are some strong-!”
“Not another word or I’m converting to the Old Gods right now.”
Robed Cunt shut up.
And stayed shut up.
Fucking finally.
Ned made a serious try to break out of his hold. “Robert… Sometimes I don’t understand why you bother.”
“And I can’t understand why you ever thought this would end any other way! Why even argue history and forebears? Why argue anything if you’re just going to let all your logic and common sense go to complete waste? Mentioning genocide and slavery at the start, what, are you stupid!? You don’t throw out your best tactics and weapons in the opening salvo, you MORON!” Robert had gone from holding to practically shaking Ned by the end. “What the hell is so hard to understand about war!?”
“For Gods’ sakes…” Ned wheezed dazedly. “That has literally nothing to do with anything.”
“Bullshit!” Robert spat, wrapping himself around Ned even tighter. “You said the only time you’ll ever give up on trying to reason with someone was if they’re crazy, stupid or incompetent! Well this is isn’t you trying to reason with someone crazy, stupid or incompetent! This is you arguing with the crazy, stupid and incompetent! The cultured hollowhead! The well-read moron. Well look at that, he dragged you down to his level and beat you with experience! Fucking congratulations!”
Robert paused to catch his breath while he waited for Ned to stop feeling like a stone statue about to explode in a blizzard at any moment.
“Jon,” Robert said when Ned’s breathing against his collarbone didn’t feel like it would strip the bark off trees anymore. “When the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne and fell out with the Children of the Forest, they began a total war of extermination and eventually became the worst cunts of their time, isn’t that right?”
Jon didn’t reply for a time, but then… “I suppose it’s possible, as much as anything can be assumed when trying to talk about times so long ago.”
“When the Ghiscari raised the Harpy and proclaimed their manifest destiny for all time, they started invading everything around them, killing and enslaving everyone they could find and becoming the worst cunts of their time.”
“That is so.”
“After the Valyrians broke the Ghiscari, they took up their practices and began invading everything around them, killing and enslaving everyone they could find and becoming the worst cunts of their time.”
“Yes.”
“When the Valyrians fell to the Doom and all their protectorates fell to infighting, the Dothraki spilled out of the Essossi plains and began invading everything around them, killing and enslaving everyone they could find and becoming the worst cunts of our time.”
“Yes.”
“Are thralls slaves?”
“Yes.”
Robert ignored Robed Cunt’s sudden start at Jon’s endorsement of what Robert was actually saying, nodded into Ned’s hair, let go, checked him over to make sure he wouldn’t commit bloody murder while his back was turned, went to the wall, came back to the table with his satchel that weighed like sin, then opened it and, taking care not to displace any of the leaves of paper he’d prepared on top of each cover, dropped the first book flat on the tabletop with such force that the mahogany creaked.
SLAM. “’The Andals were ever a warlike folk, for one of the Seven they worshipped was the Warrior himself,’ So war for war’s sake, what a high virtue! I love a good fight, but Jon only just pointed out that those are as rare in war as tits on a man’s backside – my warning stands!”
Robed Cunt closed the mouth he’d just opened but his scowl was-
SLAM, the second. “’Andalos stretched from the Axe to what is now the Braavosian Coastlands, and south as far as the Flatlands and the Velvet Hills. The Andals brought iron weapons with them and suits of iron plates, against which the tribes that inhabited those lands could do little. One such tribe was the hairy men; their name is lost, but they are still remembered in certain Pentoshi histories.’”
The third.
“’Others followed the mazemakers on Lorath in the centuries that followed. For a time the isles were home to a small, dark, hairy people, akin to the men of Ib. Fisherfolk, they lived along the coasts and shunned the great mazes of their predecessors. They in turn were displaced by Andals, pushing north from Andalos to the shores of Lorath Bay and across the bay in longships. Clad in mail and wielding iron swords and axes, the Andals swept across the islands, slaughtering the hairy men in the name of their seven-faced god and taking their women and children as slaves.”
Four.
“‘Even before the coming of the Andals, the Wolf’s Den had been raised by King Jon Stark, built to defend the mouth of the White Knife against raiders and slavers from across the narrow sea. Some scholars suggest these were early Andal incursions.’”
