# King's Landing, The Red Keep
*Two days after the Sack of Lannisport*
The raven came at dawn, black wings beating against the grey sky like a funeral drum.
Grandmaester Pycelle received it with hands that trembled—though whether from age, fear, or the three cups of wine he'd taken the night before, even he could not say. At seventy-odd years, he had survived more kings than any man had right to, and he had learned that bad news delivered to monarchs often resulted in consequences that fell on messengers rather than those actually responsible.
He unrolled Lord Tywin's letter with the care of a man defusing an alchemist's trap.
*Lannisport has fallen.*
"Oh, bugger," Pycelle muttered, which was considerably more profane than a maester was supposed to be, but then again, the situation called for it.
*Five thousand dead. Eight hundred taken as slaves. The harbor is destroyed. The Sept of the Sea's Stars desecrated—its septon and acolytes tortured before they were killed. Euron Greyjoy struck at dawn with forty-seven longships and vanished before noon, laden with enough gold and plunder to buy a kingdom.*
The old maester felt his breakfast threatening rebellion. He had *warned* them after Robert's Rebellion. He had stood in this very castle—well, sat, his knees weren't what they used to be—and suggested that perhaps Balon Greyjoy's submission required more than just words and a bent knee. That perhaps the Iron Islands needed a garrison. Hostages. A permanent reminder that rebellion carried consequences.
And he had been overruled. *Mercy*, they called it. *Pragmatism*. The realm needed peace, not more bloodshed.
Well. Now five thousand corpses rotted in Lannisport's streets, and somewhere in those miserable rocks, the Ironborn were probably drinking and celebrating, passing around stolen Arbor gold and captive women with equal enthusiasm.
Pycelle shuffled toward the Small Council chamber like a man approaching the gallows. His chain of office—twenty-four links representing a lifetime of study—clinked with each step. Not one of those links, he reflected bitterly, had prepared him for explaining catastrophic failure to a drunken king with a warhammer and a temper.
---
The Small Council chamber smelled of beeswax, old parchment, and Varys's sickly-sweet perfume. Lord Jon Arryn sat at the head of the table looking like he'd aged a decade overnight. At sixty-three, the Hand of the King had the unenviable task of keeping Robert Baratheon from destroying the realm through sheer hedonistic negligence. His grey eyes tracked Pycelle's entrance with the wariness of a man who already knew the maester carried a lit torch into a room full of wildfire.
"Multiple ravens," Jon said quietly. "Lord Tywin was thorough."
"He would be," Pycelle wheezed, settling into his chair with a grunt that involved joints cracking in ways that suggested mortality was inevitable. "Can't have word of his city's destruction arriving slowly. No, no. Much better that everyone learns simultaneously how Tywin Lannister—the great Tywin Lannister, who pisses gold and shits military strategy—allowed Ironborn savages to burn Lannisport and murder thousands."
"Lord Tywin was at Casterly Rock," Jon pointed out with the patience of someone who'd had this conversation before.
"Which is close enough that he should have *known*," Pycelle retorted. "The man has spies everywhere. He probably knows when I take a piss. But somehow forty-seven longships sailed into his harbor unnoticed? Please."
Stannis Baratheon stood by the window like a statue carved from particularly unforgiving stone and perpetual disapproval. The king's younger brother had all of Robert's stubbornness with none of his charm—which meant he was about as pleasant as a hemorrhoid and twice as persistent. As Master of Ships, this disaster fell squarely into his domain, and the fury radiating from him was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Five thousand," Stannis said to the window, his jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth survived. "Five thousand dead because we listened to fools who thought Balon Greyjoy would be *grateful* we let him keep his worthless head attached to his worthless neck."
"The situation was complicated—" Jon began.
"The situation was *simple*," Stannis interrupted, turning from the window with eyes cold as a winter sea. "The Ironborn are thieves, rapists, and murderers who've built an entire culture around stealing what better men create. They call it 'paying the iron price.' They view honest work as shameful and raiding as honorable. We knew this. Everyone knew this. And yet we thought subjugating them would be *excessive*?"
