The Tenth Day of the Fifth Moon, 99 AC

Roy Baratheon

Storm’s End

The great hall of Storm’s End was no longer decorated for a wedding, but was back to some modicum of normality; in place of dragon banners, the stag once again flew proudly, and where the tables had been set up before for the newlyweds, now once more the ancient throne of House Durrandon proudly towered over the rest of the long tables in the hall.

In rich clothing, with the likely familiar sight of the stag emblazoned on his shirt right above his heart, Roy looked over the hall and tapped a finger on the side of his seat. He had called for his lords and ladies because it was needed, but part of him felt angry that he was already being forced to deal with a crisis so soon after he had gotten home. With a sigh, he rose to his feet and motioned for quiet.

“My lords, my ladies, thank you for coming. I only wish I could welcome you back to my home under more pleasant circumstances. The possibility of conflict is no succor to a mother, and I have no wish to let an old father watch his sons go off to battle and never return. But as my sister’s letter has mentioned,” he said, his voice ringing throughout the hall, “That possibility may be near.”

He paused for a moment to catch his breath. Sardonically, he wondered how many lords in that hall found his circumstances pleasing rather than ill. Likely more than he wanted.

Beginning again, he nodded. “Lord Clyve Caron brought news from Dorne. With the death of their Prince, it seems that his legacy may already be turned to ash. Prince Nymor Martell was a man of peace, and it seems ill to me to hear this talk so soon after his body is cold. But I digress.

“I will not deny that war can be glorious. More recent wars have gone well for our kingdom and king, and our forces were denied a part in that. But I ask that you remember not the recent war in the Reach, but the last war in Dorne. The Dornish took Blackhaven, and their butchery knew no bounds. And while my father beat them back, in the Boneway we were halted, and whatever casualties we took, theirs would never be as high as assault after assault failed. I have no wish to find ourselves locked in that struggle for a second time.”

Resting a hand on the table, he looked at the faces of many of his lords. The ones who wouldn’t listen. “But I am no fool. If war comes, we will be prepared. We will not be caught off-guard by sun-caked lickspittles who think they can play at war. In the coming days, I will personally be going into the Dornish Marches to see to our defenses, and call for a meeting with the Princess Regent of Dorne. But this will leave Storm’s End vacant once more. A prospect I do not look forward to.”

Finally sitting back down, he nodded once more at all his vassals. “Which is why I call for the creation of a council. A council which will rule in my absence, and provide advice in my presence. My sister, Cassandra, will lead this council as the Castellan of Storm’s End, and as Lord Justiciar Clyve Caron is as well-suited as any to sit it. I also seek a Lord Marshal, a Lord Steward, and a… less official position. No doubt we can find a more interesting title for each later,” he said with a chuckle.

With a wave of his hand, he invited the nobles forward. “If you wish to make a case for yourself to each spot, come forward. I also welcome questions and advice from you all in regards to the current situation. This will be a test of the Stormlands. And we will meet it as one people!”