Post by The Smith on Oct 13, 2013 7:46:24 GMT -5
"Wha' d'yeh mean ''is comin's an' goin's'?" the pimply stablehand asked.
"Exactly what you think it means," Ser Aemon Mertyns said with a tiny sigh, sipping his ale. "You can write, can't you? When the Lord wants his horse saddled to go out, write where he's join and leave the note where I told you. When 'e's got guests comin' in, write who they are and leave it in the same spot. Easy as a lark, an' your silver'll be left there the firs 'o each month."
The boy eventually nodded; he was a thick-skulled fool, but just barely capable of doing to the task for which he had been hired, and his position in the stables of the manse in King's Landing was a valuable one with regards to information gathering. The most difficult parts were the dead drops, but he'd met and bought off two of the house's maids, and one of the steward's assistants, all of whom had easy access to the drops, and could easily pass the messages to Guardsman Fat, who was the small network's link to outside of the manse.
The stableboy took the small coinpurse that Ser Aemon offered him, finished his ale, and then scurried out of the tavern, while the Stormlander knight sat back to reflect on the past few weeks' work.
His conversation with the steward's assistant had been the most profitable; an intelligent and ambitious man if ever there was one, but most importantly he would be leaving King's Landing with the lord and his family, once their time in the capital was over.
"I can do it," the young man had said, with a sneer on his face. "The old steward back at the castle is practically going senile, he's had us doing all the work for years anyway."
"Whichever people you recruit must be reliable. I can get men into the city easy and regular enough, with your gold, and to bring back what you learn. It's up to you to recruit whomever you need. Maids tend to be the best for overhearing important tidbits. No nobleman I've ever met thinks twice before saying something in front of their maids. A stableboy'll tell you who comes and goes, and where the Lord is going when he leaves," Mertyns had replied, with a patient tone. He tolerated the boy's insolence because they both knew how intelligent and capable he was.
"So long as you meet the price, and keep meeting it, I'll get you what you need," the steward had replied. "Anything else?"
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"It's done, grandfather," Ser Aemon said, many house later at the Baratheon House on Aegon's Hill. "For a man so rich, he is something of a miser when it comes to paying his servants. Quite a few of them felt they deserved more than they currently earned, and we will learn what we need by making up the difference. I've organized men who will begin building a network for us, once they return home, and a few to remain and keep an eye on the house here."
Lord Sammael Baratheon smiled. He was quite fond of his children and grandchildren, but even more so when they actually got things accomplished on behalf of the House. "Excellent, lad, excellent. Eyes and ears will be useful in the coming months."
"We have another task in front of us, however," he added. "Lord Stark has declared war on the Seven, and His High Holiness has called all pious men of faith to sail for White Harbor on crusade, to protect House Manderly from the heathen Northmen." Lord Baratheon had a reputation for piety that he carefully cultivated with prayer and tithes to the Faith but which, like most things he did, was out of political expediency and for the appearance of piety, rather than any spiritual compulsion.
"There is little to gain by an invasion of the North, but sending a show of force to join the army will buy things other than land. We depart for Storm's End in a few days; half the men'll stay here with Oswyn, and you're to do so as well. Keep up your work," he added.
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Lord Baratheon sat in his study alone, late. Raising another army, so soon after disbanding his men, would be expensive. "Fat fucking oaf. Fighting to protect Manderly's claim to Ice his hardly cause for a Holy War," he said idly to no one. He took a sip from the glass of brandy that sat next to his hand, as he spread half a dozen books out on his desk in front of him. He'd gone over the finances of Storm's End upon returning home from the war, when his coffers were flush with plunder, but after discharging and paying his men, and the expenses he'd incurred since arriving in King's Landing.
"Three hundred knights and twice as many squires and groomsmen, at least nine hundred horses..." he said, doing the calculations in his head of weights and supply. "Fodder for the horses, black bread and salted jerky... hundred pounds. Horseshoes, nails, saddles... Saddlers, and smiths, and farriers as well..."
He worked late into the night, drinking consistently but not too fast to truly feel the effects. Lord Sammael found that as he aged he needed less and less sleep, and when the house around him was dreaming he found he was best able to concentrate and organize his plans. The first thing his father had ever taught him about war was that a campaign began and ended with figures and logistics. Every army marched on its stomach, and men who were not being paid or fed, whose weapons and armor were not maintained, were men who would be inevitably killed on the battlefield or desert.
How much did a man eat in a day? A horse? A boy? For every knight, there would be at least four noncombatants, all of whom were equally necessary for even a small army to function. How often does a horse throw a shoe. Will the climate of the North affect the repairing of armor and weapons? How many pounds of iron will be needed, spare chainmail, swords, lances? Above all, of course, it came back to gold.
By the time dawn came, Lord Baratheon had almost finished his work, and as the first servants entered the room none were surprised to see him. A few minutes later his breakfast arrived from the kitchens on a tray, and he closed up the ledgers, satisfied with the night's work. The campaign would be doable. As he ate, he scribbled a quick letter, and sent a runner to deliver it to the Great Sept, informing the His High Holiness that he would defend the Faith and faithful as necessary, but did not quite go so far as to promise his support in writing. A number of other letters were sent, via rider, south to Storm's End, where his orders would be carried out as he made his way home.