"We thought mercy might inspire loyalty," Jon replied with the weariness of a man defending decisions that were proving catastrophic in hindsight.
"Mercy," Stannis ground out, his knuckles white where they gripped the windowsill, "is what weak men call insufficient violence. We should have burned every longship in the Iron Islands. We should have taken hostages from every significant family—Balon's sons would have made excellent guests at court, don't you think? We should have stationed a permanent garrison to ensure compliance. Instead we let that kraken-fondling fool bend his knee, say some pretty words, and sail home to his rocks to plan his next rebellion in peace."
"To be fair," Pycelle offered, "no one expected Balon to be quite this stupid."
"Why not?" Stannis demanded. "The man's entire personality is wounded pride and stunted ambition. Of course he was going to rebel eventually. A blind man could have seen it coming."
Before Jon could respond, the door opened to admit Varys, who glided into the room with that peculiar grace that suggested he either floated or had wheels hidden beneath his robes. The eunuch's powder-white face was arranged in an expression of professional concern, though his eyes held that calculating gleam that suggested he'd known about Lannisport's fall before anyone else and had spent the intervening time figuring out how to profit from it.
"My lords," Varys said in that high, soft voice that always made Pycelle's skin crawl, "I bring His Grace's compliments and his command that the Small Council convene immediately. The king is... *most* distressed... by Lord Tywin's report."
"Distressed," Stannis repeated with acid contempt. "What pretty words we use. Is he 'distressed' the way he was 'distressed' when that Dornish red made him puke on the Iron Throne? Or is this actual distress?"
"His Grace," Varys said with a slight smile, "expressed his feelings in considerably more colorful terms. I thought it best to translate them into language suitable for council chambers. The actual words involved several anatomical impossibilities regarding Balon Greyjoy's ancestry, creative suggestions about what His Grace intends to do with kraken tentacles, and at least three separate invocations of where precisely he plans to shove Euron Greyjoy's longships."
Despite everything, Pycelle felt his lips twitch. Robert's profanity was legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The man could curse for five minutes without repeating himself, and had once reduced a visiting Pentoshi magister to tears purely through creative obscenity.
"Where is our glorious king?" Stannis asked.
"The training yard," Varys replied smoothly. "Ser Barristan is attempting to channel His Grace's rage into productive swordwork rather than simple destruction of crown property. Thus far, three practice swords have given their lives in service to the realm, along with two training dummies and what I'm told was a perfectly innocent wooden fence that happened to be nearby when His Grace needed something to hit."
"Wonderful," Stannis muttered. "So we're paying for Robert's tantrum as well as the war it's about to cause."
The door opened again to admit Ser Barristan Selmy, who entered with the quiet dignity that had made him legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms. At fifty-seven, Barristan the Bold remained one of the finest swords alive—not through natural talent like Arthur Dayne had possessed, or through sheer vicious skill like the Kingslayer, but through endless practice and absolute dedication to the craft. He had served five kings, survived countless battles, and developed the particular competence of someone who understood that survival required excellence, not luck.
"My lords," Barristan said with a slight bow. "His Grace will join us shortly. He's... processing the news from Lannisport."
"'Processing,'" Stannis repeated flatly. "Is that what we call blind rage now? I thought we called it 'being Robert.'"
A corner of Barristan's mouth twitched. "His Grace broke several training dummies, frightened most of the new recruits, and made some very creative threats involving Balon Greyjoy's genitals and hungry crabs. But nothing that can't be replaced or scrubbed from young minds with sufficient time and ale. And perhaps he's worked off enough fury to conduct this meeting without throttling anyone."
"One can hope," Jon muttered into his hands.
"Though I wouldn't wager on it," Barristan added thoughtfully.
