A Golden Path: First Steps 1.4 (ch. 4) (Patreon)

Things were progressing well, Rickard thought as he sat behind his desk, sorting through small piles of parchment ranging from letters to long lists. His overtures to the Mountain Clans progressed well. It had taken a month for his surveyors to report back on the stones, indicating what minerals and metals he could expect to find in the untapped mountain range.

The reports were promising -- primarily iron, copper, and unripened silver in terms of metals. Minerals were far more abundant -- dragonglass, graphite, gemstones such as sapphires, rubies, and amethyst, though the gemstones were far fewer in quantity. There was a great deal of granite and limestone to be found as well. It had taken another month for the various mines to get up and running, delivering their toils to Winterfell.

The North welcomed the uptick in mining wealth with smallfolk families sending their extra sons to them. And, for their part, they were ignorant of what the materials were being used for.

Once a month, a ship sailed down from the Wall, landing in Mountain Clan territory. On the very first trip, Paul had sailed with the ship and it was then that he slew a rather large bear, earning him the respect of the Mountain Clans. Any issues that Rickard anticipated were side stepped before they could trouble him. That month, Paul came with more than just the ‘stillsuits’ as he called them.

Rickard's gaze went down to an engraved drinking glass -- one that he purchased outright. It was an even white with a gray direwolf. The sigil of his house. The direwolf stood out against the many intricate engravings. Ridges and looping designs that were painstakingly carved into the glass, making it one of the finest things that Rickard had ever seen.

There were twelve more of them in the shipment, each one colored a rich hue -- blue, red, green, violet, orange, yellow, silver, and gold. They lacked heraldry, but Rickard could foresee the desire to have one made custom for one's house. That month brought puzzle boxes, wool tapestries as large as Greatjon equal in finery to anything he had seen from Essos, along with a foodstuff called syrup that acted as a potent sweetener.

Those goods were purchased for ores and minerals. Some of which were added to the list when Paul saw value in sulphur, ollvine, and feldspar. The goods were then sent to Whiteharbor, on board a ship captained by one of Wyman's most trusted men, and then sent to Bravoss for sale. From Whiteharbor to Bravoss was two and a half weeks of sailing, and another two and a half weeks to get back. Rickard gave two weeks to find buyers for the goods, so every two months, Rickard saw a return on his investment.

The timing was near perfect between the deliveries and the returns.

“Two thousand, six hundred and thirty three golden dragons,” Rickard mused out loud, reading out the total sum of the first return trip. It was only then that the others in the room began to stir. Brandon leaned in, his expression serious while the merchant, a man sworn to Lord Wyman named Arick, occupied one of his chairs. Standing to the right of Rickard was Maester Wyllas -- an unfortunate risk, but his golden link for sums and commerce was too valuable to ignore.

“The Bravvosi took well to the goods, my lord, especially when they learned they did not come from the Daughters. They hate slavery even more than we do, and they paid a premium not only to be the first to own such things, but because they now see us an alternative to a necessary evil in their eyes.” Arick said, making Rickard nod slowly. “To that end, demand has sharply increased. The next shipment shall be worth even more, and perhaps the next one after that. But, I would expect the price to normalize some time after that.”

Two thousand, six hundred and thirty three dragons. A truly astounding sum. “Merchants always struck me as ignoble. What kind of man profits off the work of others on lands he cannot call his own? Now I understand, it is a rich man indeed,” Rickard admitted to a few dry chuckles. The loudest of them from Arick. A small jab to test his character -- he was a point of failure in this venture, and he wanted to make sure that Lord Wyman was correct to choose him.

“Is it that substantial?” Brandon asked, and Rickard was not surprised by his confusion.

“In a year, after taxes are paid to the crown, the North sees a profit between a hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred thousand gold dragons.” Which made them the poorest kingdom by half. It was a lack luster number in comparison to the Westerlands, which could boast a surplus of two million gold dragons because of Lannister gold, or the Reach, which could see over a million due to being the Seven Kingdom’s breadbasket. “However, on average, every fall sees fifty thousand to a hundred thousand gold dragons going to the Reach for grain.”

