A Golden Path: Foundation 2.12 (ch. 21)

The fickleness of lords was a fascinating thing to witness, Rickard Stark thought to himself as he gazed out at the celebration that carried long into the night and showed no signs of slowing down. Since Paul was presented to the court of the North, he had been an outsider. Someone… Other. He wasn't one of them, a northerner, even if he claimed Sakgos as his fief, the northern most land still in control of the North. 

His established lords were wary of him. They were wary of change in general, but they were especially wary of Paul as he seemed to come out of nowhere and with his arrival, he enjoyed his favor. They felt threatened by him as in hardly any time at all, his small fief matched the wealth that their own lands gave them. House Atreides was not his richest vassal yet, but that would change only in a matter of time. 

When his daughter granted Paul her favor? Rickard genuinely thought that would be it for the young lord. It was simply too much for the proud lords of the North to swallow, so they would spit it out. They would unite in their petty hatred rooted in fear of their own inadequacies. If they were particularly bold and stupid, as some were wont to be, then they would attempt to kill Paul during the Melee. Or they would simply look the other way when one of the many southern nobles tried their hand at removing a potential problem from the field. 

Rickard expected the need to corral his lords. To make reassurances, to offer promises, to grant favor and privilege to mollify their anger. He expected that he would have to arrange opportunities for Paul to ingratiate himself with the rest of the northern nobility to make the lot of them understand that Paul was of the North, and ostracizing him was exactly what the southern lords wanted. It's what the King wanted. 

Instead, he gazed out at the party to see Paul lifted up as he was seated on a chair and the northern lords, who had just hours previously said every foul thing about the young lord were now singing his praises with a bawdy tavern song that'd make a copper whore blush. There was a tankard of ale that was pressed into Paul's hand, and he offered a toast before he downed the entire thing, much to the adoration of the lords. It was the tenth time he had done it, and as their own drunkenness increased, so did their amazement every time they saw the same trick. 

“He can drink and he can fight,” Rickard mused to himself. Two things that the North valued above all else. All their previous animosity had been forgotten in the moment. It wouldn't last, not forever, but it was enough for Paul to forge connections. The bitter taste of his rapid rise had been washed out with the sweet taste of victory. So, they celebrated. They celebrated him. He was more than a copper counter and a merchant playing lord. He was a warrior. A great one. One unlike any of them had ever seen, and he forged a legend by facing off the very best that the Seven Kingdoms had to offer, and he saw them all off one after another. 

It was the bedrock of a powerful reputation. The North had won much glory with the victory of the Melee, and few would have any doubt as to the role Paul played in that victory. That reputation would open doors for him that his prior reputation had barred. Already, he could see the web of intrigue trying to attach its strings to the young lord -- trade deals, marriages, fosterings… 

Paul was aware of it. It would be impossible for him not to be -- he had proven himself to be entirely too cunning for him not to understand the opportunity before him. It was likely his intention all along, and why he put on such a display. All of it to cultivate this exact situation where his poor reputation had been completely wiped away, and he had a window of opportunity to establish connections with the other lords before they sobered up and remembered his origins. 

“You're too serious, Father!” Bradon crowed from nearby, his eyes glossy and cheeks flushed. An admonishment sat heavily on his tongue, but Rickard held it back. This was a time of celebration, and while it would be better if his tone learned some restraint, he doubted anyone would have any memories of the night. “Celebrate! We've proven it to those Southerners without a shadow of a doubt now -- the North is the mightiest kingdom!” 

His declaration got another drunken shout, and Paul was nearly dropped from the chair as the lords got so caught in the fervor that they forgot they were carrying him. Rickard offered a thin smile, and he doubted any of them even remembered his first toast. Still, his son wasn't wrong. This was a great victory for the North. Seeing those flowers of the Reach trembled… the Westerlanders trounced… even the Eyrie and the Riverlanders -- seeing them brought low… 

He stood up and held aloft his watered wine and gave the crowd an honest smile. “To you, the Lords of the North. The odds were long. Many doubted us. And where are they now?” 