Petyr Baelish arrived next, moving with the careful precision of a cat navigating a room full of sleeping dogs. The Master of Coin was slight of build, sharp of mind, and possessed of ambitions that probably extended well beyond managing the crown's rapidly depleting coffers. He had risen from minor lordling—*very* minor, the Fingers weren't even good rocks—to the Small Council through a combination of financial acumen, political maneuvering, and a gift for making himself indispensable to people who controlled resources he wanted access to.
"My lords," Petyr said with that slight smile he wore like armor—pleasant, harmless, utterly non-threatening despite the calculating intelligence burning behind those grey-green eyes. "I understand we're gathering to discuss the unfortunate situation in Lannisport? Such a terrible waste. All that property destroyed, all that wealth burned. The economic impact will ripple through the western coast for decades."
"The economic impact," Stannis snarled, rounding on Littlefinger like a hound spotting a rabbit, "is considerably less important than five thousand corpses and eight hundred enslaved women and children. Though I suppose to a Master of Coin, lives are just another form of capital to be calculated on ledgers and depreciated over time."
"Not at all, my lord," Petyr replied with perfect courtesy that somehow made the words more insulting than agreement would have been. "Lives are invaluable—truly priceless, beyond any calculation of gold or goods. But someone must consider the practical realities of whatever response we're contemplating. Wars are expensive. Feeding armies is expensive. Building ships is expensive. And the crown's coffers are not, shall we say, *overflowing* after nine years of His Grace's... *generous*... approach to royal expenditure."
"Are you suggesting," Stannis said with dangerous quiet, "that we let this stand because responding would be inconvenient for your precious ledgers?"
"I'm suggesting," Petyr said smoothly, spreading his hands in a gesture of pure reasonableness, "that reality has costs. Someone must calculate those costs before we commit to actions we cannot afford. Otherwise we risk bankrupting the crown, which helps no one—least of all the five thousand dead, who will remain dead regardless of how much gold we throw at avenging them."
"Then calculate *this*," Stannis ground out, taking a step toward Littlefinger that made Barristan's hand drift casually toward his sword. "What's the cost when every coastal city in Westeros learns that raiders face no consequences? What's the cost when merchants refuse to ship goods because the crown can't protect trade routes? What's the cost when the entire realm discovers that the King's Peace—that sacred protection we're supposed to provide—ends wherever some savage builds a longship and decides the Old Way beats honest work?"
"Considerably more than a war would cost," Petyr admitted with that same infuriating smile. "Which is why I said someone must calculate it, not that we shouldn't respond. Mathematics, Lord Stannis. Simply mathematics."
Before Stannis could respond—and his expression suggested the response would have involved violence—the door didn't so much open as *explode* inward.
King Robert Baratheon filled the doorway like a natural disaster barely contained in human flesh.
At thirty-one, he remained physically imposing despite the weight he'd gained since taking the throne. Broad-shouldered, thick-armed, with a chest like a beer barrel and hands that looked capable of crushing skulls without effort. His face was flushed from exertion, his dark hair plastered to his skull with sweat, and his blue eyes held the kind of barely leashed violence that made even seasoned warriors reconsider their life choices and proximity to sharp objects.
"TELL ME," Robert bellowed without preamble, his voice rough from hours of shouting in the training yard, "tell me that my piss-poor excuse for a brother is wrong. Tell me that prissy peacock Tywin is exaggerating. Tell me the fucking Ironborn didn't just burn one of MY cities and murder thousands of MY people while I was too drunk and useless to stop it. TELL ME THAT."
The silence that followed was profound and uncomfortable.
"I cannot tell you that, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said quietly, the words heavy as gravestones being lowered into fresh earth. "Lord Tywin's report is accurate. Lannisport has fallen. The casualties are as stated. This is not exaggeration—this is war."
Robert stood perfectly still for a long moment, his massive frame blocking the entire doorway. A serving girl who'd been approaching with wine took one look at his expression and immediately reversed course so quickly she nearly tripped.
Then he moved—faster than a man his size had any right to move—and slammed both fists onto the council table hard enough to make the wood groan in protest and inkwells jump.