A long summer saw the price decrease dramatically. Not even the worst of the Reach could justify charging ten times the price when everyone else's larders were full already. The North purchased grain on principle, even with full larders. However, a short summer could see the price increase exponentially when the North had to compete with other lords of the South.

Rickard held up the parchment that was given to him, “On the assumption that we don’t suffer a loss of a ship, and each ship returns with a total of two thousand and five hundred dragons… in a year, the North will see an additional fifteen thousand gold dragons in revenue. Or, if Arick speaks true, closer to twenty thousand gold dragons.”

It was then that Maester Wyllas spoke up, “Some of the high lords would struggle to pay such a sum. The only one that comes to mind is Lord Manderly himself.” They were the richest Stark vassal and for good reason.

Ideally, he could see an additional twenty thousand dragons a year. During a three year summer, that was sixty thousand dragons. It was a tenth of his house's income. It might not sound like a great deal, but as far as his finances were concerned, he gained another vassal. He was barely paying for the goods themselves, because any costs incurred during the mining would make up for themselves in taxes.

Rickard looked to Arick, “You have my thanks for the journey here. We possess more of the goods that you've sold. Rest for a few days before departing back to White Harbor with the shipment. From here on out, you can expect them to be in White Harbor upon your return from Bravoss. You shall be quite busy for at least a year.”

Arick understood the dismissal for what it was, standing and bowing his head. “I'll never complain about being busy, Lord Stark! Lord Brandon,” he added, bowing to his son before leaving the room.

A few seconds after the door closed, Rickard glanced at Maester Wyllas. “Have him approached while he's here -- guardsman, out of uniform. Prob at what he's doing here and try to get him drunk.” Drunk men spoke from their hearts. Expecting him to be perfect was foolhardy, but Rickard would be damned before he let this opportunity slip from his fingers because of a drunk with a loose tongue.

As Maester Wyllas nodded, Brandon spoke,“We could restore Moat Cailin.” He was right. It would take a few years to pay off, but they could start reconstruction. They were already quarrying granite in the mountains -- it would be more of a trek, but it would be well worth it. The lands there had been neglected too long.

However, it was Maester Wyllas who spoke up, “I fear what message that might send to the crown, my lord. King Areys might question why you feel the need to secure your southernmost border.” To that, Rickard grimaced, knowing that he was right. The reason Moat Cailin was a ruin was because there hadn't been a need to man it for three hundred years. Even in times of war, no one tried to invade the North.

No, it wouldn't do to tip the king off. Still, the money was a windfall and it sat ill with Rickard to let it gather dust. Especially after a lifetime of being a lord, having ideas that could never materialize simply because they were too costly.

“Before we get too excited over what we can do with the money, we should focus on the source of it,” Brandon spoke up rather wisely, before his greed could get the better of him. “Are we any closer to locating his lands?”

“The Frostfangs don't really narrow it down much,” Brandon replied. “I'm tapping into the Night Watch's contacts with the wildlings, but if anyone knows where exactly they are, then they aren't telling them. But, something to note is that the Fremen are hated and feared among the wildlings. Not Ice River Clans kind of hated, but not that far off. Paul isn't popular because of his habit of taking hostages.” It was good information, Rickard decided, even if it wasn't what he wanted to know. “I'm testing the waters paying the wildlings to track them, but I have no idea if it'll work.”

His son was working too close with the wildlings. Even with degrees of separation, the stink might wash off. “Be subtle about it. When people learn of this, we need the story to be that you got the information from the Night's Watch.” To that, Brandon waved him off and Rickard fought a scowl. “This is for the sake of your reputation, Brandon. It's a great deal easier washing off a stain when you have a good reputation than washing out a stain when you have none to speak of.”

“I'll be careful,” Brandon replied placatingly, properly chastised.

Rickard grunted, his gaze turning to the glass on his desk. “Keep working at it. As it is, Paul has too much leverage. I want alternatives if we cannot convince him to come to us.”

To that, Brandon leaned forward. “He's nobility. I'm not sure if I believe his house is really ten thousand years old, but I'd sooner believe that he's nobility than some wildling. Give him some land. It's not like we're lacking that in the North.”

