"A rod of iron is not a knife. But it can become one."
Four months.
I had four months. Grand Maester Elysar had given his prediction for Maegelle's pregnancy, and she was four months from giving birth, give or take a week or two.
Approximately.
He had been quite clear that these predictions were not an exact art.
That meant I had four months to conquer half a dozen islands off the coast of Dorne. Four months until I had to be in King's Landing to be there when Maegelle gave birth. Or, to take a different perspective on the situation, I had four months to train an army.
The former meant rushed training and simultaneous assaults. The latter meant excessive training and expenses. Not to mention it would invite uncomfortable questions as to why, exactly, the prince had not yet departed for war. Why was he not avenging his brother's death further? Why was he not showing the world what happened when you violated guest right? Why was he not fighting?
No, it had to be the former, no matter how much it rankled me.
That meant I needed a lot of men who were willing to fight, kill, and ultimately die for me. No, not for me. Never for me. For the crown. Tragically, the Crownlands had been rather rapidly depleted of potential levies from the farming communities, which meant I could not raise levies from the preferred source. Not that I had any right to raise levies.
On the other hand, the cities were untouched, and for good reason.
The urban populace was, physically speaking, weaker. Their work was less physically demanding, their living spaces were more cramped, and the rampant poverty meant that their diets were frequently lacking as well.
Yes, there was a very good reason why people did not usually recruit their armies from the cities. Because they could not be rapidly integrated into the standard westerosi army. This meant that, if I wanted to use them, I needed to design their doctrines from the ground up.
And Aemon, in his exasperation, had given me almost no limitations in how to do it.
Half buried within my mind, the original plan that I had almost entirely accomplished began to develop a new amendment. Dragons were (mostly) more secure, the family was doing well, the children were all happy and got along, the succession was secure, future revenue streams were diverse and profitable, but there was something new I could make. Something new I could create to help House Targaryen through the centuries.
Now granted, that idea would be a massive drain on the treasury, but the economy would love it.
But even if I had ideas, those ideas were worthless if I did not have any people to mold into those ideas. Thus, as any reasonable man would have, I had reached out to the community with my wide web of singers and innkeepers, searching for any who would be willing to fight in the Hand's armies.
In a city of half a million, I had expected no more than three or four thousand to be interested. Everyone in the city had jobs and trades of their own, after all. And of those three thousand, assuming half met my standards and were willing to train, that left me with 1500 soldiers, more than enough to handle some pirates. Especially when supported by the Cannibal and my personal fleet.
Reality, however, differed rather greatly from my expectations.
"Martyn, who are all these people?" I asked as I surveyed the scene before me on horseback. In the main market square, on one of the few nonmarket days of the year, in a space that could comfortably fit at least ten thousand souls, I could barely see the cobbled stone ground for the hordes of people crowding the square.
"Recruits?" the knight guessed, mounted as I was. Unlike me, he was carrying the royal banner in an obvious signal of my authority. The only obvious sign of my authority, really. The Kingsguard were too heavily diminished to be allowed to leave the keep, leaving me with an escort of knights for my own safety along with a few dozen men of the city watch. "You did ask for them."
"There are more than I expected." There were more than I could afford to take onto my service in the long term. Far more. I had budgeted for no more than two thousand, and even that was generous beyond belief.
"Have you considered spending less of your coin on charity?" he asked, clearly enjoying himself. "Or investing less in the future of the city? It might make you slightly less beloved to the common folk. Ooh, or maybe don't advertise you will lead them to war against the people who murdered the previous hand and half of the Kingsguard. That might do it."
"Fantastic," I sighed and refocused my attention on the crowd. More than ten thousand men of varying ages crowded the square. They were interested in what I offered, but I needed to close the sale. Easy enough as far as things went, but I could not close it for all of them. Not even most of them. Which gave me all the more reason to separate the best from the chaff. So this speech would need to… adequate. "Why are you here?"
Speaking to a large crowd in a large room was, if one was unprepared, unmitigated hell upon one's throat. But if one knew the basics of oratory, knew how to speak, knew how to project one's voice, one could speak to thousands at once while making it seem absolutely effortless.
Unfortunately, seeing one man speak at an unexpectedly high volume did not make these people particularly willing to speak.
Fantastic.
"You there," I turned to one of the men in the front row. Older, far older than expected for the average military levy. He was certainly past thirty but looked reasonably well-built. He would serve adequately. "Why are you here?"
"To fight, Your Grace?" he supplied, earning a nod. Good. Someone who just liked to fight. Not unreasonable, something I could use.
"As good a reason as any," I admitted before turning to a man a few rows back and to the right. "And you?"
"Revenge, Your Grace?" he offered. "Against the Dornish?"
"Also acceptable," I allowed. That was a reason I knew far too well. "And you?"
The process repeated itself time and time again as I chose members of the crowd at random.
"It is my duty."
"To avenge the prince."
"To serve the crown."
"Because you asked for us."
The list went on and on, speaking of almost every reason. None mentioned gold or glory, but that was expected. Who, after all, would take a man into his service for no reason besides wanting to take the patron's coin? Who would take a man who saw you as little more than a stepping stone on the path to self-aggrandizement?
"If it is glory you seek, or to seek vengeance for a slight no matter how grand, I suggest you leave now," I told the crowd. If they could not take some harsh words, they would not serve. "None shall deem you lesser for it. Should you join me, it shall be for the hardest work you have done in your life. You will go to sleep with your limbs as heavy and unresponsive as lead and you will awake feeling a little better. If your desires to serve cannot carry you through this, I must beg you to return to your lives."
None moved. I waited for several long moments, but still not moved. None made to leave.
Instead, they were listening.
"I need soldiers," I declared. "Soldiers to help me fight this war. Soldiers who are willing to help me bring House Martell of Dorne to its knees. The lords of the realm would look to the fields and villages to fill their ranks. They think those who feed us are better suited to fight. They think the people in the cities are weak, underfed, and not used to hard work. Unfit for war." At this I paused, descending from my horse. My escort shifted in their saddles, clearly nervous and unaware of why, precisely, I was engaging in theatrics. "Are they correct?"
"Are they correct?" I asked again, this time directly addressing someone at the front of the crowd. This one was young, likely far too young for fighting, and struggled to bring out words. After a long moment where the boy struggled to speak, he instead turned his face to the ground.
"Are they correct?" I asked another man in the crowd. Older this time, but still thin. Very much the kind of man that would validate the concerns of most lords.
"N-no, Your Grace," he answered, only slightly more confident than the boy, and I let a smile bloom on my face. This was better. He might serve.
"Are they correct?" I asked another.
"No, Your Grace." This time, an entire cluster of men answered my question.
"Are they correct?" I asked the entire crowd.
"No, Your Grace!" No shyness remained. No hesitancy. Only confidence, only a desire to prove those shadowy and unnamed lords wrong.
"Then show me that my confidence is not misplaced," I declared, turning to leave. Still on foot. "All who think they can keep up… let this be the first chance to prove them wrong! With Me!"
I set off at a jog through the streets. I did not bother looking behind me, but I could hear them.
To my surprise, the sound of thousands of feet running behind me was reassuring to my ears. Mayhaps less so to my escort, but they were on horseback. They could keep up.
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