"WAR," Robert bellowed, spittle flying. "The fucking SQUIDS just declared WAR on my crown, on my reign, on my authority as KING. They did it by burning one of my cities and butchering thousands of people who believed—who had every right to believe—that I would PROTECT them. So someone—ANYONE—explain to me why I shouldn't immediately sail to those miserable gods-forsaken rocks with every ship and soldier I can muster and turn the Iron Islands into a mass grave that historians will study for the next thousand years as a lesson in what happens when you FUCK WITH THE WRONG KING."
"Your Grace," Jon began carefully, using the tone one might use with an angry bull while trapped in a very small room with it, "such a response, while emotionally satisfying—"
"EMOTIONALLY SATISFYING?" Robert interrupted, his voice rising to levels that probably disturbed people in other castles. "Jon, I'm not talking about emotional satisfaction. I'm talking about CONSEQUENCES. I'm talking about demonstrating to every jumped-up lordling in Westeros that my crown isn't just a shiny hat I wear while I drink and fuck. I'm talking about showing Balon Greyjoy—that worthless kraken-sucking son of a pox-ridden whore—that mercy was a GIFT, not weakness, and gifts can be REVOKED."
He paced—or rather, stalked—around the table like a caged animal, each footfall heavy enough to make cups rattle. "Nine years. NINE YEARS I've been king. Nine years I've sat on that uncomfortable throne and signed papers and listened to people whine about taxes and trade routes and who gets to marry whose daughter. Nine years I've played the good king, the merciful king, the king who doesn't immediately murder everyone who looks at him wrong. And this—THIS—is what I get for it? Five thousand corpses and a city in ashes?"
"Your Grace—" Pycelle began.
"Don't 'Your Grace' me, maester," Robert snapped, rounding on the old man. "You were there after the Rebellion. You stood in this chamber—well, sat, you're old as dirt—and what did you say? You said maybe we should garrison the Iron Islands. Maybe we should take hostages. Maybe we should make sure Balon Greyjoy understood that rebellion has LASTING consequences. And what did we do? We patted him on his squid head, told him he was a good boy for bending the knee, and sent him home. How's that working out?"
Pycelle opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again like a fish drowning in air, and finally managed: "Not... not well, Your Grace."
"NOT WELL," Robert repeated with savage satisfaction. "That's one way of putting it. Another way would be 'catastrophically, predictably, entirely preventably fucking awful.' But 'not well' works too. Very diplomatic, maester. Very measured. Very useful NOW THAT FIVE THOUSAND PEOPLE ARE DEAD."
He turned to Stannis, who was watching his brother with the expression of someone who'd been proven right and was absolutely going to mention it at every opportunity for the rest of eternity.
"Don't," Robert warned. "Don't you dare say 'I told you so.'"
"I wasn't going to say anything," Stannis replied, though his expression clearly added '*out loud*.'
"Your face is saying it. Your FACE is saying 'I told you so, brother. I told you we should have crushed the Ironborn. I told you mercy was weakness. I told you this would happen.' And you know what? You were RIGHT. You were absolutely, completely, gods-damn it all to seven hells, RIGHT. Are you happy now?"
"No," Stannis said flatly. "Because being right doesn't resurrect five thousand corpses."
"Finally," Robert said, throwing his hands up, "something we agree on. Someone mark the calendar—Robert and Stannis agreed on something. Next the Others will probably march south just to balance the cosmic scales."
He turned back to the rest of the council, his expression settling into something that was almost calm—which was somehow more frightening than the rage.
"So here's what's going to happen," Robert said with the tone of someone who'd made a decision and wasn't interested in arguments. "Stannis—you're Master of Ships, which means this clusterfuck lives in your domain. How many vessels can we mobilize within a month? And don't give me cautious estimates—give me real numbers. How many ships can we actually put in the water with crews that won't immediately drown themselves?"