Five, six.
“There are no Andal settlements in Andalos, and the best Quarlon the Great ever did was build a wooden keep on Lorath, an island covered in stone. Which is weird because you claim the Andals were great builders. If you could build from stone, you’d have done it. The Seven Pointed Star claims you got iron and steel from the gods because they walked among you, but even the worst of the Citadel’s worst can’t find it in them to perpetrate that lie. You denounce Pentoshi claims that you practiced human sacrifices, which means you don’t even have that excuse when you tell us Andals were incapable of coexisting with others. The Lorathi and every last tribe they ever came into contact with in that huge chunk of Essos was eradicated according to all histories, including your own.”
Seven, eight, nine.
“The Seven Pointed Star would have us believe you thrived in Andalos for thousands of years, but even the most arse-kissing history can’t account for you being there for more than a few centuries. Then you say that when the Valyrians founded Volantis on the other side of the Rhoyne, thousands of miles away, it scared you so badly that you fled Andalos all the way back to the Axe and cowered there. Somehow, this didn’t happen in the time before, when the Valyrians could just use their ships to land their army instead. It also didn’t stop Qarlon from trying to conquer Valyrian colonies despite knowing they had fucking dragons to fly in on at a moment’s notice.”
Ten, eleven, twelve, slam the thirteenth because he’d checked a lot of books in the months that Ned and Robes ‘debated’ on and off.
“Bookmarks in numbered order for proof that the supposed path of retreat of the Andal from Essos makes no fucking sense. It’s a lot. My favorite is Theon Stark’s history – he attacked you in Andalos after your first wave landed in the Vale. But according to your holy book and your favorite maesters, the Andals at this point had supposedly fled to the axe because Andalos wasn’t safe. But then you turned around and went back to Andalos, by going North and then West and only then you decided to build a fleet and invade westeros – which means you crossed the Shivering Sea on foot? That’s all there is north and west of the Axe! Where were your longships? All this because the Valyrians landed at the mouth of the Rhoyne thousands of miles to the south. That’s some mighty fast and far-reaching communication, by the way. I’d love to know what happened to it that you needed to seize Maesters and ravens after you came over here.”
Robes looked like he was a hair’s breadth away from snarling and-
Slam the fourteenth.
“’In their zeal for the Seven, the conquerors looked upon the Old Gods of the First Men and the children of the forest as little more than demons.’”
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, many a woman’s bed had passed the nights cold because Robert had been too busy to give them the attention they deserved, Ned had better be grateful! “Corroborating evidence for everything. It’s a lot, but I’ll be gracious and summarise.” The light from outside came from behind Robert now, that the table and the Robed Cunt were both in his shadow. “Low culture confirmed. Genocide confirmed. The faith says slavery is an abomination but you have a long standing tradition of being slavers. And on top of it all, you have a history of lying about all of it. But then, you already know that, don’t you? This…” Robert reached over and picked up Ned’s opening argument and dropped it on top of the last and used a bar of charcoal to underline every word he then read. “’They were ground underfoot, reduced to thralls, or driven out.’ This, from the very start, completely destroys every fucking word that came out of your mouth before and after. Now, knowing that I fully intend to go through with my previous warning, is there anything you’d like to say to any of that, good septon?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought.” Robert rested his hands on the table and loomed forward. The shadows deepened. “There was no holy mission or moral imperative. You can’t even say Valyria scared you into crossing the sea. The Andals came to Westeros when Jon Brightstone and Dywen Shell decided to hire Andal mercenaries in their feud over kingship of the Fingers. Except they had the bad luck to unknowingly approach the same man. Then Corwyn Corbray, that oh so chivalrous knight, broke his contract, tortured Brightstone to death and took his daughter as wife, burned Shell alive inside his longhall and took his wife as a bedwarmer on top of it, and proclaimed himself King of the Fingers in their place.” Robert reached in the side pocket of his satchel and pulled out a folded letter, which he tossed across the table. “A long letter from the Corbrays, detailing everything in that particular part of their family history. It was easy to get it from them. They’re quite proud of it.” Robert pushed away from the table and beheld the quietly seething man. “You know what most gets me? A dothraki would have just killed them. And a wildling would have at least kept to one woman.”
