Chapter 33: The Summit of Steel and Shadow: Loyalty Audits and Final Warnings
The summons from King Robar Baratheon had been couched in the deceptively bland language of corporate efficiency – an "Urgent Realm Strategy and Performance Review Summit" – but both Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Jon Arryn of the Eyrie understood its true, chilling implication. This was a reckoning. Their quiet disquiet, their carefully worded concerns about the Dragon King's increasingly tyrannical methods and BCR's suffocating economic grip, had not gone unnoticed.
Their arrival in King's Landing was a descent into a realm transformed. The city, once a chaotic sprawl, now hummed with a cold, disciplined order. BCR banners, stark black and gold with the crowned stag and coin, flew from every rampart, often outnumbering even the royal Baratheon stag. The Gold Cloaks patrolled with unnerving precision, their new BCR-issued armor gleaming. And looming over it all, visible from almost any point in the city, was the ancient, now heavily reinforced Dragonpit on Rhaenys's Hill, from which occasional plumes of sulphurous smoke drifted, and deep, guttural roars echoed, a constant, terrifying reminder of the King's ultimate power.
The "summit" was not held in the grandeur of the throne room, nor the formal setting of the Small Council chamber. Instead, Robar received them in his private solar within the impregnable Maegor's Holdfast – a deliberate choice, emphasizing his absolute control and their isolation. The room was spartan, dominated by a massive weirwood table polished to a dark sheen, upon which lay neat stacks of BCR reports and strategic maps of Westeros and Essos. King Robar sat at its head, an imposing figure in severe black, his eyes like chips of arctic ice. Lord Tywin Lannister, his Hand, stood to his right, a silent, golden predator. Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Laws and Chief Security Officer, stood to his left, his face a mask of grim, unyielding duty. There were no other councillors, no courtiers, no pretense of feudal consultation. This was an executive review.
"Lord Arryn. Lord Stark," Robar greeted them, his voice devoid of any warmth or past familiarity. "Thank you for your prompt attendance. Punctuality is a cornerstone of BCR efficiency." He gestured to the chairs opposite him. "Be seated. We have much to discuss regarding your regional performance and strategic alignment with the Crown's objectives."
Jon Arryn, looking frail but resolute, and Ned Stark, his honorable face set in grim lines, took their seats. The air was thick with unspoken tension.
"Since my ascension," Robar began, his gaze sweeping over them, "Westeros Incorporated has achieved unprecedented levels of stability and economic restructuring. The integration of the Reach, the pacification of Dorne, and our successful market penetration into the Essosi Free Cities of Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys demonstrate the efficacy of BCR's operational model. Our draconic assets," he paused, allowing the weight of those words to sink in, "have proven to be exceptional guarantors of contractual compliance and market expansion."
He picked up a thin BCR ledger. "However, performance reports from the North and the Vale indicate… suboptimal adherence to BCR directives. Resource quotas have been met, but with a noted lack of enthusiasm. Implementation of standardized taxation protocols has faced… 'regional friction.' And BCR's Internal Affairs division," his eyes flicked towards Stannis, who remained impassive, "has logged numerous instances of… shall we say, 'ideological misalignment' emanating from your respective territories." He placed the ledger down. "Intercepted correspondence between your Houses, for instance, reveals a persistent attachment to outdated feudal sentiments and a… concerning lack of appreciation for the new economic realities of my reign."
Ned Stark's hand clenched into a fist beneath the table. Jon Arryn, however, spoke first, his voice calm but firm despite his age. "Your Grace, the North and the Vale have always been loyal to the true interests of the realm. We bled for your… for your brother's cause, to end the tyranny of Aerys Targaryen. We seek only justice, good governance, and the well-being of our people, as is a King's sacred duty."
"A King's sacred duty, Lord Arryn," Robar interjected, his voice like chipped flint, "is to ensure the optimal performance and long-term profitability of his domain. Justice is a byproduct of efficient law enforcement. Good governance is achieved through centralized control and standardized procedures. The well-being of the 'smallfolk' – our primary human resource pool – is best served by full employment in BCR enterprises and stable, predictable market conditions, even if it requires… temporary austerity measures or labor force reallocation."
"And what of honor, Your Grace?" Ned Stark finally spoke, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "What of the ancient rights of lords and commons alike? What of mercy? We see BCR tax collectors bleed our people dry, Stannis's enforcers mete out brutal punishments for minor infractions, and a fear blanketing the land that is worse than anything Aerys inspired in his madness! You speak of efficiency, but you rule by terror!"
Robar regarded Ned with a look of almost clinical detachment. "Honor, Lord Stark, is an intangible asset with no discernible market value. It is often, in fact, a liability, hindering pragmatic decision-making. Ancient 'rights' are merely outdated contractual terms that are being renegotiated under the new BCR framework. Mercy is a discretionary expenditure, to be allocated only when it serves a strategic purpose. And fear," a chilling smile touched Robar's lips, "is an exceptionally cost-effective tool for ensuring compliance and maximizing productivity. Aerys's tyranny was chaotic, unpredictable, bad for business. My 'terror,' as you call it, is orderly, predictable, and designed to facilitate growth and eliminate inefficiencies – such as rebellion, dissent, and sentimental attachment to loss-making traditions."
