ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The Golden Sun Hall had seen greater feasts, louder victories, and more dangerous men than the women gathered there that afternoon. That did not make the gathering harmless. The hall had been built for display: a high dome painted long ago with golden stars and Lannister lions, great windows to trap the sun, and chandeliers of crystal that split daylight into bright fragments. The long banquet tables had been removed, replaced with smaller round tables dressed in deep green velvet. Silver tea sets gleamed beside painted porcelain. Chairs were cushioned in silk, because discomfort was apparently permitted only in politics, not furniture.

The invitation had gone out in Alianna’s name. A private tea for the ladies of the Westerlands and the Riverlands newly joined to Lord Arthur’s rule. No decree would be read. No oaths would be sworn. No swords would be drawn. Therefore everyone understood that something important was happening. Noblewomen did not gather in rich halls merely to admire cups, though men often made that mistake and paid for it later.

Alianna sat at the place of honor in a gown of deep purple velvet embroidered with silver thread, small pearls sewn at throat and cuff. It was solemn, proper to her station, and not so splendid as to seem desperate. Her hands rested lightly in her lap. A polite smile touched her mouth. It did not reach her amber eyes, but most of the women present had manners enough to pretend not to notice.

The guests arranged themselves as naturally as iron filings to a lodestone.

Nearest Alianna sat the women of the Westerlands who had bound themselves early to Arthur’s rise and prospered by it, or at least survived it untouched. Lady Diana Marbrand, wife to Steward Alwin, was foremost among them. Their gowns followed western fashion: rich cloth, heavy embroidery, gold worn confidently but not quite as loudly as in Lannister days. They spoke with easy deference to Alianna and with the subtle satisfaction of women whose husbands had chosen the winning side before it became fashionable. Their talk moved through household order, children’s tutors, chapel repairs, stores, dowries, and the wisdom of Lord Arthur’s latest measures, slipped in neatly between comments on honey cakes. Loyalty, like poison, works best when mixed into something sweet.

On Alianna’s right sat the river ladies. Lady Margaret Mallister, wife to Lord Jason of Seagard, held their center. She was older than many present, dignified in a gown of lake-green silk, with the calm bearing of a woman accustomed to managing a hall while men managed reputations. Around her were ladies from Darry, Vance, Harroway lands, Maidenpool houses, and smaller river families. Their colors were lighter than the west preferred, blues and greens and soft yellows, their manners warmer on the surface and more cautious beneath. They had survived too many wars to mistake welcome for safety.

Farther from the center sat those whose loyalties were less comfortable. Lady Leonie Lefford wore dark cloth and few jewels. Her husband had been among the old western vassals whose privileges had been reduced when Arthur remade the west. She spoke seldom, and when she did, her words were smooth enough to pass a careless ear and barbed enough to reward attention.

Jeyne Westerling sat neither prominently nor obscurely. Alianna had placed her with care, close enough to honor, distant enough to avoid making her a banner. She wore an elegant gown her cousin had chosen, simple but fine, and listened more than she spoke. Her presence was its own reminder: of Robb Stark, the Red Wedding, the North, the Riverlands, western treachery, grief, and the strange ways survivors are repurposed by politics.

At first the tea passed pleasantly enough. Diana praised the honey pastries of the west. Lady Margaret answered by speaking of berry pies from the river country. There was talk of lace, pearls, children’s coughs, maesters who overcharged for certainty, and the difficulty of finding musicians who knew when to stop. Laughter rose, soft and restrained, exactly as much as the room required.

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Then, as it always does, polite talk approached a blade and pretended not to see it.

“My youngest has been half-killed by the training camps,” said a western knight’s wife, her complaint too proud to be convincing. “Drills from dawn to dusk, inspections, marching in rain, weapon practice until his hands bled. The New Army is stricter than anything his father knew. But Lord Arthur says pretty armor never stopped a dead man, and after the Wall I suppose none can argue.”

Several women nodded. The Wall remained too large to discuss plainly, so it entered rooms in pieces.

Lady Margaret set down her cup. “A strong army is needed if homes are to be safe. My lord husband wrote much the same. I wonder, though, how the New Army is to be placed. Will it remain in the Westerlands, or will some portion be stationed in the Riverlands? Our roads are still troubled. Bandits do not vanish because a lord changes banners, and many villages have seen more war than harvest.”

It was gently said. It was also a question with teeth. Would Arthur’s army protect the Riverlands, or occupy them? Would river sons rise within it, or be commanded forever by western men? Would the Trident be guarded as a partner or held as a prize? All of it sat inside Lady Margaret’s teacup, behaving itself.

Diana answered quickly. “Lord Arthur values the safety of the Riverlands as highly as the west. Alwin says the matter of deployment is being carefully balanced. Men from both lands train together now, and shared service will make brothers-in-arms of them.”

A tidy answer. Too tidy, perhaps.

Lady Leonie Lefford raised her cup. “Training together is wise. I only wonder whether feeding, arming, and paying this new host will also be shared together. Western mines and workshops have already given much. Now that we are one family, as everyone says, one hopes the burdens will be as fairly joined as the honors.”

A brief silence fell. Several western ladies stiffened. A few river women glanced toward Margaret. There it was: the old western resentment of feeding new lands, the river fear of being taxed for a host that might later command them, the suspicion that unity means someone else’s purse opening first.

Alianna added a little tea to her cup.

“The question is a fair one,” she said.

Every eye turned to her. Her voice was calm, unhurried, and not loud, which forced the room to listen properly.

“The army is not raised for the pride of one hill or one river. It is meant to defend the lands placed under Lord Arthur’s charge. The gold, mines, and workshops of the west will support it. The grain, cloth, horses, and roads of the Riverlands will support it as well. Steward Alwin and the river officers are calculating the shares so neither side bears more than is just.”

Lady Leonie’s face did not change. Alianna let her gaze rest there a moment longer than courtesy required, then turned to Lady Margaret.

“As for stationing, the army goes where need commands. The Reach border, the river roads, the Twins, Stoney Sept, Goldentooth, the coast, all are parts of one defense. A fire in the west can burn the rivers. A breach in the rivers can drown the west. We have all seen what comes of pretending neighbors’ troubles remain politely within their borders.”

That drew a few soft murmurs of agreement.

“Promotion,” Alianna continued, “will be by merit. Lord Arthur has little patience for men who believe old names are a substitute for skill. River men who prove themselves will rise. Western men who fail will not be carried by their fathers’ chairs. Lady Margaret, I have heard the men of House Mallister remain skilled in ships, archery, and coastal defense. Such experience is not common in the hills. It would be welcome.”

Lady Margaret inclined her head, and the tension eased by a finger’s breadth. “You are gracious, my lady. I expect many river sons would be honored to serve, if they know they serve in truth and not merely as hostages in boots.”

A few women held their breath.

Alianna smiled faintly. “Hostages are expensive and poor at drilling. Soldiers are more useful.”

That won a small laugh from both sides, enough to let the conversation move away from the edge without anyone pretending the edge had not been there. Lady Margaret asked after tutors for young boys at the Rock. Diana spoke of a stern master-at-arms who made even lordlings muck stalls until they understood horses had opinions. The room relaxed, if not wholly.

It did not last.