Robert loomed there like any proper storm cloud should, with his back to the sun while waiting to see if the man would lose his composure and give him the excuse to throw that one last thing right in his face.
He didn’t.
Robert smirked. “Imagine that. Foreign invaders being the biggest cunts of their time.”
Urizen glared at him and refused to take the bait.
Oh well! Such was life!
Robert turned back to Ned. “That’s how you do it.”
Urizen stood up so abruptly that his chair almost toppled backwards. Robert put himself between him and Ned despite the table being already there, his fingers twitching while he glared in warning. For a moment, Robert actually thought Septon Urizen would break his silence and give him that final push.
Instead, the man snarled wordlessly and turned to Jon with a gaze so demanding that Robert was briefly outraged at his presumption despite everything else the man had done up to that point.
Jon, as if to send Robert into another bewilderment just for the hell of it, inclined his head slightly. “It’s alright, Septon. You may go compose yourself in peace. I’ll handle them.”
Robes looked like he might protest, but eventually he bowed his head – barely – whirled around and stalked towards the door.
“I lied, you know,” Robert called just as the man was about to turn the handle, because if he was going to see so much of the same cunt, he damn well was going to fuck it right and proper. “I wouldn’t have converted.”
Urizen turned to look at him in outrage.
Robert bared his teeth. “I don’t believe in gods.” He hoped Ned wouldn’t hold it against him too much. “And if I did, I wouldn’t worship them. Feel free to spread that as far and wide as you want.”
Urizen glared, left in a billow of robes and slammed the door behind him.
Well.
That’s that then!
Robert pat Ned on both shoulders and then took a seat next to him. Between him and Jon, just because.
There was an awkward silence.
He’d had more than enough of those. “Jon-“
Jon raised a hand, then held up a finger and tilted his head slightly towards the door, from where footsteps could still be heard. When they faded completely and another while had passed, Jon rested his chin in one hand and looked at the two of them. Just looked at them for a long time. His hair was more grey than yellow, Robert somehow noticed as if he didn’t already know that.
Robert squirmed. Don’t you judge him, Jon could do that to you just as easily, see if he doesn’t! “I’m sorry!” he blurted, because his will was still weak. “I didn’t set out to insult you, I know they’re your ancestors but he just-“
“Robert. It’s alright. Calm down. I’m not mad.”
“Oh.” Oh. “Alright then.”
Jon didn’t follow up, though. He just watched them with that same, thoughtful intensity.
“He even lies about your hair!” Robert exploded, because his will was really weak as fuck all. “Why? Why would he do that? So what if the Andals were actually dark-haired? What’s the fucking point!?”
“Legitimacy.”
“Bullshit!” And where the fuck had all his composure gone-
“That’s right.”
“Complete bullshit, I had to read Malleon’s Lineages cover to cover and I will never forgive you, Ned – I did not need to wonder if Orys Baratheon was a Durrandon bastard on top of a Targaryen one – wait,” Robert trailed off. “Uh, Jon? What did you just say?”
“You’re right,” Jon said simply. “About it being a poor excuse for legitimacy. And everything else you told Urizen. And Ned is right about everything else he said. The Andals were the worst of people, and any claims to the contrary are revisionist history done out of jealousy. For the sake of living in a dream. It is a common wish, to believe what you want instead of what is. What the Faith wants is to believe its founders were the most accomplished of men. What is… is that the First Men society was mature and solvent by the time the Andals came with their barbaric ways. They First Men were morally superior. The First Men were societally superior. After all, the culture of the first men was already established and mature and self-improving. Really, it is obvious from the fact that the Andals were entirely assimilated, as Ned so aptly put it. The Andals were superstitious children in comparison, a stage the First Men of Westeros had long since grown out of. Resenting them for that would be like resenting my mother for not birthing me fully grown and learned.”