“Dusted and defeated!” The crowd slurred back. 

“Who stands at the top?” Rickard asked, his voice rising higher. 

“The North! The North! The North!” They chanted back. Honestly, he could have stood up and said anything and they would have cheered for it. Such was the mood in the hall that they had commandeered to celebrate their victory. 

They had accomplished what they set out to do. Precious few lords were participating in the joust. The archery contest would draw a few eyes, but it was the least important of the main attractions. All that was left was the tournament of duels, which Paul was participating in. Given that he had already bested most of the favorites… the North would claim that prize too. And Rickard couldn't deny it. 

It felt good. It felt so damned good to have something to rub in the South's face. It was short-sighted, it was petty, but it was a great feeling after centuries of being dismissed and forgotten. 

“All of you who fought are deserving of praise,” Rickard continued. “But it surely cannot be denied that some distinguished themselves more than others. My son Brandon, who led you into battle!” Already, he had commissioned songs and ballads about the victory. He paid no small amount of coin to make sure that the bards were singing them in every tavern. “And Paul Atredies. The North’s Fangs!” He added, and the crowd cheered, handing both his son and Brandon another tankard of ale. They downed them both, and the crowd cheered that much harder. 

With that, he took a moment to examine the crowd. Ned was elsewhere, likely with Ashara. Given how diligent the boy was, Rickard supposed that he was owed some bout of foolishness. He saw his daughter with the other ladies of the North, though her gaze lingered on Paul. Something uncomfortable shifted in Rickard’s gut. So much of his damned life seemed to revolve around Paul Atredies these days -- the North, the Tourney, and now his children. 

Rickard stole away for a moment, slipping by unnoticed as the party was too drunk to realize he had slipped out. He found himself standing on a balcony and cursed the warm humid air. It was almost as bad as the stench. He rested his hands on the railing, gazing out towards the city and seeing the sea in the distance. 

However, it would seem that he couldn't so easily steal a moment of peace. As he heard the door open behind him, he caught the reflection in his wine cup of who it was. “The party will notice your departure, Atreides.” 

“... I don't believe they will. They grabbed a boy who looked like me, and they're celebrating him in my place,” Paul answered with a note of amusement in his voice. “My apologies for intruding, my lord. But there is something I wish to discuss with you.” 

Rickard took a steadying breath. “As it so happens, so do I,” he started, turning around and leveling a heavy stare in Paul’s direction. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”

He had reexamined every moment that the two had spent together that he knew about, but there wasn't an easy explanation. Paul, as much as he would like to blame him, was polite but distant. He acted befitting his station. Which meant that could be moments that he didn't see and if Paul was seducing his daughter… 

He'd strangle the life out of the boy. 

“I don't have any, Lord Stark,” Paul answered swiftly with a small, almost apologetic bow of his head. “Lady Lyanna’s affection is not something that I have sought. To do so… please do not believe me to be so foolish.” Paul finished and Rickard blew out a sigh. 

That was probably the best possible answer that he could have given, Rickard reflected. Because Paul might be many things, but Rickard wouldn't call him a fool. He'd like to at times, but only so he would have something on the boy who found himself at the epicenter of the North. No. He believed him. Which meant that Lyanna’s favor was bestowed because of her own infatuation. 

That was its own headache, but it was a manageable one. At most, he would have to deal with a few tears as his only daughter convinced herself she was in love and he was denying her what her heart wanted. That was vastly preferable to having Paul actively pursue his daughter. It was… 

It was becoming increasingly evident that Paul was the kind of man who succeeded in getting what he wanted. 

“You have my word that I will make no untoward action towards Lady Lyanna,” Paul added, and Rickard accepted that with a small nod and only that. He wouldn't thank the young man for not seducing his daughter. 

