"There is an entire library on economic theories at your disposal. Please use it."
Returning from training my men, I was met outside the Small Council Chambers by a visibly impatient Lord Greyjoy. Now granted, I had taken the time to change into courtly clothes-meaning my usual white- and clean myself off a bit, and the lord of the Iron Islands… had not.
He was clad in fairly rough garb, as would be expected from a man who had been at sea for a frankly astonishing amount of time. Every scrap of clothing on him bore the marks of time at sea, from the cloak that had been stiffened by salt down to the boots that had been stained by the same.
"Your Grace, thank the Drowned God you are here," the lord all but spat, not even bothering to stop his pacing. "I arrive after an eternity at sea, bearing treasures to rival the contents of Casterly Rock and expecting to be received by His Grace King Jaehaerys, only to be directed to the Small Council. But according to this pompous Greenlander, I can't be allowed entry yet. Mayhaps you could tell him to let. Me. Enter."
"As I said, my lord, the Small Council is waiting on its final member to join them," Ser Pate said, his voice eternally patient in the face of Lord Greyjoy's rather pointed glare. "Both of you, please enter."
"Oh, now we can enter?" The lord of the Iron Islands said with an unsurprising amount of vitriol. It was quickly followed by a sigh that cut off even more quickly a mere moment later. "Wait, wait wait wait, does that mean…"
"All will be revealed in time, Lord Greyjoy," I told the man with a polite smile as I confidently strode into the room ahead of him, finding the Small Council to be otherwise in full attendance. Aside from the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, of course. That was a position we had not filled. And I had steadfastly refused to allow it to be filled.
There were too few Kingsguard to drag even one of them into endless meetings to discuss policy.
"My apologies for the wait, I was busy training the troops," I said as I entered the chamber, taking my place at the table that dominated the room. Though I was bearing the badge of office to signify that I was, in fact, the Hand of the (temporarily indisposed) King, it was a subtle thing. One that could easily be missed by an impatient petitioner. "Shall we begin?"
"I see there have been some changes in my absence," Lord Greyjoy observed, having come to a halt at the very foot of the table. "Would anyone care to explain? Such as why I am being received by the Small Council instead of by His Grace King Jaehaerys? And why half the Small Council was replaced?"
"The war with Dorne escalated beyond the battlefield," I explained. "Not even weddings are sacred to them."
"We're at war with Dorne?" Lord Greyjoy asked. "For how long?"
"Approximately five months, my lord," Elysar answered. "They launched an attack that saw Prince Baelon slain, and another attack a mere two weeks ago at the wedding of Princess Saera saw much of the Small Council and the Kingsguard slain."
"I suppose this means my Ironborn have a ripe target for reaving close to home, then," Greyjoy surmised. "I suppose I shall need to find some more room aboard my ships for loot!"
"That will not be necessary," I said. "We already control the coasts and rivers. Your fellow Ironborn, I should note, are holding Hellholt."
"And Starfall," Elysar noted.
"My fellow Ironborn, relegated to garrison duty?" The Greyjoy's tone took on a tinge of total indignation. "My lords, I must request they be moved to the front lines immediately! Hiding behind walls is no way for the Ironborn to fight. They should be at the front, with an axe in the hand and a curse on the lips."
"Are you volunteering to relieve them, Lord Greyjoy?" Corlys asked, a cocky grin on his face. "Or do you expect us to simply abandon what holdings we have captured?"
"No, no, merely a request," the lord of the Iron Islands quickly conceded the point, not that I could blame him. Hellholt was, to put it bluntly, a bit of a hellhole. "I suppose this means that His Grace is in Dorne, leading the attack?"
"He is recovering from the attack," I answered. "I am preparing the troops for the next stage of the war."
By any metric, I was the most qualified man for the task. I had the most success at war. I had contacts in Dorne. I had the largest dragon of all the adults in the family. Not to mention the frankly absurd amounts of coin, wealth, and income that enabled me to actually field an army. The thought was more than a little terrifying, really. Who was best suited to lead the realm to war. The heir? No, that would be absurd! The third son, of course!
Lord Greyjoy's attention was earned by an entirely different part of my answer, however.
"His Grace was wounded?"