Stannis's jaw worked for a moment, clearly calculating with the precision of an accountant combined with a pessimist's certainty that everything would go wrong. "The Royal Fleet maintains two hundred warships in various states of readiness. We can have one hundred fifty combat-ready within two weeks—assuming we don't discover that half of them need hull repairs because someone embezzled the maintenance funds."
"Did someone embezzle the maintenance funds?" Robert asked dangerously.
"Probably," Stannis replied with brutal honesty. "Someone always does. But we can have one hundred fifty within two weeks, the remainder within a month. That's not counting merchant vessels we could press into service as transports, which would add perhaps another hundred hulls if we're willing to completely disrupt coastal trade and make merchants hate us."
"They already hate us," Robert pointed out. "I'm king—everyone hates me except the people who want something from me, and then they hate me after they get it. Fine. Two hundred fifty ships. Make it happen."
"Your Grace," Petyr interjected smoothly, that slight smile still in place despite the king's mounting rage, "the expense of mobilizing such a fleet on short notice will be... *considerable*. The crown's current financial position is, shall we say, *delicate*. We're still paying off debts from the Rebellion, and Your Grace's expenditures on tournaments, feasts, and... other entertainments... have not helped our fiscal situation."
"Other entertainments," Robert repeated slowly, dangerously. "You mean whores. Why don't you say whores, Littlefinger? Everyone knows I fuck whores. It's not a secret. I fuck whores, I drink wine, I hunt boars. These are my hobbies. Are you telling me that my hobbies are the reason we can't afford to wage war on people who just murdered five thousand of my subjects?"
"Not... entirely?" Petyr offered, which was possibly the bravest or stupidest thing anyone had said all day.
Robert stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed—a short, sharp bark of sound that held no humor whatsoever.
"I like you, Littlefinger. You've got balls—metaphorically speaking, since I know you've still got the actual equipment, you're not like the Spider over there. But here's the thing about balls: sometimes having them gets you killed. So let me be very, *very* clear. I don't give a flying fuck about the crown's financial position. I don't give a fuck about debts. I don't give a fuck about fiscal responsibility or sound monetary policy or any of the other boring horseshit you coin-counters obsess over."
He leaned forward, planting both hands on the table directly in front of Petyr. "What I give a fuck about is showing the entire realm that being king means something beyond signing papers and wearing a crown. So you—you clever, ambitious, probably smarter than you should be little lordling—are going to find the gold to fund this campaign. Borrow it. Tax it. Sell the furniture from the throne room if you have to. Hell, sell MY furniture—the gods know Cersei keeps buying more anyway. But you WILL find the gold, or I'll find a new Master of Coin who can. Are we clear?"
"Crystal, Your Grace," Petyr replied, that smile never wavering though something flickered in his eyes—calculation, perhaps, or recognition that some arguments weren't worth having.
"Good," Robert said, straightening. "Jon—how large an army? Don't give me logistics and supply chain analysis. Give me a number that will make the Ironborn piss themselves."
"Lord Tywin is mobilizing ten thousand men," Jon said carefully.
"Ten thousand," Robert repeated. "That's a start. And how many men can the Ironborn field? Stannis?"
"Perhaps fifteen to twenty thousand fighting men," Stannis replied, his expression suggesting he'd already calculated every variable and pessimistically assumed they'd all go wrong simultaneously. "Spread across seven major islands. The terrain is brutal—rocky, mountainous, easy to defend. Taking the islands with numerical parity would be bloody, prolonged, and expensive in lives."
"So we don't use numerical parity," Robert said with the blunt logic of someone who'd won battles by hitting enemies harder than they hit him. "We use overwhelming, crushing, 'what the fuck were we thinking' levels of superiority. Forty thousand men."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Pycelle made a sound like a dying seal.