“Hm. What is it that you wish to speak about, then?” He asked, and Paul raised his head. His expression was solemn, and Rickard searched his gaze. The blue of his eyes was something that had always disquieted him… as that hadn't been their original hue. He couldn't recall what color Paul's eyes had been when the boy first deceived him as posing as a member of the Night's Watch, but there was no doubt in his mind that they hadn't been the same shade of intense blue. Simply because Rickard would have remembered if they had been. 

More interesting, however, was that he didn't detect so much as a hint of drunkenness from Paul. He was as sober as Rickard was. Either his liver was made of iron, or he had someone slip him watered-down ale. 

“I wonder, does it have to do with the private audience with Prince Rhaegar?” Rickard continued, and to his faint surprise, Paul nodded. 

“It does, my lord,” Paul confirmed and suddenly Rickard wished that he hadn't watered down his wine so much. This seemed like it would be a particularly troublesome conversation and being drunk would make it vastly more tolerable, even if he knew he would need his wits about him. Rickard nodded and prepared himself for a blow. 

The meeting was known to him -- he kept a close eye on Paul's activities and those of the Prince. When they had met in private in the farce of a godswood within the Red Keep, his mind raced with possibilities and imagined betrayals. The King offered much to the North, but the man was a greedy fool who only thought of the next offense, imagined or otherwise. Perhaps poaching Paul, either to drag him to the South or to name him as a member of his Kingsguard, would be his way of punishing the North for his son not winning the Melee. 

“The Prince fears that his father and the other lords vastly underestimate the… attachment the Free Cities have to the status quo. He asked for my opinion on the matter, as well as several others. He seemed distraught with the answers he received.” Aye, that was a word for it. Another way of saying it was that the Prince had fled to his quarters and forbade any from approaching. The servants told tales of a ruckus happening within, with sounds of the room being thrashed, followed by sounds of weeping. 

That was an intriguing piece of gossip, but it had been overshadowed by the fact that the Prince looked to Paul for advice. 

That was influence on a scale that outstripped Rickard's expectations. It was simply too fast. Too much. The boy had barely put down roots in the Seven Kingdoms and now he was advising the Prince? 

“Speak,” Rickard ordered, hiding his thoughts away. As well as his discomfort at how high Paul's star had risen in such a short amount of time. 

“The Lords of the Seven Kingdoms looked down upon trade, and because of it, they do not understand how the Free Cities perceive it. To them, to be a merchant is to be a noble,” Paul began, and Rickard nodded slowly, knowing that much. “They already feel threatened by losing the Seven Kingdoms as customers for their wares. The attack on the Stepstones will escalate the conflict -- in their eyes, it will be an attempt of conquest on their livelihood.” 

That was the point, Rickard wanted to say but he held his tongue. “They prefer the pirates because when no one holds the Stepstones, they all do.” 

“Precisely, my lord,” Paul voiced with a nod. “The Free Cities will react strongly to the Seven Kingdoms' incursion on the Stepstones. Far more so than King Aerys is prepared for, and that will embolden him as it will be one of the few opportunities the Iron Throne has to display its strength. As not even with dragons were the Iron Throne able to hold the Stepstones for any length of time.” 

He could all too easily foresee the outcome that Paul described. They would take the islands, but they would not be prepared to hold them. Odds were, within a year, whatever garrison would be left would be starved out or whistled down by pirates and slavers acting on the will of one of the Free Cities. The King, his nose tweaked, would react as he always did and lash out with a heavy hand. The Seven Kingdoms would endeavor to take back the islands, and in doing so, would find themselves dragged into a quagmire that had no end in sight. 

What Paul brought to him wasn't a revelation. It was what he already expected, and why he decided that he would send a token force. Enough that the Iron Throne could not fault him, but not a man or dog more than that. 

“I hardly see why that news would have such an adverse effect on the Prince,” Rickard noted. 