The idea had merit. “It puts us on more equal footing. If he becomes a vassal of House Stark, then the wealth that his lands generate would be his own. We would collect some of it in taxes, but nothing like we are seeing now.” The deal that they had now was exceptionally in their favor and Rickard was loath to alter it. “I would ask for the secret of making glass as part of his vassalage, but Paul would be a fool to accept that much to become a minor noble in small lands when he currently has the whole of beyond the Wall.”

In short, Paul has little to gain by becoming a vassal, as strange as it was to think. He currently enjoyed all the benefits of being a lord without any of the negatives such as taxes or answering to a liege lord. And, even if he did become a vassal, it would leave Rickard and then Brandon and his grandchildren with a powerful and wealthy vassal. A possible boon. A possible danger.

The North was slow to accept change. When it was a strength, it was their greatest. Yet, when it was a weakness, it was also their greatest.

“It’d be best if we could force his hand,” Brandon said, showing that he had given it some thought. “Incite the wildlings at him, and make him come to us.” That would be ideal. Rickard wanted to be in a position of strength when it came time to negotiate with Paul settling south of the Wall. He wanted to be able to dictate terms -- favorable terms but not so much that it drove Paul further south.

“Do that through the Night's Watch. It won't be a breach of their neutrality- well, no more than they've already compromised it,” Rickard amended. “If the wildlings start hunting for the Fremen on their own will, it should be easier to learn his location.” It did risk the disruption of the shipments, but it was a calculated risk with a bigger reward at the end of the line.

Brandon nodded before standing up, “I'll get right on it then.” With that, he dismissed himself, and Maester Wyllas followed him out to complete the order that Rickard had given. Once he was alone in his office once more, Rickard took the glass cup and rolled it in his hands so the direwolf stared back at him.

So many plans were in motion. So many carefully considered risks. If he won his gambles then the North would be stronger than it had ever been, even before the conquest. But the higher one reached, the further they had to fall.

And Rickard could not afford to fall.

…

As Arick predicted, the second delivery to Braavos was worth a great deal more. Two months was enough time for word to spread through the city, and Arick struck while the iron was hot. He emptied the cargo hold of the Lady Forlorn, and when he returned he came with three thousand eight hundred and fifty-six gold dragons. Near twice the first shipment’s value. He also came with offers wishing for commissioned glasses, vases, and tapestries.

General buyers were paying a premium, but commissioned goods were ludicrously expensive. Enough so that Rickard felt… jealous that some merchant lord across the Narrow Sea could afford trinkets that would see the North beggared in a generation. But he swallowed it down, happy to accept the foreign gold and silver, and passed the requests along to the Fremen.

He expected it to take some time, but Rickard had apparently grossly underestimated the speed of their craftsmen. A month after he delivered the commissions, they arrived on the next shipment from beyond the Wall.

Six months after the trade deals began, the third return of the Lady Forlorn saw an additional six thousand, three hundred and seventy-one gold dragons worth of gold and silver.

In six months, Rickard had gaine twelve thousand eight hundred and sixty gold dragons. A full tenth of the North's yearly revenue.

It was becoming increasingly clear how he underestimated the power of trade. And his desire to bring Paul and his craftsmen down south grew with every delivery. Especially when each time they arrived, they brought pieces of what would become a glass garden -- large panes of glass that were three feet tall, half that wide, and half a finger thick. The glass itself was clear as water, narry an imperfection to be found.

However, even before the eight month mark arrived, Rickard sensed that trouble was on the horizon. First, it came in the form of news that the wildlings attacked the Fremen in a coalition, only to be soundly defeated without so much as a disruption in trade. They were no closer to discovering their secrets than they were at the start of the venture.

But Rickard knew time was running out when he received a letter from King's Landing.

…

Rhaegar knew he was dreaming, even if it felt every bit as real as the world. He trudged through waist high snow, feeling a bitter chill cutting him to the bone as the wind howled around him. Snow furries made it nearly impossible to see, but the little that he did was unmistakable. Even without ever laying eyes on it before, he knew exactly what he was walking to.