"Your Grace," Jon said very, *very* carefully, using the tone of someone trying to talk a drunk man off a ledge while said drunk man was holding a torch and standing in a room full of wildfire, "forty thousand men represents nearly one-third of the realm's total military capacity. Calling that many troops from across the Seven Kingdoms—"
"I know what it represents," Robert interrupted, but without the rage this time—just cold, absolute certainty. "It represents me calling the banners from every corner of Westeros. Stark, Tully, Arryn, Baratheon, Tyrell, Martell—every house that swore fealty to my crown gets to prove they meant it. Send ravens to every major house. Tell them their king commands troops for a campaign to end the Ironborn threat permanently."
"The North won't be pleased," Stannis observed with the tone of someone cataloging future problems. "Ned Stark will send men because he's Ned and his honor wouldn't allow otherwise, but he won't be happy about it. And Dorne... Dorne will probably send the bare minimum and complain the entire time."
"Let them complain," Robert said dismissively. "The Dornish have been complaining since I sent Elia Martell and her Dragonspawn to the North. At least this time they'll have something new to whine about."
"Your Grace," Varys interjected smoothly, his voice like oil on water, "the political implications of calling such a large force—"
"Political implications," Robert interrupted, his voice rising again. "Everyone keeps talking about political implications like we're discussing tax policy instead of responding to MASS MURDER. The political implications are simple, Spider: Either every lord in Westeros learns that the King's Peace means something and defying it carries consequences that echo through generations, or they learn that my crown is just a shiny hat and they can do whatever they want as long as they don't do it where I can see them. Which of those implications would you prefer?"
"The former, certainly, Your Grace," Varys replied, spreading his hands. "I merely suggest that—"
"I don't care what you suggest," Robert said flatly. "I care about results. And the result I want is simple: I want every Greyjoy dead or broken. I want every longship burned. I want the Old Way eradicated so thoroughly that in a hundred years, historians will study the Iron Islands as a cautionary tale about what happens when you build an entire culture around being savage assholes."
He turned to Jon, his expression softening just slightly. "Jon, you've been my Hand for nine years. You've guided me through peace, politics, and all the tedious fucking horseshit involved in actually ruling instead of just hitting things with my hammer. And you've done well—I won't pretend I've made it easy. I know I drink too much."
"Your Grace—"
"I know I spend too much," Robert continued, ticking points off on his fingers. "I know I've bedded half the serving girls in King's Landing and probably sired enough bastards to field my own army. I know I've ignored most of your advice about acting like a proper king instead of a warrior who accidentally won a crown. I know I'm not the king you wanted or the king the realm probably needs."
He paused, his blue eyes meeting Jon's grey ones. "But this—THIS—is war. And war is something I actually understand. War is *simple*. You find your enemy. You gather overwhelming force. You hit them so hard they never forget it. And then you make sure everyone who watched understands that defying you was the worst decision anyone ever made."
"Your Grace," Jon said quietly, "the cost in lives—"
"Will be less than the alternative," Robert interrupted. "What happens when the next ambitious lordling decides he wants independence? When the next house decides the King's Peace is optional? When every coastal city in Westeros lives in fear because we proved that raiders face no real consequences? How many lives does that cost, Jon? How many Lannisports will burn because we tried to wage a cheap war instead of an effective one?"
Jon was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Very well, Your Grace. I'll send the ravens."
"Thank you," Robert said, and for a moment he sounded almost vulnerable—almost like the young man who'd fought at the Trident rather than the king who'd spent nine years drowning in wine and regret. "I know this isn't what you wanted. I know you hoped we'd have peace, that mercy would be enough, that we could rebuild the realm without more bloodshed. And maybe in another life, with a different enemy, you'd have been right. But the Ironborn chose war. So we give them war—and we make sure it's the last war they ever fight."
He turned to the rest of the council. "You all have your orders. Stannis—ships. Littlefinger—gold. Jon—ravens. Varys—intelligence. I want to know everything about the Iron Islands—defenses, troop strengths, leadership, what they eat for breakfast and whether they wipe their asses with seaweed or sand. Make it happen."
"And you, Your Grace?" Pycelle asked carefully.
