Chapter 19: Aftermath
After the battle for Pyke ended, Henry stopped asking for casualty counts.
When Barristan's borrowed infantry marched back to the main camp, the small separate encampment emptied out in the space of an afternoon — all those unfamiliar armored figures going back to their own commands, their own lords, their own tents. The northern volunteers had already taken their leave days before. When Henry looked around at what remained, he counted nineteen people.
Himself. Maewyn. Maester Winston. Corlen. Fifteen others.
That was what was left of the company that had sailed from White Harbor.
He held the knighting in the main tent, with no audience but the people who'd been there for all of it.
"Maewyn Sarsfield." Henry's voice was quiet in the empty tent. "You rode at my side from Salt Shore to Blacktyde Keep, from Old Wyk to Pyke. You were the first through every breach and the last to leave any field. Everything I've accomplished, you have a share in. Kneel."
Maewyn knelt on one knee and looked up at Henry. The face looking back at him bore almost no resemblance to the bright-eyed young man who'd ridden out of White Harbor with a banner and too much enthusiasm. What was there now was harder and steadier and completely present.
Henry drew Red Rain and touched the flat of the blade to Maewyn's right shoulder.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." The blade moved left. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." Right again. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the weak and the innocent." Left. "In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women."
He lifted the blade. "Rise, Ser Maewyn Sarsfield."
Maewyn rose. His jaw was tight in the way of a man who is not going to let himself show what he's feeling in front of the others, and Henry respected that and moved on.
He sheathed Red Rain and turned to the rest of the tent.
"The others will have their rewards when we reach Iron Fist Keep. Every man who served will be compensated properly — that's a promise, not a courtesy." He looked at Corlen. "Corlen Sasman."
Corlen straightened up with the particular alertness of a man who has been waiting to hear his name called and has been trying not to look like it.
"You proposed the plan that took Blacktyde Keep. You kept the Nightwalker seaworthy through everything that followed. Without you, half of what we accomplished doesn't happen." Henry looked at him steadily. "King Robert has ordered me to establish a Blackwater River Guard — patrol and enforcement on the Rush and the Bay. The Nightwalker is our naval arm. You're her captain."
Corlen stared at him.
Then something in his face gave way entirely. His eyes went bright and he dropped to one knee before Henry could say anything else, taking the hem of Henry's surcoat in both hands.
"My lord." His voice wasn't entirely steady. "Corlen Sasman will serve you until there's nothing left of him to give."
"Get up, Corlen." Henry put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him to his feet. "You earned it. The sailors' wages are already sorted, and the death payments will go to the right families — Winston has seen to the letters." He held Corlen's gaze for a moment. "You're a captain now. Start thinking like one."
Corlen nodded, pressing his lips together, and stepped back.
Henry turned to the maester. "Winston. I've already sent word to the Citadel through Pyke's ravens. You're officially named maester of Iron Fist Keep."
Winston had been standing very straight in the way he'd maintained since the dungeon — as if good posture was something he'd decided to reclaim and intended to keep. But now his shoulders dropped slightly, and something in his face that had been held tight for a long time released.
"My lord." He bowed his head. The chain links caught the tent's light. "You pulled me out of a hole I wasn't going to come out of otherwise. I'll remember that every day I serve you."
"You already have," Henry said. "You've been useful since Barrowton. Keep being useful."
The tent flap opened and Barristan Selmy stepped through, glancing around at the assembled faces with the unhurried assessment of a man who has walked into many rooms unannounced.
"I hope I'm not interrupting, Ser Henry."
"Never." Henry clasped his arm. "What brings you here yourself, ser? You could have sent anyone."
"I prefer to deliver things personally when they're worth delivering." He stepped aside and nodded through the tent entrance. Several soldiers filed in carrying heavy chests, which they set down with the particular care given to things that are both valuable and heavy.
"His Grace's reward for your service," Barristan said. "Thirty thousand gold dragons."
Henry looked at the chests.
Thirty thousand. A landed knight earned perhaps fifteen gold a year if he managed his lands carefully. A full suit of fine plate armor — the kind Maewyn now wore — cost four. Thirty thousand gold dragons was a number that made the phrase starting over mean something entirely different than it had the day before.
"That's—" He stopped. "That seems extremely generous."
Barristan's expression carried the diplomatic neutrality of a man who has spent years around Robert Baratheon's treasury and has opinions about it that he keeps to himself. "His Grace has always been generous toward men who earn his regard." A slight pause. "The Greyjoy treasury contributed to the fund."
Henry almost smiled. "I see."
"Lord Stannis is taking the Royal Fleet back to King's Landing within the week. He's offered you passage — your company and your ship. He speaks well of you, which from Stannis Baratheon is more remarkable than it sounds."
Henry nodded. "Tell him we'll be ready."
Barristan gave him a long look — the look Henry had come to recognize as the old knight's version of something approaching approval — and left.
Across the castle, in Robert's pavilion, the King was on his third cup of the evening and apparently had no intention of stopping at a fourth.
"Ned." He drained the cup and held it out without looking. Lancel materialized with the pitcher. "Did you see that? Crushed the driftwood crown with his boot. Right in front of Balon." He laughed, the full laugh that didn't care about walls. "I almost fell off the bloody Seastone Chair."
Eddard Stark sat with his own cup untouched in front of him. His expression was the expression he always had, which was to say: not much to read, but something underneath it paying close attention to everything.
"I sent him north to help you," Eddard said. "He's useful. Robert — the Lannisters are spreading through your court. Cersei's family is in every corridor of the Red Keep. You need people around you who don't answer to Tywin."
"I know that." Robert set the cup down with enough force to slosh it. The particular irritation of a man who is being told something true that he cannot fully act on. "I know exactly what Cersei is doing. I know exactly what Tywin is doing. But I need Lannister gold and Lannister armies to keep the realm in one piece, and everyone who sits the throne before me learned that lesson one way or another." He rubbed his face. "I can't put Henry Reyne on the small council. Tywin would have him dead within a year, and I'd spend the rest of my reign trying to prove I hadn't ordered it."
He reached for the cup again. His voice dropped into the register it found when the performance stopped.
"I never wanted to marry her. You know that better than anyone. You know who the only woman I ever—"
"The Lannisters are never any good," Eddard said quietly.
Robert didn't answer.
The fire in the brazier moved in a draft from somewhere in the old stone walls.
After a while, Eddard said, "Balon. Are you certain about the terms?"
"Stannis said the same thing." Robert's mouth twisted. "Execute him, eliminate the problem entirely, stop being sentimental about it." He turned the cup in his hands. "Balon's father, Quellon, declared for us at the end. Brought the Iron Islands in. Died at the Shield Islands before he could do much with it — but he died on our side, Ned. His blood is on my account." He shook his head. "I owe the Greyjoy name one chance. Just one. If Balon is fool enough to try again, I'll take his head myself."
Eddard's brow creased. "Quellon Greyjoy joined at the last moment and accomplished very little. He's not far removed from the kind of opportunism Tywin showed."
"Maybe." Robert looked at the fire. "But he's dead. The dead don't disappoint you anymore." He almost smiled. "That's the one advantage they have over the living."
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