Robert gaped and slumped in his seat, stunned at… at Jon just…
“Now, to what is actually important here.” What. “You missed on plenty of opportunities to make your case properly iron-clad.” What? “So many questions you could have asked. Why does the Faith of the Seven claim it has coexisted peacefully with the Old Gods for many hundreds of years, pretending like the thousands of years of blood wars beforehand never happened? What does it mean that Andals have always been at odds with Valyrians and First Men? Why is it that, somehow, just after Valyria beat down and displaced Ghis as the great power, the Andals claim to have a collective panic attack and thought that they were next? Ghis had been far closer to them and had an equally atrocious practice of slavery for its entire existence. What did the Valyrians do that was so much worse? Or was that a lie too? Was it perhaps religious zealotry? Did Valyria’s religious freedom offend them? There are a number of religious zealot groups that coincidentally settled Andal territory because they found Valyria’s acceptance of all religious intolerable: Norvos and Lorath. Both wear hair shirts, causing discomfort and pain as religious penance. The Warrior’s Sons of the Faith Millitant did the same under their silver scale armor. Now isn’t that shocking? Really, Robert, you could have driven the man so much farther into the arms of apoplexy if you’d just skirted the edges of blasphemy, let alone plunged head-first to the very bottom as you are so very talented in doing.”
Robert gaped at Jon, aghast.
“Would you be surprised to know I think Harmune was right about everything he wrote on the axes carved in stones? The Warrior’s Sons branded their chests like Norvosi soldiers, except with the seven-pointed star. Eventually at least. I am tempted to go on a spiel about the Blind Priests of Boasch in Lorath, but I am honestly doubtful I can rise to the same heights as the good septon in the art of baffling people with cow manure.”
Robert was… he had no words.
“Your point about the wooden keep and the absent Andal builders was inspired. But you missed something in everything that came after. Qarlon wanted to be King of All Andals, Twenty wars and twenty years later, he controlled everything from the Braavosi Lagoon to the Axe, and as far south as Upper Rhoyne and Noyne. Does this means that the first settlers of Braavos were Andal slavers, instead of escaped Valyrian slaves? I’m personally doubtful because of the timeline of Faceless Man activity, and that little thing known as the Titan, but throwing out the bait of possible Andal construction would have been an excellent trap.”
No. No fucking way. Jon had to be fucking with him, he just had to. He just had to!
But Jon just kept going as if he wasn’t tarring his own forebears with a brush soaked in liquid shit. “Now. Ned.”
Ned straightened in his seat.
“You missed some positively ruinous opportunities to turn Urizen’s claims of Valyria against him and return the discussion on point. The only time Valyrians and Andals are known to have fought was when Qarlon attacked Norvos. The Norvosi called on the Freehold for help, and they got it – one hundred dragonlords. They burned Qarlon and his army to ashes, then continued north until they scorched the Lorathi isles. Strangely, there was no mention in those texts about the Valyrians enslaving anyone. Now, considering it was an old copy of an even older Norvosi chronicle, it was probably omitted so the Valyrian saviours seemed more heroic. But you could easily have distracted Urizen from that – if he even had the presence of mind to bring it up – by bringing up how Valyria never attacked the Andals unprovoked.”
“… The Valyrians denied the Andas the promise of the Seven on Essos,” Ned said in a tone of realisation. “So the zealous Andals that survived the burning, they carved seven-pointed stars on their bodies and swore on their blood and the seven not to rest until they had hewn their kingdoms from the sunset lands.”
“It is certainly one possible interpretation, and would have turned Urizen’s penchant for distracting tangents against him quite neatly.” Jon lectured as if the increasing pile of ambition, delusion, lies, and just plain evil in his own people’s history made no difference to him at all! “Then there was his claim that any history of Andal wrongdoing would have been exposed by the Maesters – well look at that, it was. Until the convenient extermination of every member of House Hightower except a small child that one septon took and became regent for. Robert’s contributions are enough indication of your blindspot here, I trust?”
“And then some,” Ned muttered.
“I am quite frankly surprised you didn’t make more of this yourself, Robert, considering the faces you made while Urizen was pretending to address that hole in his argument.”
