“My lords.” Cressen cleared his throat.
“The replies have come. All of them.”
He drew the first parchment from the stack, and the room went quiet.
“From Claw Isle.”
He read it out.
It did not take long.
Lord Ardrian Celtigar acknowledged no debt to Dragonstone.
The sums and vessels named had been lawfully conveyed by the Regent of Dragonstone, appointed on the recommendation of the Hand of the King, in settlement of obligations honestly incurred.
House Celtigar would return nothing.
And at the end, where a man might have put some courtesy, Ardrian Celtigar had instead expressed his hope that his young lord would, in time, come to understand the difference between a grievance and a debt.
Cressen lowered the page.
Nobody spoke.
Monford Velaryon kept his eyes on the table and did not move a muscle in his face.
Beside him, he could feel his son go very still.
Monterys had read enough letters in his life to know an insult when he heard one dressed as counsel.
At the head of the table, Alric Baratheon had begun to tap one finger against the wood.
Slowly.
Once, and again, and again.
“Go on,” he said.
His voice containing the controlled rage.That nobody did not find reassuring.
“From Sweetport Sound, my lord.”
This one was longer.
Considerably longer.
Lord Guncer Sunglass grieved more deeply than he could rightly express.
He was wounded—not for himself, but for the burden his young lord had carried in ignorance these several years.
Every transfer had been lawful.
Every dragon recorded.
He had concealed nothing, for he had nothing to conceal, and he would send his own accounts gladly, that his lord might be satisfied.
He noted a discrepancy in the third entry which must be resolved before any honest man could set his hand to a settlement.
He even requested time to assemble the figures properly.
The tapping had stopped.
That was worse.
It was Monterys who broke the tense silence, which surprised his father and the room alike, since the young man had not said a word since he sat down.
“It is worse than the other one.”
Alric’s head turned.
“Say that again.”
“The Celtigar letter is an insult, my lord, but at least it is an honest about the intention.” Monterys did not look away, .
” This one—” he nodded at the pages in Cressen’s hand, “—this one agrees with you in every line and gives you nothing at all.
He is pretending he does not understand what he did.
He understood it perfectly well when he signed it.
He is feigning innocence.”
Alric let out a breath that was almost a laugh, and there was nothing good in it.
“It is as though they have set themselves a contest to see who can rage me more,” he said.
“One with his insults and stupidity, the other with impudence and insolence.”
Cressen reached for the next page.
“My lord, next from—”
“Is there anything worth hearing?”
The old man stopped.
“Any of them. Any single one.” Alric had not raised his voice.
“Because I have no patience left for bullshit excuses, Cressen.”
Cressen set the parchment down.
“House Massey is the closest to it, my lord,” he said.
“Lord Massey writes courteously. He asks after your health, and he does not deny the debt. But nowhere does he say that he will return anything.” He paused.
“He is closer to Bar Emmon lands, and I think he is aware of your project outhere. That may be why he did not refuse outright.”
Alric nodded.
Everyone seemed curious about Cressen’s words, but nobody spoke.
But Of course Lord Duran and Ser Willem already knew of it, of course, but they remained quiet.
“And the Crown?” Alric asked.
Cressen’s hands went still on the stack.
“The Hand replies courteously,” he said.
“He acknowledges your letter. He requests the full accounting of the vessels—a complete list, with the expenses claimed against each during the years they were in Crown service—so that the sums may be verified. He asks for our cooperation in reconciling their ledgers against ours.”
Nobody at that table needed it explained.
Verification meant clerks.
Clerks meant months.
And at the end of those months there would be figures for maintenance, victuals, and repairs. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Those figures would be subtracted from what the Crown owed, and if it was done cleverly enough—and Jon Arryn was clever enough—Dragonstone might find that the Crown owed nothing at all.
It was theft with a ledger instead of a knife.
And not one man in that room could say so aloud, because the Iron Throne was the Iron Throne.
“What a load of shit,” Alric said.
Cressen flinched.
Ser Willem, at the wall, did not.
“Hand them to me.”
“My lord?”
“The letters. All of them.”
Cressen hesitated for a heartbeat, then gathered the stack and passed it down the table.
Alric took the pages, hold them in his hands, and looked at them for a moment.
Then he stood, walked four steps to the hearth, and threw the lot into the fire.
“My lord—”
Cressen was half out of his chair.
Alric did not turn around.
The parchment caught fast.
Wax seals bubbled and ran.
The Crown’s letter went up with the rest of them, the crowned stag blackening and folding in on itself, and the room watched a reply from the Hand of the King burn down to ash on the floor of Dragonstone.
“We have no use for lies and bullshit in this council,” Alric said.
He came back to the table and sat down.
Cressen lowered himself into his chair very slowly.
His mouth had gone thin and pale, and Monford could see the old man deciding, word by word, not to say what he was thinking—that burning a letter from the Hand of the King was an insult that…
Best remain unspoken.
The silence went on a beat too long.
Then Duran Bar Emmon spoke.
“My lord is right.”
Fourteen years old, sitting straight as a lance, and there was no tremor in his voice.
“They swore oaths to Dragonstone. Every one of them. They broke those oaths, and now they have been given the chance to amend their wrongs, and they have refused.” His jaw was set.
“They are traitors, my lord. Traitors. They should be summoned to Dragonstone to answer for their crimes.”
Ser Willem, standing at the wall behind him, said nothing.
He agreed with every word, but he had no business saying so in a room full of lords.
So he kept his face still and his mouth shut.