Eight hundred feet tall that stretched across the horizon for three hundred miles.

The Wall.

Rhaegar let out a shuddering breath, pulling his cloak over his shoulders tighter as he took another step, only for his foot to pass through the snow with finding purchase. He found himself falling forward, trying to correct his balance, but it was already too late. He fell face first into the snow and found himself in free fall hundreds of feet above the Wall itself.

No- he wasn't falling. He was gliding.

He flew beyond the Wall, towards the jagged caps of a mountain range. He flew over a vast untamed forest, before reaching the mountains. There, he saw little that he could make sense of. A mountain that acted as a ant hill, teaming with life.

He saw groves of weirwood trees that were screaming in agony -- their branches bound and shaped, their life's blood drained from them by a spout into glass jars filled with crimson. Each tree lined up in neat rows, starving even as men were dragged to them, sacrificed with their bodies desecrated to feed them.

Black clouds began to swirl above him. Or below. It was impossible to tell as he flew endlessly. The scent of rain and lightning overpowered the scent of blood that permeated the air. As the cloud formed, his gaze turned to who the vision wanted him to see. A boy. A man.

Impossibly blue eyes, armor made of black ice -- he marched south upon a sea of corpses, each step making the ground shudder as he carried the storm with him.

Rhaegar wasn't sure when it happened, but he found himself standing before the man who didn't even see him. Fear raced down his spine, pooling in his guts and he found himself reaching for a sword that wasn't there. “Who are you?” Rhaegar questioned, and it was only then that the impossible blue eyes turned to him.

Then he was flying again, Rhaegar thought at first. But, as he spun in the air, he saw his headless corpse beneath him. Rhaegar half expected to wake then, but he didn't. His head flopped into the snow, air refusing to enter lungs that were no longer there, forced to watch as the man pressed onward without pause. The Wall. He was carrying the storm to the Wall-

A bird landed on Rhaegar's severed head, a raven with three eyes bending down to look at him. His lips moved but words wouldn't form, so it was the raven that spoke.

“Wake up.”

Rhaegar jolted in his bed, feeling like he had fallen from a great height. His breathing was harsh and he could feel damp sweat on the silk sheets of his feathered bed. His heart pounded in his chest and he found himself swinging his legs out from under the covers, feeling an urgency to just move. Only for that feeling to abruptly leave him the moment that his feet touched the stone floor of his quarters.

Dragging a hand down his face, he turned to the window that the first rays of the dun were starting to peer through. A moment later, there was a knock at the door. “Prince Rhaegar?” Ser Arthur Dayne's came through the heavy oak door and Rhaegar was tempted to wave him off.

Instead he took a steadying breath, “Enter.” He commanded, pushing his pale silver hair out of his face. Arthur was a handsome man with violet eyes and black hair. He was dressed in the stark white armor of the kingsguard with his family sword, Dawn, sheathed over his shoulder.

His friend gave him a concerned look, “You were moaning in your sleep. How bad was it?” There was no mistaking what he was asking.

“The worst so far,” Rhaegar admitted. There were precious few people in this world that Rhaegar could trust without reservation, and Arthur was one of them. “I was beyond the Wall, flying through the air where… I saw a grove of weirwood trees, like they were an orchard. There was a man there, or a boy on the cusp of manhood, and he was torturing them. Then he killed me,” He half babbled, a hand reaching up to his neck where he felt a phantom pain that yet lingered. “It was the most vivid dream I've had so far.”

Dragon dreams. It wasn't what they were called. At least, it wasn't before the true term for the prophetic dreams that those with the blood of Valyria sometimes had was lost, like so much else. His dynasty had been founded by Daenys the Dreamer, so they had always paid close attention to their dreams. Only, usually, it was impossible to tell what was simply a dream from what was a glimpse of the future.

“Someone beyond the Wall is torturing the Old Gods? Heresy, maybe?” Arthur prompted, knowing his role well on nights such as these. The unfortunate truth of prophecy was that they were very difficult to interpret. He had only managed to decrypt one in his lifetime, and with no small amount of help from his dreams.