“… It slipped my mind, alright!?” Robert admitted, flushing scarlet. “I-I have it written down somewhere, look-“
“It’s alright, Robert,” Jon waved it away, smiling indulgently. “I believe you. I’m not Urizen. I’ll always value your word.”
Robert shifted in his seat and hoped his ears weren’t getting pinker than they already were.
“Still, I am very surprised you didn’t at least bring up Storm’s End while you were throwing the great Andals builders in his face. It’s no small thing that the Faith and every other maester pretends every last great castle dating back to the Long Night didn’t exist before the Andals came. Then again, I can think of at least one book right now that claims Storm’s End was finished by Andals, so perhaps he’d have weasled out of it. I assume the existence of two First Men written languages and the age of the Citadel slipped your mind in between as well?”
“… I was making a point, alright!?” Robert exploded. “Get off my back, this isn’t even my business! It’s Ned’s ‘debate’ why don’t you get up his arse instead of ragging on me?”
“The same way you barged into his business uninvited.” Jon said blandly. “Not that it wasn’t a good show. Or for a good cause. Nevertheless…”
“I hate you.”
“So you keep saying.”
Robert supposed that was supposed to be an attempt at levity, but the more the talk went on, he only felt more and more disquieted. How could Jon just sit there and-?
“Still, a point is a point.” Jon switched focus to Ned again, finally. “I trust, now, that you can admit that you didn’t approach Urizen properly.”
“… I suppose he wasn’t the easiest opponent.”
“No indeed. He fairly neatly avoided the truly preposterous claims that some of the Most Devout in history and their pet maesters propagated, with varying degrees of success. The First Men couldn’t build round towers. The First Men couldn’t read. The First Men couldn’t write. The First Men were not a seafaring people. And because that’s true, then clearly the ancient First man families that raised their seats on Islands were also Andals all along of course. Tarth, Redwyne, Hightower, Dayne, why build their seats on islands if they were not a sea-faring people? Never mind Brandon the Shipwright or Theon the Hungry’s thousand-year sea war, and so on. These are the benefits of being the ones keeping hold of all the records in the Citadel, and making all the records available outside of it in the language you brought to Westeros.”
Robert stared.
“I've always found it strange that a house of knowledge would be called ‘the Citadel,’” Jon mused absently. “The name suggests the barring of knowledge rather than giving it. A citadel is a fortress, typically on high ground, that protects or dominates a city. Since we know that the Citadel wasn't built in a position to defend the city, as that is what the Hightower and the walls are for, then it must mean to dominate. So, could the institution being called ‘the Citadel’ be symbolic of how it dominates the affairs of the city, and by extension the rest of Westeros? Well, used to be.” Jon nodded in Ned’s direction. “Your father has shown us well what it means when that changes.”
The more Robert listened and watched Jon be so casual about the atrocities of his ancestors and contemporaries, the worse grew the squall inside his chest.
“And finally, since we may as well complete the circle of lunacy properly, there is the path of truly outrageous insinuations, seeing as Urizen so shamelessly went down this ghastly path at the end there.” Jon looked between Ned and Robert then. “Can any of you tell me how the Warrior’s Sons garbed themselves?”
Robert frowned, trying to remember anything beyond the hair shirts and silvered mail that Jon had mentioned just a short while ago.
“’Rainbow cloaks hung down their backs.’” Ned had looked through some papers or other and found the relevant passage while Robert was thinking. “’And the crystals that crested their greathelms glittered in the lamplight. Their armor was silver plate polished to a mirror sheen, but underneath, every man of them wore a hair shirt. Their kite shields all bore the same device: a crystal sword shining in the darkness, the ancient badge of those the smallfolk called Swords.’”
“Just so,” Jon leaned back in his chair and rapped his fingers on the table. “What is the only other place, in either history or myth, where there is mention of crystal swords that shine in the darkness?”
Robert blinked. He had no idea. Why was it important-?
“The hands of the Others,” Ned murmured.
Oh. That’s why.
Wait, that’s why?
What?
