Rhaegar watched the Hand of the King, Lord Ormund, flush red in the face. After all, the hand had once faced death on the battlefield himself, and his perspective had since grown wider, sharper, and clearer.
As the saying went: A kingdom with a minister who speaks plainly will not fall; a house with a son who speaks plainly will not decline.
Unfortunately, many monarchs never grasped this truth.
"Throughout history, Dorne and our lands have been at war, with heavy casualties. The borderlands, the Stormlands, even the Westerlands, harbor lingering resentment toward the Dornish. Even when lords and knights pretend to follow the king's orders and maintain peace, their hearts remain hardened by old grievances."
"Furthermore, to secure Dornish support, the crown has been overly generous. To integrate Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms, you've granted them privileges no other houses, Tyrell, Tully, Stark, or Lannister, have ever enjoyed: royal marriages, the retention of their princely titles, the continued use of Dornish laws, and taxes paid only to the Iron Throne, sometimes enforced only by occasional oversight from the Red Keep."
"Most crucially, Dorne is limited in power, sparsely populated, and far from King's Landing. At best, they are self-interested guardians of their own lands. Brave enough to defend their own territory, perhaps, but to raise arms for the defense of King's Landing? To cross half the continent? That is no true ally," Lord Ormund poured out his grievances unreservedly.
Since the dragons had died and there were no longer any Dragonseeds to worry about, it made sense to strengthen alliances through calculated marriages.
Rhaegar blinked. Such bluntness was rare, yet for the greater good of Westeros, it was invaluable.
King Jaehaerys II and Rhaegar himself bore Dornish blood. Since King Daeron II had wed a princess of Dorne, the Targaryens and House Martell had been in a sweet honeymoon period. Yet Lord Ormund's words struck at the heart of reality: alliances could change in an instant. As an insider, he understood the danger of leaning too heavily on Dorne.
"I have considered all of this carefully," Jaehaerys II said. Few lords dared to speak so plainly to a king.
He stroked his beard, recalling the turbulent years. "One of the roots of the Blackfyre Rebellion was the friendship between King Daeron II and Dorne. The crown gained a Dornish ally, yes, but it angered many others, who felt the crown favored Dorne and appeared weak. Prince Baelor's dark hair lacked the martial gravitas of Daemon Blackfyre."
"This is politics," Jaehaerys continued. "A game of gains and losses. We won the hearts of the Dornish, yet lost the borderlands, the Stormlands, even parts of the Westerlands. Right or wrong hardly matters. Only careful calculation does."
He exhaled deeply. This kingdom had existed for two or three centuries, yet ancient rivalries had endured tens of thousands of years. Hatred outlasted love. The Riverlands and Westerlands despised the Iron Islands; the Reach, Stormlands, and borderlands despised Dorne. King's Landing regarded all others with disdain, recognizing only its own nobles. Courtiers, in turn, scorned those favored by Dorne.
"Yet breaking the status quo carries more risk than maintaining it. Should the crown falter, we risk offending Dorne. We must hope the next generation finds balance."
Even a craftsman could cook without rice; Jaehaerys had no other choice.
The Targaryen family's dwindling numbers were the greatest danger. Already few, compounded by close-kin marriages, there were scarcely enough dragonblood heirs for alliances. If Dragonseeds had been plentiful, each noble house could have sent some, and the dynasty would have been unassailable.
After the Ninepenny King's War, the royalist army withdrew from the Stepstones. Without dragons, holding the islands seemed fruitless; though the isles were a powder keg, the realm lacked the strength to garrison them.
The surviving Ninepenny King still lingered on the continent of Essos but posed no major threat.
In the war, young knights and dukes rose to prominence, picked by history and elders alike: Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, Tywin's heir in the Westerlands, Ser Steffon of the Stormlands, and Prince Aerys of Dragonstone.
Outside King's Landing, the horns of victory sounded. King Jaehaerys II, Queen Rhaella, Princess Rhaella, Prince Rhaegar, Lord Ormund, Ser Steffon, Lady Joanna, and others waited anxiously.
The gates gleamed with jewels, furs, and gilded ornaments. Noble men and women wore fragrances so potent they almost overwhelmed the senses. On this dazzling day, everyone wanted to shine, for victory offered even the timid a fleeting taste of glory.
Then they saw the rows of soldiers, armor glinting, morale high, charging toward them.
Ser Gerold Hightower led the royal army in triumph. The Ironborn raced to their islands. Jeyro's men came mainly from the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Westerlands. Expecting these iron-blooded men to bow in gratitude was folly.
The music of victory echoed through the city. Before the crowd, the soldiers seemed lost in their own acclaim.
Ser Gerold wore white enamelled armor, rode a white charger, draped in a white cloak, and carried a white shield, like a mighty white bull. A messenger carried a banner adorned with the stag and dragon.
Behind him rode other knights who had earned great renown:
Lord Roger displayed the red lion,
Ser Barristan held a sheaf of wheat,
Prince Aerys wore a helmet with three dragon heads, his breastplate studded with rubies,
Tywin's brother bore a lion helmet with a deep crimson cloak,
and the Tully brothers, distant yet riding together.
Though the White Knight's attire was simpler than most, they were among the finest knights of their day.
The knights briefly showcased their martial prowess, drawing all eyes in King's Landing.
"Your Grace, if I may: after days of battle, the army has returned victorious," Ser Gerold said, dismounting and kneeling, his pulse racing. Though the campaign had faced early setbacks, it ended gloriously.
"Rise, my lord. You have added new luster to the Iron Throne and the White Knights," King Jaehaerys said, pride swelling in his voice.
"The greatest honor of a knight is to serve Your Grace through fire and flood. I do not count this as sacrifice," Ser Gerold bowed, then gestured toward Ser Barristan.
"Your Grace, allow me to introduce the greatest hero of the war, savior of Bloodstone Keep, the fearless Ser Barristan Selmy. I commend him to you; he shall join our Kingsguard, and write even greater legends."
"Granted, my honor is thus preserved!" The king smiled broadly, his worries seeming half-vanished.
Ser Barristan bowed. The atmosphere reached a crescendo. Trumpets blared. If not for the ceremonial constraints of the White Knights, suitors would have lined up that night.
Barristan's face flushed crimson; honor outweighed wine. He remained the hero of over twenty years.
He had forsaken the dreams of marriage and heirs, forsaken lordship over Harvest Hall; from now on, he would live solely for honor.
Harvest Hall, once famed for its grain, would now be remembered for the courage of its champion.