GOT : All Left Behind

"The coin you have already spent does not matter."

I was always apprehensive about leaving my children with Grand Maester Elysar for their lessons. Oh, he was a competent instructor, certainly. He was brilliant when it came to languages, as I could personally attest. Unfortunately, over the span of years, I had gotten a very close look at his standards of professionalism, courtesy, and common decency.

Which meant I got to learn just how many copies of A Caution for Young Girls he kept in his chambers. It may well have been the complete collection of stories, really. The complete collection of pornographic wastes of paper that featured my own father as a recurring character.

It was a shame that Smoke had earned his name in his chambers, truly.

But I knew Elysar would never actually harm my children, be it physically, mentally, or emotionally. Not that it meant I could trust him, but I could rely on him to teach them their numbers and letters. When it came time for advanced matters, for more nuanced matters, I could handle that just fine on my own.

For now, their lessons gave me the time to handle some other matters.

"A copper for your thoughts?" Maegelle asked as we descended the Grand Maester's tower. Perhaps it had been obvious that I was preoccupied. Perhaps she merely knew me well enough to guess something was on my mind. It may well have been both.

"I may have forgotten to plan something for our afternoon session," I admitted. Even now, we still met daily to discuss the Seven-Who-Are-One, though attendance had since grown beyond my immediate family. "I have an idea, but little else."

"I trust it is a good idea?" She asked, and I took that as an invitation to elaborate.

"Another look at the Maiden's use of chastity as a source of appeal," I said. "I purchased a copy of Septon Hawthorne's treatise on the Book of the Maiden, and he raised some points that could lead to some good discussion."

"Mayhaps six years ago, that would have been an excellent idea," Maegelle allowed, and I suppressed a wince. No matter how kindly worded, rejection was rejection. "But both Saera and Daella are long since betrothed. And Viserra is hardly the kind to make a spectacle of herself."

"As I said, it was an idea," I said. "Not a good one."

"That is an understatement," Maegelle continued as we neared the ground floor. "We raised our sisters too well to retread that old ground. Or do you not trust Braxton?"

"After all the trouble I went through selecting him, I really should," I said. Some might have raised a brow in surprise at the idea that someone other than my sister's father had had a hand in selecting their husband, but I was a touch on the protective side. "But I suppose you have a better idea for something for this afternoon?"

"Oh?" Maegelle asked, giving me a teasing smile that made my heart flutter ever so slightly. "Trusting me to teach the children? You do know how to please me."

"That gets less amusing after the third time you do it," I grumbled without heat, unable to keep a smile from my face, though it quickly fell when I remembered why I was so busy. "I need to speak with Father. Dorne is making some war-like noises."

"What kind of noises?" Maegelle asked, all good humor suddenly gone, and I did not blame her.

"The smallfolk are growing more approving of starting a war," I said. Maegelle deserved to know. Doubly so if it might put me at risk. "Nothing from their lords as of yet, but if they listen, they will be able to invade without fear of their own people rising against them."

"Will it come to that?" she asked, her grasp on my hand tightening, and I did not blame her. I myself had no stomach for war. Senseless brutality and suffering were things for which humanity had no need.

"If the Gods are kind and men are wise, we will be able to avoid it," I assured her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze of my own. After all, our father was famous the world over for his wisdom and diplomatic acumen. If there was anybody who could defuse tensions between the Seven Kindoms and Dorne, it was King Jaehaerys. "Hopefully, the Father Above and our father here can both help."

We parted ways shortly afterward, and I made my way to my father's solar. Unlike the royal apartments, this was located in the Red Keep proper instead of in Maegor's Holdfast, in one of the many chambers overlooking the royal gardens. Tragically, that did leave me crossing the breadth of the keep without pleasant company.

There were courtiers who called out to me in greeting, certainly. Some went so far as to bow as I passed, though none tried to stop me in the hope of striking up a conversation. A welcome side-effect of an energetic walking pace was that few could keep up with me.

Soon, I stood before a richly ornamented oaken door, engraved with repeating knotwork images. In front of the tightly shut door stood a knight clad in white scale. Ser Gyles Morrigen, the aging lord commander of the Kingsguard, kept his watch over his liege's chambers. His helmeted gaze focused on me as I approached. Not even his king's son was exempt from his unwavering duty, it seemed.

"Prince Vaegon," he greeted me, his hand resting easily on the pommel of his sword. Were I to threaten him, I had no doubt that he would not hesitate to turn that sword on me. The kingsguard was fanatically loyal to him, the earliest knights most of all. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"I need to speak with my father," I said, coming to a stop before him. "It is a matter of great urgency."

Never taking his eyes off me, the knight reached behind him to push open the door.

"Your Grace," he called to his liege. "Prince Vaegon is here to see you."

"Send him in," my father's answered from within, and the white knight immediately took a step into the room, holding the door open just far enough for me to pass through.

Stepping through, I beheld my father sitting at his desk in a sparsely decorated office. By no means, however, was it plain. A fine Myrish rug covered the stone floor and richly embroidered red drapes were tied off at either side of the window.

Well, it was an opening halfway up the wall stretching the width of the room with thin pillars at regular intervals. It served the same purpose as a window, so a window it was. It provided most of the light in the room, lighting up my father from the back in a way that made him look as though the Seven themselves were casting their favor on him from the heavens.