“That is because I voiced a fear that the Prince has long harbored-- that the entire affair in the Stepstones is a front to disgrace the Prince by the King. And a pretence to remove him as the heir in favor of Viserys, who the King favors.” Paul delivered the news without shying away from a very ugly truth.

“... Aye, that would do it,” Rickard admitted. He hadn't even seen the boy prince. The tension between Aerys and Rhaegar was old news, but Rickard was surprised by the depths of it. To engineer failure for your heir and son? The Targaryens were degenerates one and all. “Yet, you speak as if you have some manner of… solution.” 

“Of course, my Lord. While mending the relationship between father and son is well outside of my ability, I believe salvaging the operation in the Stepstones is possible. Even… advantageous,” He continued, and Rickard's gaze sharpened. He didn't need Paul to explain the opportunity. 

If the whole operation was doomed to fail from the very beginning, then those who committed and succeeded would have the favor of the Prince. And that was an interesting possibility. The very nature of the alliance with Tywin necessitated that at least Areys die. That was the cost of his participation in the power block. However, perhaps his desire for revenge could be directed only to Areys? 

It would be a very long shot, but the idea of using Prince Rhaegar as the face of their alliance had a great deal of appeal. It would give the entire plan a vast amount of legitimacy in the eyes of the realm, and something that would be far more difficult for any future kings to roll back on when they gained the upper hand. They could exploit the rift between King and heir, feed Rhaegar's fears of being passed over for the throne, and use that as leverage to get the concessions they wanted in exchange for four of the Seven Kingdoms supporting him. 

That being said, it was a long shot. Unlikely to manifest as Rhaegar would have to be rather desperate to accept that deal. And a fool as well. It wasn't impossible, but it was unlikely. 

In the short term, they still could benefit from a commitment in the Stepstones. 

“Has the King come to a decision on how the spoils would be divided?” Rickard questioned and to that, Paul offered a humorless smile. 

“At this stage, the current thought is that the islands shall be divided up between the Seven Kingdoms,” Paul answered and Rickard felt a smile curl at the corners of his lips. That was a decision that the King and Steffon had been keeping close to their chest, likely because the King sought to put the islands under royal authority. 

The King's own nature was getting in the way of his long-term ambitions. It was a beautiful thing to see. 

“Naturally, those who take whatever island will have the strongest claim to that island,” Rickard mused, bringing his watered wine to his lips. Most of the Stepstones were desolate rocks barely worth holding, but those who controlled them controlled the flow of trade through the Narrow Sea. It would be a commitment, however. And not a small one by any means -- not in manpower, ships, or gold. 

Gold… his treasury was overflowing due to the trade ships to Braavos. Manpower… doable. 

A plan was piecing itself together in the back of Rickard's mind. Angles that he hadn't considered due to his natural distaste for the South. The Stepstone islands were barely worth holding, but if he could control key islands… manpower would be a significant issue but a solvable one. With the wars natural escalation came opportunity. 

Tyrosh. 

To control the most pivotal islands of the Narrow Sea, House Stark would need to take control of Bloodstone and Tryosh -- the former was a large island off the coast of Dorne. Tyrosh itself was one of the Free Cities, and a very likely participant of the war to come. Taking the city would allow them to control both sides of the coastline. 

Greed. His greed felt insatiable. As if he could hold the entirety of Westeros in the palm of his hand and it wouldn't be enough. It was a risk. An unnecessary one, at that. He was in the middle of rushing development throughout the North -- claiming two islands on the other side of the Seven Kingdoms was the very definition of overreach. Yet, his greed whispered in his ear of the possibilities. 

Brandon was his heir and all of the North would be his. Ned would receive Moat Cailin. Lyanna would become the wife of a lord. But Benjen? What could he hope to receive but a position? A trade? That seemed so unworthy of one of his children. All of them deserved more than he could reasonably give them but now there felt like an opportunity to give his youngest his due. 