"Me?" Robert laughed, the sound bitter. "I'm going to go drink until I can't remember that five thousand people died while their king was too drunk to protect them. And then tomorrow I'm going to start preparing to do what I should have done nine years ago—put the fear of the gods into anyone who thinks my crown is optional."
He started toward the door, then paused and looked back. "One more thing. When those ravens go out calling the banners, make sure the message is very, *very* clear. This is not a request. This is not a negotiation. This is not 'if it's convenient.' This is a royal command, and any house that refuses or sends token forces will discover that I have a long memory, an unforgiving nature, and a warhammer that still works just fine."
"Your Grace," Jon said carefully, "threatening our own bannermen—"
"Isn't a threat," Robert interrupted. "It's a *promise*. For nine years, I've been the good king. The merciful king. The king who lets people test boundaries and play politics because you convinced me that peace required compromise. And maybe you were right—maybe that was necessary after the Rebellion. Maybe I needed to show I wasn't my enemy, that I could rule instead of just conquer."
He paused in the doorway, his massive frame silhouetted against the light from the corridor. "But Lannisport proved that mercy without strength is just weakness wearing a crown. So the compromise is over. Every house that swore fealty is going to prove those oaths meant something. And the ones that don't will learn that when Robert Baratheon says he's king, he doesn't just mean it—he can enforce it."
"With overwhelming violence," Stannis added dryly.
"With overwhelming violence," Robert agreed cheerfully. "It's what I'm good at, brother. Might as well use my talents."
He departed, his footsteps echoing down the corridor like drumbeats.
The Small Council sat in silence for a long moment.
"Well," Petyr said at last, that slight smile returning to his lips, "that was... energetic. Shall I begin calculating how much it costs to wage a war of complete annihilation? I suspect the number will be impressively large."
"The number," Stannis said flatly, "is irrelevant. We're doing this."
"Oh, I agree completely," Petyr replied smoothly. "I'm merely observing that the Iron Bank is about to become very, very wealthy, and the crown is about to become very, very indebted. But you're right—we're doing this. When King Robert decides to hit something with his metaphorical hammer, one doesn't argue. One simply gets out of the way and counts the bodies afterward."
"He's right, though," Stannis admitted, surprising everyone. "We should have dealt with the Iron Islands properly after the Rebellion. We showed mercy. They saw weakness. Now five thousand people are dead because we chose political convenience over strategic necessity. Their blood stains all our hands."
"Hindsight," Jon observed wearily, rubbing his temples like a man fighting off a headache that had been building for nine years, "is remarkably clear compared to the fog of actual governance. We made the best decisions we could with the information we had."
"And those decisions," Stannis replied with brutal honesty, "got five thousand people killed. But at least now we're making different decisions. Hopefully ones that don't involve quite as many corpses."
"One can hope," Pycelle muttered. "Though with Robert leading the campaign, I suspect there will be rather a lot of corpses. Just hopefully the right corpses this time."
"Then let us ensure," Varys said smoothly, his voice like silk over steel, "that we wage this war competently. The Ironborn chose violence. Very well—let them have violence. But let us make it so overwhelming, so absolute, so utterly without mercy that no one ever makes their mistake again."
"The permanent solution," Stannis said with cold satisfaction, "is complete subjugation. Every Greyjoy dead or broken. Every longship burned. Every tradition glorifying piracy eradicated so thoroughly that future generations wonder what madness possessed their ancestors to think raiding was preferable to honest work."
"Ambitious," Petyr observed. "Expensive. But probably necessary if we want to prevent this from recurring every generation."
"Then we make it expensive enough to be definitive," Jon said with finality, straightening in his chair with the expression of someone who'd made a decision and would see it through regardless of cost. "Send the ravens. Call the banners. Mobilize the realm. And may the Seven have mercy on us all."
"The Seven," Pycelle muttered, "are going to be very busy. I suspect they'll need to hire assistance."
Outside, in the training yard, they could hear the sound of Robert's warhammer striking something repeatedly.
Probably another training dummy.
Hopefully just a training dummy.
With Robert, one could never be entirely certain.
---
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