No. No way, what the fuck? Robert gaped at Jon, shocked. He did not just imply that-
“No, I don’t believe the Andals were black-blooded demons, no matter the Ironborn claims about House Hoare,” Jon said dryly, reading his thoughts on his face, and the Ironborn said what about the Hoare kings? “In fact, I suspect the explanation for everything is ultimately quite simple: the Andals were superstitious. A people can decide or be driven to do practically anything if you play on their superstition well enough. Even change their entire way of life within a single generation with the right leadership. It’s not entirely clear that’s what actually happened here, but considering that there doesn’t seem to be any other theory that hasn’t at least one attestation challenging it…”
… That hadn’t even occurred to him.
“I’m personally of the belief that some of the more imposing Valyrian dragonlords passed themselves as gods and aimed the bedazzled Andals away so they wouldn’t become a nuisance while they were busy invading the Rhoyne,” Jon concluded, as if this was somehow supposed to be any less outrageous than everything else he’d said since Robes left.
The quiet that followed was long, deep and not calm or easy to bear at all.
“How?” Robert whispered when he couldn’t take it anymore. “How can you just sit there and… say all this so easily? So…”
“Remorselessly?”
Robert didn’t reply, but his silence was answer enough. Jon had said that so… so mildly.
Instead of answering Robert, Jon looked instead to Ned and waited.
“… Because it no longer makes a difference.”
Robert turned in his seat, gaping in shock.
“It no longer matters.” Ned said somberly. “For better or worse, your ancestors won your place in this world.”
Robert stared. That was the last thing he expected Ned to say. No, it was nowhere among the things he expected Ned to say. It made more sense that Jon had taken after the Royce side of his family and decided to hold the First Men as his real ancestors because they saved the fucking world. And, you know, built things, instead of just break them. But no, as far as Ned was concerned it apparently had nothing to do with that, and Jon agreed with him!
The silence that followed was calm, light and somehow felt even more oppressive to Robert. This time, though, he had no idea what to say.
“Why is Urizen here, Jon?”
Robert blinked and looked to Ned
Ned didn’t pay him any mind, looking at Jon instead. “He’s neither as charming nor intelligent as he thinks he is. He insults my intelligence with every word he utters. He tried to pass off my mother’s miscarriage as a fortunate development. He tried to pass miscarriage as a fortunate development in front of you, despite you losing your own first wife and child to miscarriage, Jon. Why is he still here?”
“Because the closer he seems to the Crystal Crown, the louder and more organised the outcry becomes in the Riverlands.”
… What.
No, seriously, what?
“They’re calling themselves the Sparrows now,” John said pleasantly. “After their de facto figurehead. A wandering septon, I’m told, traversing the Riverlands one end to the next barefoot for years, so much that his feet have grown leather-brown and just as hard. He gave up his name and is only known as the Sparrow because that’s the nickname the Faithful have given him.”
“Sounds like a true believer,” Robert’s mouth ran ahead of him because he was still stuck at Urizen being… what?
“He does sound like one, doesn’t he?” Jon agreed. “Why, depending on how things would otherwise have gone, he might have developed into a true fanatic in the future, once his role consumed what’s left of his self. What a terrible blow for the true Faith that the scandal in Oldtown hit when it did, isn’t it just?”
How did he not know about this? “How did I not know about this?”
“You were focused on your research,” Jon replied. “I didn’t want to distract you.”
And they’d practically ignored everyone else in the Eyrie in their dogged pursuit of victory against what turned out to be a… a… “I WASTED SO MUCH TIME AND EFFORT ON A DAMNED PATSY!?”
“A waste, you say?” Jon asked sharply. “You singlehandedly engineered a lightning war and unleashed it at the perfect moment, achieving through cunning and secrecy what your ally had been trying and failing to do through force of arms all this time. Is that not an exceptional feat of subterfuge? Should you not be proud of proving to possess such an ability for secret keeping? Discretion was something I never even intended to try instilling within you. The only one who wasted anything here is myself for not seeing in you this amazing potential.”
Oh… But… That… well shucks, what was he supposed to say now?
“And Ned, well…” Jon’s gaze was no less piercing. “You certainly learned a thing or two about honor, didn’t you?”
