When Aelor Targaryen held a feast, he held a feast.
It had taken a week and a half for the Prince’s bannermen to muster their levies and arrive in and around Duskendale.
In that time, he had somehow stocked the larder with vast quantities of boar and deer, acquired the services of both the bard Cellador of White Harbor and a troupe of Tyroshi acrobats, and had forged a new blade for each of his bannermen and household knights.
Even now, Sers Gullian Elwood and Alester were engrossed in discussing their respective swords, though they had both drank enough by then that the conversation mostly consisted of repeating the same details over and over amidst rounds of boisterous laughter.
The Northman bard played and the Tyroshi enamored the crowd with flips and other acts of agility, each act earning more and more applause as the guests dove deeper and deeper into their cups.
Aelor Targaryen, despite not having touched a drop of wine, was smiling wider than anyone else in the room.
“For the sake of the Mother, Renfred, smile.
”
Lord Renfred Rykker, in direct contrast to his liege and friend, looked like he would rather be dueling the Warrior himself than be there.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Aelor.”
The Targaryen laughed, violet eyes filled with mirth.
“Well it’s too late to back out now, old friend.
You have the wedded down, the bedded to go.”
Renfred turned red, contrasting with his dark blue doublet.
” Exactly.
”
“Oh come now, Renfred.
Half the handmaidens in the Red Keep knew you were more than capable by the time you were fourteen, and from what Heavy Hallie told me you haven’t lost your touch.” Renfred’s blush doubled at the mention of the extremely well-endowed courtesan Aelor had had waiting in his friend’s chambers the night before, as a wedding gift of sorts.
It was impressive in truth, for Rykker’s face had already been as red as the Targaryen sigil.
Aelor turned towards the table from the alcove he had found his friend hiding in, gesturing towards the pretty and plump girl seated there, laughing along with several other young ladies.
“Look at Malessa.
She is having a grand time, and I dare say she has much more to fear from tonight than you do.” The eldest daughter of Lord Buckwell had seemed completely calm and confident since the moment she arrived that morning.
In truth, it nearly put her husband to shame; Rykker had been fidgeting restlessly for three days now.
“I have no experience with….maidens.”
Aelor grinned mischievously.
“Well, it’s like Willem Darry always told us; practice makes perfect.” Before Rykker could stop him, Aelor had stridden out towards the middle of the chamber, calling out to the waiting lords and ladies.
“Time for the bedding!”
Renfred’s curses were swept away by the cry of the crowd, as men converged on Malessa and ladies on Rykker, Lady Byrch already working on his breeches as if she had been waiting all night for the chance.
With a laugh, Aelor realized she probably had.
Aelor made no move towards the throng of men surrounding Malessa Buckwell, leaving the removal of clothes to those more inebriated, but he did nod at Ser Manfred Darke.
The knight, bigger than Rykker and half as tall, muscled through the crowd and scooped the already mostly naked maiden into his arms, striding toward the chamber with the other partiers stumbling along behind.
Aelor had instructed the man to make sure Malessa made it to the bedding chamber unscathed, and while Ser Manfred was rude and perpetually angry, he was as loyal a man as Aelor had ever known.
The new Lady Rykker would make it to the chamber unmarked if the short, wide knight had to break arms to make it happen.
Aelor was laughing after the crowd of revelers when Ser Barristan stepped up beside him, materializing out of nowhere.
“Your Grace, I have news.”
The Prince nodded, chuckling once more before turning to his trusted mentor.
“Good or bad?”
“Expected, Your Grace.” The Kingsguard gestured to another man, dressed in heavy boots and a rumpled cloak.
“A man from Gulltown in the Vale, arrived on a galley just this night.”
Aelor nodded, the mirth draining from his face to be replaced by the clenched jaw and furrowed brow the Prince adopted when he focused on matters of high importance.
“Your name?”
The man, half a boy in truth, was short and slightly built with wispy hair and a harelip, which quivered as he gulped nervously.
“Ronald, my lord.
I have information.”
Aelor nodded.
“I look forward to hearing all about it.”
…
Aelor’s solar was smaller than one might expect for a castle such as the Dun Fort, but it overlooked the city of Duskendale and all its splendor.
Ronald was fidgeting nervously, apparently unsure if he was supposed to be looking at the view out the solar window, the plate of roasted boar in front of him, or the fair dragonlord seated across from him.
Aelor ended his uncertainty quickly.
“Eat.”
The man obliged, albeit nervously, eyes periodically darting up to either Aelor or Ser Barristan, who was standing behind the Prince with his arms folded.
“You claim to have information,” the dragonlord began after a time.
When Ronald nodded, Aelor leaned forward slightly.