“Do the Old Gods even have the concept of heresy?” Rhaegar sighed, his lips thinning before he reached for his dream journal. Opening it, he saw short hand and scrambled notes -- if anyone saw the journal, they'd think it belonged to a mad man, Rhaegar thought. And not for the first time. “He carried a storm with him. Darkness. Armor made of black ice… or was it ice? Shadows?” he muttered, making quick notes before the memories of the dream slipped through his fingers.

“The Wall is rather distinctive, I imagine. If nothing else makes sense, then we know something is happening at the Wall or beyond it.” Arthur offered and Rhaegar nodded to himself, feeling a dagger of fear stab him in the heart.

The Others.

“I’ll send a letter to Maester Aemon to see if there is anything unusual happening,” he decided, even though he ached to jump on a horse and not stop riding until he reached the Wall. Impossible. Impractical. And, worse of all, stupid-- if the Long Night was coming once more, he would be of far greater use in the capital rallying the Seven Kingdoms than he would be at the edge of the world.

Closing his journal, he felt himself calming down even as he still vividly recalled the unnatural blue eyes that had peered right through him. His unease must have shown because Arthur spoke up, “Perhaps a spar would help the prince wake up?”

“Perhaps it would,” Rhaegar agreed. He started late in his training. Almost too late. If it wasn't for the teachings from Arthur, Ser Barristen, and Ser Oswald, Rhaegar would be woefully unprepared for the battles to come. But, even with their tutelage, he had to put in twice the effort as anyone else to make up for the lost time.

It was after he washed his face and he dressed himself that Rhaegar found himself in the training yard with Arthur across from him, both wielding dulled blades. For Arthur's sake rather that Rhaegar's -- it wouldn't do to give his father any reason to target Arthur, and using live steel would. At the break of dawn, the training yard was thankfully empty as the two of them began.

Fortune would have it that Rhaegar did possess some talent with a blade and lance. Though, it was quite miniscule in comparison to the talent possessed by the Kingsguard. In the years since he first picked up the blade, the gap between him and Arthur was slowly diminishing.

The singing of steel echoed out in the courtyard as Rhaegar followed the steps that he was taught. Step - strike - step back - block - reposest -- it was easier to think of fighting like a game of cyvasse. To every move, there was a proper response. Do the right response enough times in a row, and you would win any fight.

It was just an issue of learning the proper responses, and not falling for any traps that your opponent might lay. Something far easier said than done, Rhaegar found when his thrust was not diverted but dodged and he felt a light tap on his neck. His throat had been slit.

Unlike cyvasse, one move chosen bad enough to lead to an instant defeat.

“You're still distracted, my prince,” Arthur noted, withdrawing the blade and settling into a prepared stance.

Rhaegar worked his jaw for but a moment, mirroring the stance. “Rather than heresy… someone is abusing the faith of the Old Gods for their own ends?” He put forth, considering the possibility. his friend kept it off of his face, but Rhaegar knew Arthur was disappointed that he wasn't focused in the spar.

Dreams had to be interpreted. The grove, out of everything, even his own death, stood out to Rhaegar the most. The weirwood trees were being harvested. Fed, but controlled and starved. The orchard represented something. Cultivation? Abuse? Or were the weirwood trees merely a stand in for the faithful? Could he expect religious turmoil in the North?

Without warning, Arthur attacked and Rhaegar just barely managed to defend himself. He blocked the blade, retreating a half step, lunging when Arthur repositioned his blade, only to be greeted by a repotest when his blade arrived. They traded a score of attacks as Arthur forced him to focus on the spar and it was a welcome distraction. He felt a familiar burning in his arms and back, sweat upon his brow, and the vibrations running up his arm with every attack, parry, and block.

However, the distraction was all too short lived.

“My prince,” greeted a voice belonging to Jon Connington, another one of the few friends that he could afford to have. Fiery red hair and a well groomed short beard, he stood in the colors of his house's heraldry -- red and white. His expression, to Rhaegar's concern, spoke or ill tidings. “We have received word from Lord Baratheon.”