“It won’t always save me,” Ned said. Bitterly. So freaking resigned all over again, Robert hated the sound of it so much!
“Then you’ve learned the wrong lesson!” Jon barked.
Ned jerked in his chair.
“’As high as honor’ what do you think those words mean? I will tell you what they don’t mean: they do not mean that honor should override sense and reason! Let alone lead you around at their expense! ‘As high as honor’ means that honor should be at the very top of your priorities. It doesn’t mean your other priorities stop being priorities!”
Ned blinked and stared at Jon, wide-eyed.
“If every trait in your character is part of a pyramid, what happens when everything beneath the top is crooked? Missing parts? What if it doesn’t reach high enough at all?”
“It crumbles…”
“It crumbles. Like you crumbled just now because you decided to be honourable only towards the other man. Setting aside the arrogance of looking down on someone that’s defeating you, I truly must ask: Where is the honor in losing a debate when you’re right about everything? Honor is honor, but is it not also honor to not waste it on the honorless? Is turnabout not fair? If ‘As High as Honor’ can mean as high as my honor, can it not just as easily mean as high as yours. Or as low? If you don’t have honor, why should I sully mine by throwing it at your feet? Conversely, do you not deserve to be treated honourably by yourself as well? What exactly makes you less deserving of being treated honourably? By you?”
Robert blinked rapidly and mouthed words that wouldn’t come out. Looking to his right, Ned wasn’t much better.
“It is dishonourable to withhold honor from the honourable. It is dishonourable to waste honor on the dishonourable.” Jon beheld Ned more severely than he’d ever looked at either of them. “When it’s strangers, you’ve got the excuse of not knowing how much lower their honor hangs. You certainly don’t know if it’s so low that your high honor will trip and fall and drag you to death and ignominy. But you have no excuse when it’s you. And here? You knew full well you were dealing with a crook and a liar. How is it honourable to enable him like you did? At some point, the only honourable thing to do is to treat others the way they treat others. That’s why, when we run into slavers or pirates, we neither ask nor offer quarter. We destroy them. Root and stem.”
“… Justice and vengeance.”
“Justice alone is enough.”
Jon fell silent for a while, having ended his lesson.
Well!
Well…
Alright then?
“Ned. Robert.”
Robert sat at attention.
“You boys have a unique opportunity here, being fostered – you get a chance to experience the best and the worst consequences of your actions without them following you home when you leave. Whatever lords or priests or what have you that you offend will remain behind when you return to your realms. And so I allowed you this. I let you play, train, learn, challenge, offend, insult and seek help from whoever you wanted throughout, providing no guidance or warning of consequences you didn’t ask for first. And so you failed on your own merits. And succeeded on your own merits. Tell me, will this experience not stay with you until the end of your days?”
And then some, Robert thought sullenly.
… Jon didn’t look it most of the time anymore, but he was kind of intense, wasn’t he?
“That said, now that you do have the experience of standing and falling on your own merits, I’m ready to resume that protection and guidance. And I’m ready to make up for my own failings that allowed you to stray from the path of good sense. Which is why I’ve decided you should start having an equal say in what to do from now on.”
“… I’m an adult,” Robert groused.
“And Ned isn’t but I still expect him to show more sense than you. Am I wrong?”
“Oh I am so not dishonourable enough to deserve that!”
“But you don’t deny it.”
“… You’re the worst.”
Beside him, Ned scoffed. “I don’t know how I missed you going behind my back. You’re shit at lying.”
“You shut up.”
“If you’re done?” Jon said impatiently.
“I am.” “Right.”
“Good. Now. How up to date are you on news from the broader realm?”
Robert and Ned looked at each other.
“Not very,” Ned admitted. “Last I heard, my brother Benjen had taking to composing music?”
Which was weeks ago. Robert pretended not to feel relieved at not being the most behind on this too. “Renly’s had his first name day!”
“And did you read your parents’ ravens, or are you just saying so because you remembered his day of birth just now?”
Robert deflated.
“It was a good attempt.”
Robert groaned. “Just get to the point.”
“We have been invited to Oldtown, to attend the wedding of Baelor Hightower and Elia Martell.”
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