A lordship in the Stepstones, ruling over Tyrosh as his personal fief. A cadet branch, possibly. 

He liked the idea. He liked the idea far more than he was willing to admit, all the more so because Rickard knew one undeniable fact. To achieve what he sought for the future, he would once more find himself dependent on the young lord before him. 

“Naturally, my lord,” Paul agreed, oblivious to his thoughts. 

“Naturally, those who offer the most in claiming these islands for the North would receive a just reward for their efforts,” Rickard stated, holding Paul's gaze. The boy didn't flinch away in the slightest. 

“That would be most agreeable, my lord,” Paul said and he felt more hooks digging into his flesh as the pact was sealed. “I can offer one hundred of my household guards. I trained them myself.” 

He had grilled Ned and Brandon about Muad'Dib and his household guards. Brandon had spoken of a seamless ambush and thirdhand stories from the Night's Watch. Ned, however, spoke of a perfect battle and monstrous skill for every one of the warriors Paul brought with him South of the Wall. 

“Their numbers are few, but you have my word -- each one is worth the kingsguard,” Paul continued, and the promise made a shiver race down his spine. 

“... You claim that each could best a member of the kingsguard?” Rickard questioned, hoping that he misunderstood. To that, Paul offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

“The entirety of the Kingsguard,” Paul corrected mercilessly. 

Too much. The very idea that someone in the Seven Kingdoms possessed such a fighting force was terrifying, but the picture of Paul leading such a force… it was simply too much. 

‘I have to bind him to my house.’ It wasn't the first time that Rickard had that thought, nor would it be the last. Even if it was an exaggeration, and Rickard desperately hoped that it was an exaggeration, that was a monstrous fighting force. If those hundred men could fight half as well as Paul claimed, then they'd cut through a peasant levi like a knife through butter. But that was hardly the worst part. 

There wasn't a shadow of a doubt in Rickard’s mind that Paul still had assets beyond the Wall under the name of Maud'Dib. How many did his Fremen tribe number? How many warriors could he truly call upon if pressed? Five hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?

Raymun Redbeard, the last King-Beyond-The-Wall had led an invasion with fifty thousand wildlings at his back. 

Rickard had accepted that risk when he welcomed Paul into the North and confirmed him as a vassal, but his influence was growing simply too swiftly for his own comfort. All the more so because they lacked a lever on Paul -- something, anything, to be used to manipulate or check him. Worse, it felt like he was only growing more reliant on Paul and the seemingly endless well of strength he offered. Because his ‘Fedaykin’ warriors would be invaluable when clearing out the network of tunnels and coves located on the islands. 

An idea lurked on the back of his mind, but he dismissed it as he always did when the thought occurred to him. Only this time it wasn't dismissed so easily. 

However, thankfully, before he could dwell on what increasingly felt was his one alternative, the door opened once more. And it was there that a pale faced Ned stepped onto the balcony and with his expression alone, Rickard knew something was wrong. 

“Father,” Ned rasped, barely paying Paul a glance. The young lord, however, sensing the heavy topic to come and dismissed himself and closed the door behind him. It would be a great deal easier to dislike Lord Atreides if he weren't so courteous. “Duty compels me to speak to you about…” He trailed off, and Ned shifted where he stood, visibly uncomfortable. 

Damn it all. “Did you get the Dayne girl pregnant?” Rickard questioned sharply, and Ned's eyes flew so wide that there was a genuine risk of them falling right out of his head. Impossibly, he paled even further. “No? Then speak, Ned. I swear to you, whatever you say will be a secret between us-” 

“It's Brandon!” Ned blurted, physically forcing himself to speak. Rickard closed his eyes, as if to avert them from a truth he already suspected was coming. “He… Lady Ryswell is with child. His child.” 

Well… maybe he wouldn't need to conquer the stepstones to give Benjen lands. He could inherit Moat Cailin and Ned could inherit the North. 

Because he was about to murder his eldest.