"My father is in fine health," Aemon corrected. "Though he is grieving, heavily so. The loss of so many of his dearest companions weighs heavily on his mind. Which is why you are being received by us instead of by the court."
Oh, that was an excellent cover story. A shame that the petitioner did not believe it.
"Keeping secrets, then?" Lord Greyjoy pivoted at a frankly impressive speed. Were he not a feudal lord, I would have loved to have him on a sales team. I could already sense him trying to renegotiate something before he so much as spoke. "As we are meeting here instead of at court, I would imagine knowledge of His Grace's mourning is not public knowledge."
I knew it!
"Lord Greyjoy, what are you insinuating?"
"Lord Tyrell, I assure you, I am above such petty means." The Ironborn lord had the temerity to appear affronted. "All I wish is for my fellow Ironborn to be assigned to a station that better fits their skills. On the front lines."
I had to admire the boldness of the lord. To try to blackmail the Small Council over their lack of transparency was quite the feat. Unfortunately, I knew just where to hit him where it hurt.
"Lord Greyjoy, please note that we of the Small Council have yet to adjust his year's official policy on taxation," I said. "We may yet take into account sudden changes in wealth or income to determine how much is owed to the crown."
Truth be told, it felt strange to threaten to change tax laws while I was not paying any taxes. Because I did not need to. Because I had helped write those tax laws.
No, wait, 'strange' was not the right word. 'Wrong' was much more appropriate.
"I see your point," Lord Greyjoy acknowledged, looking more than a little paler behind his thick beard.
"Make no mistake, Lord Greyjoy, your efforts in the East were admirable and a boon to the crown," I reassured the lord. "But we are at war. Our priorities must be adjusted accordingly."
There, that should do it. Verbal acknowledgment of achievements with a hint of a future reward. Effectively worthless, but full of potential. And even if the hope of reward was false, there was hope, nonetheless.
"Of course," the lord said, giving that blandest of replies that served no purpose beyond filling space. "Then mayhaps I could contribute to the war effort?"
He was trying to strengthen his position for a future bargain, I knew. Now that was something to consider. And try to sabotage in the future.
Was this my future? Examining every sentence for potential future implications? Delaying so I could set the groundwork to deny the request in a year's time if it proved convenient?
"Will you be donating the goods you earned in Essos?" Corlys asked, his tone making it clear that he was merely joking. "The treasury could always use more coin, could it not, Lord Tyrell?"
"True," The Master of Coin allowed. "But coin would be preferable to commodities which cannot be sold quickly."
"Which is why I wish to join the war in an active role, Lord Velaryon," Lord Greyjoy corrected, his tone very clearly polite, but not friendly. Oh, there was tension there, I just knew. Did he aspire to my brother's heights? Or was it broader envy of his more glamorous life? "I remain the lord of the Iron Islands, and it is my duty to lead them in war."
"Is that an active offer?" I asked, making an effort to keep keeping my face neutral.
"As a matter of fact, it is," Lord Greyjoy declared. "I am at the disposal of the Small Council. Give me time to sell the goods filling my ships, and I will be ready to join the next offensive."
"We do not have time to sell an entire fleet's worth of precious goods," Lord Tyrell warned.
"But we could buy them," I suggested. "We do have the coin for that, don't we?"
"We are at war, Your Grace," he reminded me. "It would not be wise to spend our coin on such frivolities."
"It would also not be wise to sell a fleet's worth of precious goods in a single month," I pointed out. "Corlys, how are your coin reserves?"
"Well stocked," the Master of Ships answered, an ambitious gleam in his eye. Excellent, he was picking up what I was suggesting. "Though even I might not have enough coin at the moment."
"Specifics can be more fully discussed over the coming days," I said. "My lords, I still have control over the next part of the war, yes?"
"That..." Aemon began to speak, only for his voice to falter. "That is correct."
The other councilors concurred, though with far more enthusiasm than my brother,
"Then take a week to recover, Lord Greyjoy, before setting sail for Hellholt. With your men, we can reshuffle the garrisons and give them something to fight," I said. As far as plans I came up with on the fly, it was far from the worst. It would get me intelligence on the Stepstones, reward some mostly loyal troops, and would potentially rid me of some unsavory elements in the realm. Everybody wins.
"We can discuss how to sell your goods until your departure."
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