"Is something the matter, Vaegon?" he asked as the door swung shut, leaving us in private. The letters on his desk still took precedence, however, and he barely spared a moment to look up before returning to his work. "Come, sit, tell me what's wrong."

"Dorne is growing ever more approving of war," I said without preamble, ignoring the pair of chairs arrayed in front of the solid oaken desk. There was a time and place for ceremony and grandeur and oratory, but this was not it. "We need to prepare."

"And you know this how?" Father asked, not even pausing his writing. Annoyance began to flash through my mind. We were at risk of invasion and war, and he was busy writing? And he was too busy to even look me in the eye?

"I have my sources," I said, pointedly refusing to name them. Spiteful and petty it may have been, but a son merited the full attention of his father when bringing news of an impending war. "Their smallfolk are clamoring for war with us. We need to take action."

"That will not be necessary." My father's words shocked me into silence for a moment.

Not necessary? I could not believe what I was hearing. A possible invasion from the Dornish, and my father advised not to do anything? Where was the king who had joined an incursion into the Red Mountains to aid his stepfather in hunting down the last Vulture King? Where was the king who was prepared for war with Braavos over three dragon eggs?

"Not necessary?" I repeated slowly. "Dorne prepares for war, and we do not need to prepare?"

"Do you know what Dorne plans?" Father asked, setting aside his ink and quill to look me in the eye, the very image of calm. As though this was far from news to him. "Do you know where Prince Morion intends to start his invasion? Do you know when? With how many men?"

"Do you?" I asked. That knowledge was hardly the kind to be openly shared. Not unless the Prince of Dorne was a fool of the highest order.

"Prince Morion has been raising troops for almost an entire year," my father patiently explained. "Sellsails of the Free Cities have been hired by his agents, as have mercenaries. At least twenty thousand men are gathering at the Tor and at Ghost Hill and will begin their invasion of the Stormlands with an attack on Cape Wrath. By sea."

"What?" How the Prince let that much information slip into the hands of his enemy? It appeared that the Prince of Dorne was a fool of the highest order.

"The lords of Dorne are far less loyal than one would expect," he explained, the smile on his face decidedly triumphant. "Lords Dayne, Qorgyle, and Yronwood were all very quick to share their liege's invasion plans."

Or his vassals were disloyal. Then again, the options were hardly mutually exclusive. Prince Morion was planning to invade a realm with multiple dragons at its disposal, after all.

"And we will do nothing?" I asked, a plan already forming in my head. "We know three of their great lords are disloyal. If we tacitly support a rebellion, break the power of Dorne for generations to come!"

"Prince Morion would win any insurrection against him," Father said. "With the forces he has gathered, he would break his vassals and stop being quite so free with his invasion plans."

"If he knows he has lost the element of surprise, he might not even invade," I pointed out.

"He cannot." Father shook his head. "If he stops now, with forces raised and mercenaries hired, he will prove himself weak to his vassals. My own father's example still burns all too brightly in the memory of men. No, Prince Morion will invade."

Of course. The nobility's inability to understand the concept of sunk cost would force a war. Because why not?

"So we will simply let him?" I asked, trying not to let defeat creep into my voice.

"Of course not!" My father scoffed, and I let hope fill me again. "We know when and where the invasion will begin. It will be a simple matter of bringing our own forces into position to crush it. There is not a fleet that can stand up to the might of dragons, after all."

"Relying on dragons to defend the entirety of Cape Wrath is still dangerous," I muttered, crossing my arms. He would not change his mind on his plans for war if I asked, that much was clear. Mayhaps pointing out flaws would have a better effect. "It's too risky."

"Mayhaps," he agreed. "Which is why Lord Boremund will muster his forces two weeks before the invasion to pick off any invaders that might make landfall."

"Two weeks to raise and train an army?" I asked, incredulous. Against a force that had had a year to train and prepare, not to mention the experience of the mercenary troops, that was the height of foolishness. Wait, no, invading a kingdom with dragons was the height of foolishness. This was just a regular old bad idea. "That hardly seems sufficient."

"It will take far longer to levy an army in the Reach of the Crownlands," Father said. "Let alone to bring them to Cape Wrath. The Stormlander forces will suffice, especially with support from you and your brothers."

Wait, brothers?

"You intend to recall Aemon?" I asked.

"It is hardly recalling if Aemon could have returned whenever he wished," he said, sighing at the memory of... something. It was hard to tell with him. "He will be formally invited to join me at court after Daella's marriage to Lord Velaryon. That will give us a month's time to prepare. And for you two to reconcile. Publicly."

My cheeks burned at the rebuke. It was true that Aemon and I had never officially apologized. While that may have been my fault in part, it had not seemed necessary. After sending my children their eggs, with his express regards to boot, I had assumed he had forgiven me. Though that had not stopped me from sending him some decent wine as a gesture of appreciation.

Hopefully, he had enjoyed the Dornish Red. It had been a fine vintage.

Speaking of Dorne, mayhaps I would have to send a message to a particularly treacherous vassal of Prince Morion. One who might hold aspirations of kingship. If a meeting could be arranged… well, the wedding might be just a touch busier than anticipated.

"As you wish," I told my father, a plan forming my mind.

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