The words made Rhaegar's heart go still in his chest, “Has he found me a wife?” He asked, not certain he wanted to know the answer. A valyrian bride was his father's desire. It would have been a smart match if his family still possessed dragons, but keeping the bloodline pure meant little without them. As he had no sisters to marry, it would be best to marry within the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon's expression soured and Rhaegar feared the worst -- that Lord Steffon had found him an Essosian bride. “I am unaware. I merely happened to overhear that one of his ships made landing at the docks.” Meaning that he likely found a possible bride. Rhaegar kept a grimace off of his face, nodding his gratitude to his friend.

“Then I would hear what this messenger has to say,” Rhaegar decided. Setting his training sword down, he retreated to his quarters to wipe himself of sweat before dressing in proper clothes. By that time, the messenger that Lord Steffon sent made his way to the Red Keep, and Rhaegar was already walking towards the Small Council chambers.

Servants passed him by, bowing their heads as they performed their chores. They dusted and polished the stone floors, cleaning candle sticks and decorations. A pity they could do nothing about the smell coming from King's Landing -- the smell of refuse was always at its worst when summer arrived in earnest. The waste that had been frozen over joined the waste that was freshly added, creating a noxious air that was difficult to escape without dousing oneself in perfumes.

Outside of the chambers was Ser Harlan Grandison -- or, as he was better known as Ser Harlan the Old. Despite being of age to be Rhaegar's grandfather, he stood proudly outside of the door. He was an unwelcome sight. Not because Rhaegar particularly disliked him, though he wasn't fond of him either, but his presence meant that his father had decided to attend the Small Council meeting.

“Prince Rhaegar. Ser Arthur,” Ser Harlan greeted them, stepping out of Rhaegar's way.

Rhaegar nodded his greeting, leaving Arthur to join his sworn brother outside of the chamber while he entered it. He was first greeted with the smell of incense to cover the smell of waste. Secondly, he was greeted by the sight of the Small Council. And his father.

If one was ignorant of who was king, it would be an easy mistake to make that Tywin Lannister was the king of the Seven Kingdoms. His head shaved while he grew a golden beard. His clothing was a vibrant gold and red while a necklace of linked hands sat around his neck. He was everything that his father was not.

King Aerys Targaryen sat at the head of the table, appearing ill. His silver white hair was messy and unkempt, his skin had a pale waxy complexion to it while his violet eyes seemed to sink into his head. in the year since his rescue at Duskendale, he hadn't shaven or bathed or trimmed his nails, which now appeared to be yellowed talons as he gripped the arms of his chair. Even Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, appeared more of a king than the decrepit creature his father had become.

“You were not invited to this meeting,” his father greeted him coldly, leaning into his chair as if to get further away from him while Ser Gerold stood behind Areys.

Rhaegar lowered his head, “Father. I thought there might be news about my marriage.” He said, careful to not look at Tywin as he did so. It was but a few years ago that his father had refused a marriage to his daughter, Cersei Lannister.

His father made a dismissive sound before gesturing to the end of the table, granting permission to stay. No one sat near his father -- there was space for at least two chairs between him and Tywin, who remained silent, simply watching them with emerald eyes flicked with gold.

The rest of the Small Council joined after that -- Grand Maester Pycelle. Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted. Master of Laws, Symond Staunton. Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon. The three of them were creatures of his father, with Lucerys in particular being a loyal dog that provoked and prodded his father’s paranoia for his own gain.

The only ally he had in the Small Council was Ser Gerold, whose loyalty was split between the king and the heir and Rhaegar dared not test who he would choose if his hand was forced. The Master of Whispers was an empty position, which was a great shame. The last Master of Whispers had been an ally, keeping him informed of his father’s growing paranoia.

Once everyone was seated, a man was allowed into the chambers, and Rhaegar recognized him as one of Lord Steffon's bannermen. Casper Wylde, if memory serves. The man bowed to the assembled lords and king, “Lord Baratheon regrets to inform his liege that there were no women of suitable stature to marry Prince Rhaegar in Lys,” Casper began and Rhaegar felt a measure of relief.

His father's lips curled, revealing teeth that were starting to blacken with rot. “None?” He hissed, shifting in his seat much like a vulture.

