ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Rumor has always been the swiftest horse in Westeros. It eats no grain, tires for no road, and grows fatter the more lies are tied to its saddle. By the time word of the ambush at Dragonstone reached King’s Landing, Daenerys had not merely been attacked. She had fled. Her dragons were dying. Her fleet had burned. Her foreign soldiers were drowning. Her northern allies had abandoned her. By the following dawn, half the city had heard that the Mother of Dragons had lost a second dragon and the other two were lame, blind, or bewitched, depending on which drunk was selling the tale.

Cersei Lannister heard the first reports in the Red Keep and the better reports soon after. She had been watching the North since the ravens first came whispering of white walkers, dead armies, and dragons at the Wall. She had believed some of it, doubted more of it, and used all of it. Cersei had never been fond of threats she did not control. Dragons ranked high on that list, along with prophecies, younger queens, and relatives with opinions.

Euron’s attack gave her what she needed.

At the small council, beneath painted eyes and polished stone, Cersei declared Daenerys Targaryen an enemy of the realm. The charges came dressed in proper velvet. Daenerys had brought savages across the sea. She had trafficked with northern rebels and foreign sellswords. She had unleashed pagan beasts upon Westeros. She meant to overthrow the lawful crown and plunge the Seven Kingdoms into blood and fire.

No one mentioned that the lawful crown had become lawful through a chain of corpses, wildfire, convenient inheritances, and the sort of family politics that made even the Faith look tidy. Manners matter at council.

The royal fleet was ordered to assemble. Loyal lords were commanded to raise men. The remnants of Lannister strength in the Westerlands were instructed to watch Arthur Greyoak and his movements carefully. Messages went to the Reach, to Dorne, to the Vale, each written with a different mask. Threats for some. Promises for others. Grief for those who liked grief. Gold for those with more honest tastes.

Cersei’s calculation was sound. Daenerys had come back from the North bloodied. One dragon was dead. Two were hurt. Her army was weary. Her fleet had been shaken. Strike now, and the dragon queen might be ended before she could gather her strength. Delay, and the realm would remember the old truth: wounded dragons heal, and people who own them become insufferably confident.

The south tightened like a fist.

At Dragonstone, Daenerys learned of the declaration beneath the carved stone dragons of the Painted Table. She stood at the edge of the map, looking down at the Seven Kingdoms spread beneath her hands. Dragonstone smelled of smoke, salt, and medicine. Her ships were being repaired. Her wounded were being counted. Drogon and Rhaegal slept in the volcanic heat, watched by handlers who dared not come too close. The poison in Rhaegal’s scales was being cut away slowly. Drogon’s wing was wrapped in poultices and old Valyrian curses, because the latter at least made the maesters feel traditional.

Tyrion and Varys had returned to her side, both grave, both very careful. They spoke of ships, alliances, grain, ravens, coin, Dorne, the Reach, the Vale, and Cersei’s fear. None of them spoke first of Viserion. They were clever men. Clever men sometimes know which doors not to open unless ordered.

“She declares me false queen,” Daenerys said.

Tyrion’s mouth twisted. “My sister has always had a talent for naming her enemies what she most fears being called herself.”

Daenerys did not smile. “She waited until I was weak.”

“She would call it prudence.”

“I call it cowardice.”

“Both can win wars, Your Grace. Annoying, but history keeps proving it.”

Varys folded his hands inside his sleeves. “The realm has just survived one darkness. Most lords will not hurry toward another war unless they believe the victor is already chosen. Cersei means to make them believe you are finished.”

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Daenerys looked down at the painted outline of King’s Landing. “Then she is mistaken.”

Her voice was quiet again. Tyrion heard steel in it and wished, not for the first time, that steel were less fond of finding throats.

While the dragon and the lion sharpened their claws, Arthur Greyoak returned west.

The army crossed the Golden Tooth not with songs, but with wagons. Too many wagons. The Westerlands greeted its lord not with flowers and cheers, but with silence heavy enough to bow heads. Ravens had come before him. Merchants had carried the stories faster and made them worse or truer depending on the day. Every village seemed to know a son, brother, father, or husband who would not return from the Wall.