“Concerning what, exactly?”
Ronald swallowed, his fidgeting increasing.
“Lord Arryn, my lord.”
“Your Grace,” Barristan corrected from behind Aelor.
“Y-your Grace,” the man corrected quickly.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
Aelor leaned forward.
“Calm yourself, Ronald.
I am not my father.” The man, too much weight on his small frame to be a peasant but much too nervous to be familiar with dealing with nobility, relaxed ever so slightly, though his eyes were still wary and his knee did not slow its rapid up and down motion.
“Where are you from?”
“Gulltown, Your Grace.”
“And what do you do there?”
“My father is the steward for Ser Arstan Saul, Your Grace.
I assist him”
Ser Barristan cut in, filling in the blanks for his Prince.
“A knightly house sworn to House Grafton, Your Grace.
They control a towerhouse guarding one of Gulltown’s gates.”
Aelor nodded.
“And you, Ronald, decided to board a galley and sail here to Duskendale with information for Prince Aelor Targaryen.
Well, here you are, and here I am.
I’m listening.”
Ronald gulped again, eyes dancing between the other two men in the room.
Aelor knew that whatever information the lad possessed, he had intended on being rewarded for it.
Aelor didn’t necessarily hold that against him; nothing came free in this world, and information could be more valuable than all the gold in the Westerlands.
While Ronald certainly would be rewarded if his information proved worth his time, Aelor didn’t intend to promise anything.
Spies and turncloaks had their uses, but their nature roiled his stomach.
Aelor sharpened his gaze, letting the dark violet mingle with the shadows of the candlelight to darken his face intimidatingly.
“I don’t have all night, lad.
And while I’m not my father, I do not like to be kept waiting.” Aelor let his jaw clench ever harder, blazing his gaze into the young man across from him.
Whatever Ronald had been intending to ask for in return for this information must’ve suddenly become unimportant, because he opened up rather quickly.
“Lord Arryn has called his banners, Your Grace.
There are rumors in Gulltown that he is opposing your father.”
Aelor nodded.
It appears I was correct about our war.
Gods I hate being right sometimes.
“And Lord Grafton?”
“He is going to answer the call to arms, Your Grace.
He has already ordered Ser Saul and his sons to raise levies.”
“What else?”
Ronald shrugged nervously.
“That is all I know, Your Grace.”
“Any talk of Lords remaining loyal to the crown?
Rumors of mercenaries, news of that nature?”
“No, Your Grace, I promise.
I have told you all I know.”
Aelor leaned back, regarding the young man across from him coolly.
“Apparently you don’t know too much, Ronald, although what you have told me is useful.” Aelor looked towards the door of the solar, ignoring the Valeman for a moment.
“Ser Manfred!”
The broad shouldered and ugly knight opened the door at once, stepping through.
“Your Grace?”
Aelor stood, and after a moment Ronald realized he should stand as well, nearly knocking his chair over in his rush to gain his feet.
“This man has proven his loyalty to the crown.
Ten golden dragons and a mug of ale for him.”
“Thank you, Your Grace!” Ronald’s face lit up as he answered, but Aelor was already moving past him, Ser Barristan at his heels.
Aelor clapped Ser Manfred on the shoulder as he passed.
“He also arrived at my home intending to sell information he should have given me freely.
He leaves Duskendale with a few less teeth than he arrived with.”
Aelor and Ser Barristan were out the door before the sound of Manfred’s fist connecting with Ronald’s face filled the room.
“That may have been a poor move, Your Grace.
The man gave us valuable information.”
Aelor nodded, not slowing his stride.
“Yes, he did, and you’re probably right.
I suppose I have seen too many treacheries for money in King’s Landing; it has turned me hostile to those who turn on their family for so little a motive as gold.”
“You have never lacked for gold, Your Grace.
Those who have see it much differently.”
Aelor couldn’t argue that.
“A true statement.
That’s why I like you, Barristan, you put me in my place.
I’ll give him another dragon for the teeth.” Aelor returned to the dining hall, finding that after the bedding many of the guests had stumbled to their chambers.
Servants scurried about, cleaning the spills and reorganizing the disarray the visitors had left his hall in.
A few were helping this knight or that Lord to their feet and herding them off to their chambers.
Aelor chuckled quietly.
“I see I wasn’t missed.
Ser Barristan, rest well.
We rise early in the morning.
There are peasants to train, hangovers to cure.”
Barristan the Bold nodded.
“Of course Your Grace.
Shall I convene a war council in the morning?”
Aelor nodded even as he turned to meander towards his chambers by the Narrow Sea.
“Of course, old friend.
As Ronald so kindly confirmed, we are fighting a war after all.”
…