“My Lord sends his regrets, but there are none. Any of valyrian stock have been tainted with slave blood or lowborn. It is an unfortunate occurrence in Essos because of their views on the stations of merchants.” No one gave a reaction to the news, all waiting for Aerys to react. His expression betrayed an extreme displeasure. Casper saw this, so he continued. “However, with your permission, Lord Baratheon will continue to search for a suitable bride in Myr or Tyrosh. Or perhaps Volantis, as Valyrian blood runs strong there.”

It was Rhaegar that spoke, “That would delay my marriage too long.” He was already nineteen. If Lord Baratheon continued his search -- the three daughters or Volantis, then that could delay his marriage by another year at least. Most likely two.

“Prince Rhaegar speaks true, King Aerys,” Tywin stated, his voice cold and clipped.

The Grand Maester nodded in agreement, “It would be prudent to settle the matter of marriage swiftly as Prince Rhaegar participates in tourneys. I would never dare accuse anyone of intentionally harming him but… they would not need to do so intentionally.”

Aery's face twisted as if he had bitten into something sour. “Then he will not participate in any tourneys,” she spat the order out, looking at Rhaegar with cloudy eyes filled with venom.

Rhaegar clenched his jaw, but gave no reaction beyond that. Thankfully, he did not need to speak as Casper stepped in.

“There was one other matter that Lord Baratheon wanted me to bring to his Grace’s attention,” he said, bringing the attention back to him and Rhaegar felt a rush of gratitude. With luck, his father would forget such a declaration. He often did. “It was during our stay in Lys that we overheard that some merchants are displeased with the Seven Kingdoms. While their concerns aren't worth much, why they're wroth was. According to them, the Seven Kingdoms are exporting glass and tapestries.”

Attention shifted to Qarlton, who seemed uncertain. “The Seven Kingdoms has always exported some tapestries to Essos, but I have never heard of any house exporting glass. If they were, we wouldn't be paying such prices from Myr.”

“How wroth are these merchants?” Rhaegar questioned and Casper inclined his head to them.

“Very, I fear. I don't expect it will be long before his grace hears a petition from the slaver cities. There were talks of increased tariffs, but I cannot say that is for certain. It could merely be the guesses of angry men deep in their cups,” Casper answered and Rhaegar leaned forward. The Seven Kingdoms did not really compete with the free cities of Essos when it came to trade. There was little need to.

However, from the sounds of it, the free cities believed that the Seven Kingdoms was starting to compete with them. Meaning that whatever trade goods that were coming from the Seven Kingdoms was in such volume and quantity that they felt threatened.

And no one in this room had known until now.

Aerys had the most visible reaction, gripping his chair while his pale flesh reddened with anger. “They would insult me? I'll burn their petition. I'll burn their petitioners. I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms! How dare they threaten me,” he hissed, his anger growing. The tension in the Council chambers swelled to the point you could choke on it. “They would have been rewarded with the greatest house in the world, and instead they accuse me of this filth?! Damn them!”

Lucerys Velaryon saw his opportunity to curry favor like the dog he was. “They have forfeited such an honor with these insultes, your grace. They have proven themselves unworthy of them.”

Aerys nodded his head, “Volantis. Steffon will sail to Volantis to find my son a bride.” Rhaegar didn't react but he swallowed a curse. His father was fixated on the idea, no matter how foolhardy it was.

“It would be prudent to learn why, exactly, the Three Daughters believe that the Seven Kingdoms is selling glass,” Tywin ventured and Aerys sneered so hard it was more of a snarl.

To some surprise, Qarlton was in agreement. “It would be prudent, your grace. If the rumors are merely rumors, then this is nothing more than a ploy from some jumped up merchants trying to squeeze silver and gold from the Iron Throne. If there is more substance to this rumor… then it could very well mean that someone discovered the secret to Myrish glass making and they kept it a secret from us. For what reason, I cannot fathom, but I suspect to shorten the crown what it is owed in taxes.”

Aerys took the prospect as a personal insult based on how he glowered, “Find them. Find whoever is stealing from me.”

“Find them and burn them.”