Lord Baratheon improves toward Master Land Battle (Expert2)
Lord Baratheon improves to Expert Intrigue
Lord Baratheon gains a new Network
300 Stormland Knights are levied at Storm's End
Ser Aemon Mertyns improves to Novice Intrigue
"Exactly what you think it means," Ser Aemon Mertyns said with a tiny sigh, sipping his ale. "You can write, can't you? When the Lord wants his horse saddled to go out, write where he's join and leave the note where I told you. When 'e's got guests comin' in, write who they are and leave it in the same spot. Easy as a lark, an' your silver'll be left there the firs 'o each month."
The boy eventually nodded; he was a thick-skulled fool, but just barely capable of doing to the task for which he had been hired, and his position in the stables of the manse in King's Landing was a valuable one with regards to information gathering. The most difficult parts were the dead drops, but he'd met and bought off two of the house's maids, and one of the steward's assistants, all of whom had easy access to the drops, and could easily pass the messages to Guardsman Fat, who was the small network's link to outside of the manse.
The stableboy took the small coinpurse that Ser Aemon offered him, finished his ale, and then scurried out of the tavern, while the Stormlander knight sat back to reflect on the past few weeks' work.
His conversation with the steward's assistant had been the most profitable; an intelligent and ambitious man if ever there was one, but most importantly he would be leaving King's Landing with the lord and his family, once their time in the capital was over.
"I can do it," the young man had said, with a sneer on his face. "The old steward back at the castle is practically going senile, he's had us doing all the work for years anyway."
"Whichever people you recruit must be reliable. I can get men into the city easy and regular enough, with your gold, and to bring back what you learn. It's up to you to recruit whomever you need. Maids tend to be the best for overhearing important tidbits. No nobleman I've ever met thinks twice before saying something in front of their maids. A stableboy'll tell you who comes and goes, and where the Lord is going when he leaves," Mertyns had replied, with a patient tone. He tolerated the boy's insolence because they both knew how intelligent and capable he was.
"So long as you meet the price, and keep meeting it, I'll get you what you need," the steward had replied. "Anything else?"
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"It's done, grandfather," Ser Aemon said, many house later at the Baratheon House on Aegon's Hill. "For a man so rich, he is something of a miser when it comes to paying his servants. Quite a few of them felt they deserved more than they currently earned, and we will learn what we need by making up the difference. I've organized men who will begin building a network for us, once they return home, and a few to remain and keep an eye on the house here."
Lord Sammael Baratheon smiled. He was quite fond of his children and grandchildren, but even more so when they actually got things accomplished on behalf of the House. "Excellent, lad, excellent. Eyes and ears will be useful in the coming months."
"We have another task in front of us, however," he added. "Lord Stark has declared war on the Seven, and His High Holiness has called all pious men of faith to sail for White Harbor on crusade, to protect House Manderly from the heathen Northmen." Lord Baratheon had a reputation for piety that he carefully cultivated with prayer and tithes to the Faith but which, like most things he did, was out of political expediency and for the appearance of piety, rather than any spiritual compulsion.
"There is little to gain by an invasion of the North, but sending a show of force to join the army will buy things other than land. We depart for Storm's End in a few days; half the men'll stay here with Oswyn, and you're to do so as well. Keep up your work," he added.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lord Baratheon sat in his study alone, late. Raising another army, so soon after disbanding his men, would be expensive. "Fat fucking oaf. Fighting to protect Manderly's claim to Ice his hardly cause for a Holy War," he said idly to no one. He took a sip from the glass of brandy that sat next to his hand, as he spread half a dozen books out on his desk in front of him. He'd gone over the finances of Storm's End upon returning home from the war, when his coffers were flush with plunder, but after discharging and paying his men, and the expenses he'd incurred since arriving in King's Landing.
"Three hundred knights and twice as many squires and groomsmen, at least nine hundred horses..." he said, doing the calculations in his head of weights and supply. "Fodder for the horses, black bread and salted jerky... hundred pounds. Horseshoes, nails, saddles... Saddlers, and smiths, and farriers as well..."
He worked late into the night, drinking consistently but not too fast to truly feel the effects. Lord Sammael found that as he aged he needed less and less sleep, and when the house around him was dreaming he found he was best able to concentrate and organize his plans. The first thing his father had ever taught him about war was that a campaign began and ended with figures and logistics. Every army marched on its stomach, and men who were not being paid or fed, whose weapons and armor were not maintained, were men who would be inevitably killed on the battlefield or desert.
How much did a man eat in a day? A horse? A boy? For every knight, there would be at least four noncombatants, all of whom were equally necessary for even a small army to function. How often does a horse throw a shoe. Will the climate of the North affect the repairing of armor and weapons? How many pounds of iron will be needed, spare chainmail, swords, lances? Above all, of course, it came back to gold.
By the time dawn came, Lord Baratheon had almost finished his work, and as the first servants entered the room none were surprised to see him. A few minutes later his breakfast arrived from the kitchens on a tray, and he closed up the ledgers, satisfied with the night's work. The campaign would be doable. As he ate, he scribbled a quick letter, and sent a runner to deliver it to the Great Sept, informing the His High Holiness that he would defend the Faith and faithful as necessary, but did not quite go so far as to promise his support in writing. A number of other letters were sent, via rider, south to Storm's End, where his orders would be carried out as he made his way home.
Lord Baratheon improves toward Master Land Battle (Expert2)
Lord Baratheon improves to Expert Intrigue
Lord Baratheon gains a new Network
300 Stormland Knights are levied at Storm's End
Ser Aemon Mertyns improves to Novice Intrigue
Hope you all are well and happy.