GOT : All Left Behind

"Unpleasant a responsibility it may be, know that there is good as well."​

Planning a wedding, as I was beginning to learn over the course of several long weeks, was very different from running a kingdom-spanning enterprise. And a realm-spanning enterprise. And a maritime trade company on top of that. Not that it should have come as a surprise, granted; those were all about expansion, consolidation, and optimization. Long-term and recurrence were the key words there.

This was a project, not an enterprise.

But I was always willing to learn.

"Commander Redwyne, the streets of the city are safer than they have ever been." It seemed that planning a wedding saw me in a lot more meetings and negotiations than I saw in my ventures. Even when I was younger and just starting out, there were far fewer meetings to arrange and intermediaries to find. "Surely you can spare a few more men?"

The Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing, the third member of House Redwyne that I knew and the third to have a position at court, only gave a sigh that spoke of long suffering. We were meeting in his office in the Red Keep, a rather lavishly decorated space near the entrance to the keep proper. For all the tapestries and sculptures that dominated the walls, at least the floors were spared. No doubt he knew how much dirt constant messengers would track and stomp into it.

"No."

Well that was blunt. And here I thought the third-greatest beneficiary of nepotism in the Red Keep would at least have some deference to the Targaryens.

"Commander, this is about the wedding of a princess of the realm and one of your own captains," I pointed out. I had my doubts that he could have forgotten whose wedding I was organizing, or helping organize, technically, but a reminder could not hurt. "With the amount of goodwill the people hold for House Targaryen, we will need those guards to keep the streets clear enough to pass if we want the procession to get from the sept in the city to the keep."

"A ring of knights and men-at-arms can do that just fine without putting the safety of the city at risk."

"And the city is barely at risk as it is," I retorted. "I know how low the crime rates are. How long has it been since you've had to hang more than one man a week? Fleabottom is near as safe as Motherhouse's Square!"

"You know this because you spend so much time there?"

"I know this because Sers Mooton, Darry, and Beesbury, all captains in the City Watch, are close friends of mine," I calmly replied. "Which is why I know you have the men to spare."

"As of the start of the war, I do not, thanks to His Grace," the commander said. He rummaged through a drawer in his impressively dark desk, and I could not help but notice a small wooden cask behind him. Wine, no doubt. Watered down, hopefully.

He slid a piece of parchment across the table, a small tab of dark red wax still attached. Verifying that it was indeed the sigil of House Targaryen, and thus a royal command, I gave the contents of the note a quick read. And another.

It was not a long note, more of a memo. No, an instruction. A decree.

In light of the heightened need for coin due to the war with Dorne, it said in the plain handwriting of Grand Maester Elysar, unnecessary expenditures are to be reduced wherever possible. As such, the City Guard is to decrease its expenses by three-tenths. The Small Council suggests dismissing unnecessary members of the guard.

"And you could not have started with this?" I asked pointedly, returning the scrap of parchment. This must have been issued months ago! "It would have saved us no shortage of time."

"I did not think it would be necessary," the commander answered, returning the royal order to some drawer in his desk. "Clearly, I was wrong."

"Clearly," I echoed, resisting the temptation to sag into my seat like a defeated man. "Are you so thinly stretched throughout the city?"

"What men I can spare, I have already pledged," Redwyne answered, to my dismay. He really offered everything he could as soon as he had been asked? Suddenly, his reluctance to be quick to refuse made more sense. He had given all he could and had then been asked to give some more.

"Did you consider a temporary cut in wages?" I asked, my mind already searching for potential solutions to a problem that was no longer being considered. "Or deputizing some trustworthy residents? It would get more bodies patrolling the streets at a lower cost."

Although, that last one could work. I had already implemented it on a limited scale.

"Yes, cutting wages, that will keep the streets safe during a wedding, and will in no way lead to an increase in corruption," Redwyne said sourly, reaching for the flagon on his desk to fill a single silver cup on his desk. "And if you can find me a trustworthy resident who did not pay someone to call him that, I will gladly consign myself to well water over wine for a month."

Fine.

This was fine.

Before I had a chance to think about some more solutions, such as offering to finance an expansion of the guard personally or hiring mercenaries on short notice, the sound of someone knocking hurriedly on the door filled the chambers. Not a second passed before the door was flung open, and I half-turned in my seat to catch a look at the messenger.

I was surprised to see one of my men, of the runners employed at the bank, still half a boy.

"Your Grace, a message for you," he said breathlessly, offering a rolled-up piece of parchment sealed with grey wax. Once it was pressed into my hands, I recognized the symbol pressed into it. A lute on grey, the same device present on the lead tokens given to singers. "It was marked as most urgent." His message delivered, he turned to the owner of the room. "Commander."

And just like that, he left, the sound of the heavy door swinging shut echoing through the small chamber.

"If there was nothing else…" the commander began, acting as though the intrusion had never occurred, but I was not paying attention. No, I was busy cracking open the message. And then reading the two lines of text over and over again.

Several groups of Dornishmen in King's Landing. Songs are worrying. - Brynden.

No.

"If you would excuse me, Commander Redwyne, something has come up," I said with a calm I most certainly did not feel at that moment, rising from my seat.

No no no no.

I did not wait for a formal dismissal, turning to leave as soon as I was on my feet. As I barged out of the room, walking towards my father's solar as fast as I could go without looking like I was in a panic.

There were Dornishmen in the city.

I strode through the keep, making my way to Father's solar. The Small Council was not in session, not at this time of day. That meant I could get a private audience with Father. Even if he were with someone, I could still talk with Father. What kind of father could not speak with his son in a crisis?

There were Dornishmen in the city and they were not happy.

Courtiers were ignored, greetings were only given the most perfunctory response and acknowledgment as I rushed through the cavernous halls of the castle. Had it ever felt this big before? Or did it merely seem so much larger now that I was in a hurry, now that I needed to be somewhere?

There were unhappy Dornishmen in the city and there weren't enough guards in the capital.

The presence of Lord Commander Gyles Morrigen by the entrance to the solar overlooking the gardens did little to slow my pace. His sworn brothers, I knew, were busy guarding the rest of the royal family, but that did little to reassure me. Even alone, he was sufficient. Even aging, he was dangerous.

If properly motivated, he would no doubt find some gap in his vows to keep me out by whatever means necessary. Fortunately, he was not, and allowed me to barge into the king's solar.

"Father," I greeted the man in question, still seated behind his desk. At first glance, the man looked as calm as I had ever seen him, though slightly startled at having his hushed conversation with his guest interrupted. At a closer look, however, there was a darkness to his features, the mark of something I could not identify before Father suppressed it. His guest, my brother Aemon, did not bother to hide his own rather melancholy features. Was I interrupting something? "There is a slight crisis."

"When you say 'slight crisis', do you mean it or is this another of your understatements?" Aemon asked, gazing into a goblet of wine. Oh, I had definitely interrupted something. As much as I wanted to know more, arranging for the safety of the bride-and-groom-to-be safe from foreign assassination took priority.

"There are Dornishmen in the city who are directly hostile to us," I said, deciding to break the news as bluntly as I could. "So I would say the latter. I need more men for protection during the wedding."

"Vaegon, do remember that we are at war…" Father began, but Aemon interrupted him before he could go any further.

"Done," my eldest brother said, his done final, and my thoughts came to a rapid halt. Was… was Aemon being helpful? Was this really going to be this easy? "Fifty knights from Dragonstone will be here before the week is out."

It appeared it was.

I should not have been surprised, really. Aemon had spent months fighting alongside our sister, our brother's widow. Of course he would be willing to offer men from his own holdings.

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