Casterly Rock shone in the sunset as it always had, vast and golden above the sea, offensively magnificent in the face of human grief. At its gates waited Diana, Steward Alwin, and the lords who had remained to keep the west from tearing itself open while Arthur was gone. There was relief at seeing him alive. There was no joy. Joy would have been tasteless, and even nobles occasionally avoid that by accident.

The entry was brief. Bells rang for the dead, not the victor. Names were read in the yard until voices failed and replacements had to take up the lists. In Lannisport, smoke rose from funeral pyres. In the hills, wives and mothers gathered in halls to hear what ravens had not dared say plainly.

That night Arthur refused all talk of feasts.

He shut himself in his study with Diana and Alwin. Upon the oak desk lay ledgers, reports, maps, petitions, casualty rolls, trade accounts, mine yields, grain tallies, and letters from every ambitious creature south of the Neck that had remembered how to write. The candlelight showed him pale and thin, but his eyes remained clear.

For a while he said nothing.

The Wall came back whenever he closed his eyes. Blue fire. Dragon flame. Stannis driving a sword into his heart. Jon frozen in the snow. Arya’s broken body. Viserion’s dead ember fading at dawn. The five Sworn Men lying frost-covered where they had bought a heartbeat. Memories were useful things when they taught. Less useful when they stood around bleeding on the furniture.

He opened his eyes.

“The west is hurt,” he said. “If we let it lie still, it dies politely. I am tired of polite death.”

Alwin, quill ready, looked as if he wished that sentence had been less ominous.

Arthur’s thoughts turned inward, and the system that had been silent through much of his grief unfolded in his mind. Since the old crowning beneath the godswood, since the Greenseer had named him Ard of the Bards, it had changed. Its words came clearer now, tied not merely to coin and men, but to land, oath, and the pulse beneath root and stone.

Territory: Westerlands. Status: war trauma, weakened economy, unsettled smallfolk, depleted armies. Resources: declining gold yield, underworked fields, forests, ports, damaged trade. Population: being counted, with heavy losses among men of fighting age. Special bond detected: Ard of the Bards. Natural recovery strengthened. Public cohesion slightly improved. Effect weak. Requires sustained action.

Wealth: 1,850,000 dinars.

Arthur stared at the number.

Nearly two million.

A fortune, though fortunes had a way of becoming insults once one began counting what survival cost. The system had folded gold, silver, spoils, treasury reserves, reputation, authority, and some stranger measure of territorial strength into a single figure. A clean number for an unclean reality. Very considerate. Nothing says civilization like turning grief into accounting.

The troop lists had changed as well. Units once locked behind conditions and titles now stood open. Battanian peasants, volunteers, noble youths, Oathkeepers, Fian Champions. Costs, arms, equipment, training paths. The old system of Battania had widened beneath his new title, as if the oath had become more than poetry and now expected invoices.

He chose quickly.

Ten thousand Battanian Volunteers at sixty dinars each. Five thousand Battanian Noble Youths at ninety each. Six hundred thousand for the first. Four hundred and fifty thousand for the second. Fifteen thousand new soldiers to rebuild the bones of his army.

From the forty thousand garrison troops left in the Westerlands, all Battanian soldiers would be screened and gathered, roughly eight thousand men. From the survivors of the northern expedition, another six thousand. These fourteen thousand would be joined with the new fifteen thousand, their old formations broken and remade according to clan practice and the new order of the Ard of the Bards.

The Bannermen Guard would be born from them. Twenty-nine thousand strong in time, directly bound to Arthur rather than to the whims of every lord with a tower, a grievance, and a family tree. Kator would command when healed. Beland and others would take divisions beneath him.

Smith would command the remaining Westerlands regulars, roughly twenty thousand men once the broken and unfit were removed. They would guard borders, patrol roads, watch the Reach, watch the Ironborn, and watch King’s Landing, because apparently everyone south of the Neck required watching at all hours like children with knives.

The cost struck the system like an axe: 1,050,000 dinars gone.

Arthur did not flinch.

An army was the spine. A broken spine does not bargain.