Chapter 71: Dealing with All Parties
"Have Ser Simon testify in open court? Are you jesting?"
Upon hearing Ian's plan, Ser Wylis's first reaction was that the man had gone mad.
"If your worthless men had managed to catch Daeron Grafton in the first place, would we even need to consider such a step?" Ian shot back, immediately shifting the blame onto Wylis's shoulders.
"If Ser Arys hadn't killed himself—"
"Even if Arys were alive, he would never have accused his own family. Why else do you think he took his own life the moment he let the truth slip?" Ian countered. "As things stand, getting Simon to willingly accuse his father and brother is the only move we have left that will impress the Iron Throne."
"But it is without honor!" Ser Wylis insisted, his voice tight with hesitation.
Dishonorable? Ian thought with a flash of contempt. You, a man who stood by and watched the town of White Wall be plundered for more than three months, all to keep the great lords from discovering the Blackfyre treasure, you dare speak to me of honor?
"The most dishonorable part is yet to come," Ian said aloud, his voice dangerously low. "It may lack honor, but it is rich with opportunity."
"What do you mean?"
"The promises I made to Simon were a lie, a fabrication designed to lure him into confessing their treason. However, when he claims he came to you for aid, you will deny it. You will deny everything."
Ian leaned in, his eyes cold. "You will tell the court the truth—that you discovered his treachery, captured him, and forced him to cooperate. Then, after his testimony, you will accuse Simon of the very same treason as his father and brother."
Simon is also one of the few who knows that 'Ian Hewen' is a fiction, Ian added silently. I can hardly let him live to inherit Darry, can I?
"Seven Hells! This is truly…"
"Dishonorable," Ian finished for him, his tone flat. "Yes. But what honor is owed to a band of thieves and traitors? The gallows is the only end they deserve. Everything we do is merely… executing the judgment of the Father himself."
He let that sink in before delivering the final, irresistible blow.
"Just think of it. Once House Darry is attainted for treason, who in all the Riverlands would be a more suitable lord for their castle and lands than you? The man who won the first victory, the man who crushed the rebellion."
The air caught in Ser Wylis's throat. He stammered, "Ser Raymun has another son, Lyman Darry. He's just a boy. The king may not strip him of his inheritance…"
A cold, thin smile touched Ian's lips. "And wouldn't it seem perfectly reasonable that Ser Simon, in his ambition, would murder his own young kinsman to secure the inheritance for himself?"
A demon.
For a fleeting moment, a primal fear seized Wylis. He felt as if he were staring into the eyes of a demon wearing a man's skin.
But the moment passed. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. He understood what had to be done.
"Ser Ian? I thank you for my life."
Daeron Grafton looked at the knight before him, a man far younger than he had imagined, and offered a formal, polite expression of gratitude.
"Ser Daeron," Ian replied, pulling him into a surprisingly warm and familiar hug that clearly unsettled the Grafton heir. "My brother spoke of you often."
"He did?" Daeron asked, his curiosity piqued. "What did Arys say about me?"
Ian's expression shifted into a half-smile. "Are you certain you want to know?"
"Oh, damn it all!" Daeron laughed, though the sound was hollow. "That bastard must have said all manner of foul things about me!" His smile quickly vanished as the memory of Arys's death returned to him.
"I am sorry for your loss. The traitor Simon has already paid for what he did to Arys," Ian said, his own face a mask of sorrow.
"The dead are dead," Daeron said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "We must focus. We have to stop Simon and Wylis from reaching King's Landing. I have no one left to command. Though a few of our brothers remain in Taman Village, I'm sure Simon has already sent men to deal with them. How many men do you have at your disposal? Are you certain you can stop Wylis's party?" he asked in a rushed torrent of words.
"Do you truly still hold to that fantasy, Ser Daeron?"
"What fantasy?"
"If you were Simon," Ian began patiently, "and you decided to betray your brother and your entire family after learning of the 'rebellion,' would you confide only in a landed knight like Wylis?"
"No," Daeron whispered, the realization dawning on him. "I would send a raven to King's Landing. I would report it directly to the Iron Throne." His face went pale. "So they will send someone to intercept them?" He turned his gaze on Ian, his eyes suddenly fierce. "That guard you sent… when he said you would save my family… was he lying to me?"
"On the contrary. I have already saved your family."
"What are you talking about?"
"So long as you live, House Grafton endures, does it not? We will proceed to Pentos as planned and join the last true king of House Targaryen. When His Grace returns to Westeros at the head of a Dothraki army, your family will not only reclaim Gulltown, you will take the Eyrie itself."
Ian's voice was a mesmerizing vision of the future. "You need only marry the daughter of a great lord, take ten or eight lovers, and sire a hundred sons. Who then would dare say that House Grafton is not one of the most powerful families in Westeros?"
"But we have lost our fortune and our army," Daeron said, his voice laced with doubt.
"How many men did you plan to raise?"
"Five hundred."
"And how many warriors ride in a Dothraki khalasar?"
"I… I don't know. The numbers vary. Some say forty thousand, others a hundred thousand."
One hundred thousand is the total population of Drogo's khalasar, including women, children, and slaves, Ian thought wryly.
"Whether it is forty thousand or a hundred thousand, our five hundred men are but a drop in the great sea, are they not? You have misunderstood the point entirely."
Ian leaned closer. "In truth, it is our status as Westerosi nobility that His Grace desires. He needs vassals from this side of the Narrow Sea."
The words struck Daeron like a bolt of lightning. He had been tempted to retreat after the ambush at the fishing village, but Ian's logic illuminated the flaw in his entire strategy. He suddenly felt foolish. What was the point of raising a small army to increase his standing? Had he simply sworn himself to the Beggar King early enough, he could have secured a seat on the small council and gained all the influence he could ever want.
"Well, Daeron?" Ian pressed. "What is your decision?"
"We go to Pentos," Daeron said, nodding with newfound resolve. "Together."
"Excellent. Now, where is your ship? We should be well away from Westeros before the Iron Throne moves against Gulltown and Darry."
"Ah." Daeron shifted uncomfortably. "My ship… it is not due to arrive at the abandoned fishing village for another month."
Ian stared at him, his composure finally cracking. "What did you say?"
"My vessel, the White Gull, is on a trading voyage. She sailed from Gulltown with stops in Pentos, Tyrosh, and Lys, with her final destination being Volantis."
He continued, oblivious to Ian's disbelief. "From there, she will return to King's Landing to sell her cargo, then sail north to the abandoned fishing village to retrieve us and our goods. The timing was meant to align with us finishing the transport of our supplies from Taman Village."
Ian could only stare.
Seven Hells. What master of scheduling came up with that?
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