“That is also another road,” Monford Velaryon said.
Everyone looked at him.
“With respect to Lord Duran, my lord, I would not take it yet.” Monford spread his hands slightly on the table.
“Consider when those letters were written. At that time, they did not know that we had knelt. They did not know we had settled.”
He let that sit for a moment.
Alric’s finger had started tapping again, but slower.
“Go on.”
“Summon them here. Not as traitors—as vassals, to a council. Let them cross the water and walk into this hall and find House Velaryon and House Bar Emmon already seated at your table.” Monford’s voice was calm and unhurried, the voice of a man discussing freight rates.
“Ardrian Celtigar is arrogant, but he is not brave. Guncer Sunglass is not arrogant, but he is clever. They would understand their situation well enough. Let both of them count what is in this room before they answer you again, my lord.”
He nodded toward the burned letters.
“Those letters could be used to make them compensate even more. It would be beneficial for you.”
“And we could always negotiate with the Crown.” Monford met Alric’s eyes without blinking.
“Your relationship with the Crown would be enough to get us our things without too much loss.”
The room was quiet.
It is good counsel, Alric thought.
It is genuinely good counsel, and he means it.All of it sounded clever.But all of it was built on the assumption that this was a negotiation.They think this is a council, Alric thought.
But to me, this is already a war council.
“It is a wise decision to take, my lord,” Cressen said.
“It is the best course open to us. We have the ledgers. We have evidence.”
Davos said nothing, but he agreed with the advice.
Then Monterys Velaryon spoke again.
“My lord, in my opinion, we should gather our men and sail toward them.”
His father’s head turned.
“We should show them our resolve. It would put pressure on them and could help us make a better deal. And, of course, we can use the aggressive way if they do not come to their senses.” He spoke carefully, though there was heat beneath it.
“It would make the best example. No one would dare try this again in the future, and we would get the best result in less time. It is both effective and efficient.”
Alric started to laugh.
It surprised the room.
The laugh was genuine and rough, breaking the tense air in the chamber.
“Well,” he said.
He looked at Monford, and there was real amusement in it.
“Perhaps you were the same at our age?”
“I would rather not answer that in front of my son, my lord,” Monford said gravely.
“Perhaps another time. In private. With considerably more wine.”
That got a laugh out of half the table making it more pleasant
“Being young makes such choices easier,”
Monterys said, shrugging.
“But that is not why I said it. From what I have heard of you, my lord, you are a man who puts action behind his words. You wrote that you would come and take them yourself if they did not return what they stole. My advice only fulfills the very same.”
Alric held his gaze for a moment.
Then he stood.
He went to the sideboard, took up two bottles of Arbor red, and worked the corks himself—which was not a thing lords did with servants standing by the door, and every man in the room noticed it.
“Consider me impressed,” he said, moving down the table with the first bottle.
“All of you, truly. This is good counsel.”
He began filling all of their cups.
At Duran’s place, he paused.
“Ser Willem. Is young Lord Duran allowed to drink wine?”
“A little, my lord,” Ser Willem said, a smile on his face.
Duran went red at the ears.
“A little, then.” Alric poured him a proper cup regardless.
“Arbor red, Lord Duran. One of the finest wines in the realm.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Duran said.
Alric nodded and continued pouring.
“Like I said, all of you have given good counsel. With genuine intentions and genuine thoughts toward me. I appreciate it.”
He had filled every cup by then.
Men began to drink.
But Alric did not take his own cup.
Instead, he lifted the last bottle, which still held a good amount of wine, and drank straight from it.
It was rude.
Brutish.
Not the sort of thing a lord did in his own council chamber.
Still, nobody said anything.
They had become too hesitant to speak.
Alric had offered kind words, yet there was something in him now—an authority, a raw fury—that made the room feel dangerous.
“But none of you gave me the answer I was looking for.”
His voice sent a chill through the chamber.
“These are good suggestions, no doubt. But the thing is—”
Then he roared.
“I AM NO FUCKING JAEHAERYS TARGARYEN, THE CONCILIATOR.”
The room froze.
“I AM THE FUCKING NEPHEW OF KING ROBERT BARATHEON, WHO TOOK HIS THRONE BY SPILLING BLOOD OF HIS ENEMIES. BY KILLING THE SILVER PRINCE.”
His voice filled the room.
“I AM ALRIC OF HOUSE BARATHEON OF DRAGONSTONE . OURS IS THE FURY. AND I WILL SHOW MY FURY TO THE REALM.”
He gripped the bottle tighter.
“AND THE FURY THAT WILL CREATE A FEAR THAT THE REALM WILL NEVER OVERCOME. THE FURY THAT WILL ENSURE NO MAN EVER LOOKS DOWN UPON HOUSE BARATHEON OF DRAGONSTONE AGAIN.”
He crushed the bottle in his bare hand.
The glass broke between his palms.Glass stabbing and Shards piercing his skin and puncturing his palm.
Red liquid dripped from his hands into a spreading pool on the floor.
Nobody in the room could tell what it is .
Maybe it’s is wine.
Maybe it is blood.
And Most likely, it is both mixed and Cursed by the Fury.
Damn I know it’s late but I was busy whole day.
Also I wanted to take time with it.
I wanted to give a certain quality, hope you like my efforts in this.
Because I poured a lot.
I have to catch a train in like 4 and half hour .
7 in the morning.
So yeah lot of efforts.
So please if you think it was worth it please comment on the chapter.
And Ofcourse
OTHERWISE MINE IS THE FURY.