He leaned forward, his presence seeming to suck the warmth from the room. "Your performance as regional managers has been… adequate in terms of resource extraction, but your ideological resistance is creating friction within the corporate structure. This is unacceptable." He pushed two identical, elegantly calligraphed parchments across the table, each sealed with his new royal sigil – the crowned stag, now with a subtle, three-headed dragon coiled at its base. "These are your new 'Fealty and Performance Contracts.' They outline, in unambiguous terms, your obligations to the Crown and to Baratheon Consolidated Resources."
Jon Arryn picked up his parchment, his hand trembling slightly as he read. Ned Stark stared at his as if it were a viper.
"The contracts," Robar continued, "require your unconditional, public reaffirmation of loyalty to me as your King and to the Baratheon Dragon Dynasty. They mandate your enthusiastic and unwavering implementation of all BCR directives within your territories. They also stipulate that your heirs – Robb Stark and young Robert Arryn – will be fostered here in King's Landing, under my direct supervision, to receive a… 'BCR-approved education in modern governance and leadership principles.' This will ensure future continuity and alignment." Hostages, in all but name.
Tywin Lannister, who had remained silent throughout, finally spoke, his voice a silken threat. "A most generous offer, my lords. An opportunity to secure your Houses' prosperity within the new order. The alternative, as the King has indicated, would be… unfortunate. Forfeiture of lands and titles, accusations of treason… such things can be so… damaging to a family's long-term prospects."
"This is not loyalty, Your Grace," Ned Stark said, his voice hoarse, pushing the parchment away. "This is subjugation. You ask us to betray everything our Houses stand for."
"I ask you to adapt to new market realities, Lord Stark," Robar corrected him. "To choose solvency over sentiment. Your House stands for survival, does it not? For the continuation of your line? This contract guarantees that, provided you meet its terms. Refusal… well, BCR has well-established protocols for hostile takeovers and the liquidation of non-compliant assets."
Jon Arryn looked from Ned to Robar, his face etched with despair. He had served two kings, advised lords, navigated the treacherous currents of Westerosi politics for decades. But he had never encountered anything like this. This was not a king to be reasoned with, to be swayed by appeals to honor or duty. This was a force of nature, a new kind of power, cold, implacable, and utterly alien.
"And if we sign?" Jon Arryn asked, his voice barely a whisper. "What becomes of the North and the Vale? What becomes of our people?"
"They become productive components of Westeros Incorporated," Robar stated. "Their lives will be orderly, their labor utilized efficiently, their security guaranteed by my dragons. They will contribute to the realm's prosperity, and by extension, their own, within the parameters set by BCR. They will have peace. The peace of the well-managed factory floor, perhaps, but peace nonetheless."
Ned Stark rose to his feet, his hand instinctively going to where his sword, Ice, would normally be. But he was unarmed in the King's solar. "I will not sign this… this abomination. I will not sell my people, my honor, my son, for your peace, your profit!" His voice, though filled with defiance, held a note of tragic despair. He knew the futility of his words, even as he spoke them.
Robar's eyes narrowed. Stannis tensed, his hand moving subtly towards his own sword hilt. Tywin Lannister watched with cold amusement.
"A regrettable, and highly inefficient, decision, Lord Stark," Robar said softly. His Haki, a wave of pure, dominating will, pressed down on Ned, making the honorable Lord of Winterfell stagger, his breath catching in his throat. It was not a physical blow, but an overwhelming spiritual pressure that threatened to crush his very soul. "You choose liquidation, then. A pity. You had… potential."
Before Ned could respond, before Stannis could draw his blade, Jon Arryn cried out, a strangled gasp. He clutched his chest, his face contorting in pain, his eyes wide with shock. He slumped forward onto the table, the unread "Loyalty Contract" falling from his grasp.
"Jon!" Ned rushed to his side, forgetting Robar, forgetting everything but his dying foster father.
Grand Maester Pycelle, who had been summoned earlier and was waiting nervously outside the solar, was quickly brought in. He rushed to Jon Arryn's side, his face paling as he felt for a pulse.
After a moment, Pycelle looked up at Robar, his eyes filled with fear. "Your Grace… Lord Arryn… he is gone. His heart… it has failed him."
A stunned silence filled the room. Ned Stark knelt beside Jon Arryn's body, his shoulders shaking, his face a mask of grief and disbelief.
Robar Baratheon looked down at the scene, his expression unreadable. The sudden death of Jon Arryn was an unexpected variable. An unfortunate development. Or perhaps… an opportunity.
He looked at the still-defiant, now grieving Eddard Stark. Then at the signed contract that lay beside Jon Arryn's lifeless hand.
"A tragic loss," Robar said, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion. "Lord Arryn was… an asset from a previous era. It seems the stress of adapting to the new market conditions proved too much for his antiquated operational system." He paused. "Lord Stark. Your decision regarding your own contract is now even more… critical. For the sake of your House. For the sake of your son. And for the sake of the North. Do not let misguided sentiment lead you to a similarly… inefficient end."
The ultimatum hung in the air, more chilling than ever, over the fresh corpse of one of Westeros's most honorable men. The Dragon King waited for his answer. The audit of loyalty was reaching its brutal conclusion.
Word Count: Approx. 3100 words