*scratch scratch scratch* And then the Hand is done, and pushes the parchment aside for the steward to apply the seal to. He looks up at Ser Ethos, thick brows lowered over his Valyrian eyes. “Ser Stevyn Locke has provided me his findings,” he says to the huntsman. “He has informed you of his verdict, I trust?”
“He has not, your grace.” Ethos responds, a heavy amount of tension in the Stormland’s knight. He’s made efforts to appear presentable, donning clean tunic and attending to his hair and freshly shaven. When one’s fate hangs in the balance, it can’t hurt to put a little extra time in. “He has told me very little, which has made it difficult to know how to best attend to my duties.”
Once the door is closed again, the prince gives Ethos a long study, his eyes hard. In the end he says, “He finds you conspired to murder Lord Gargalen.” A pause, and then he adds, “Which would not matter, so very much, as he was a rebel… but it was also a failure in discipline on your part, against the wishes and commands of the king. He has witnesses to this effect, it appears.”
Ethos blinks, shock on his features. “What? I explained to him that I was only attempting to stop my uncle. There was no time to consult with others. What witnesses? Nobody else was there.” Already the man’s temper seems to be fraying, but he maintains control.
A frown at that response, and the prince leans back in his high-backed chair. A long regard and then Viserys says, “If the justiciar does not see fit to inform you of the witness, I shall certainly not do so. It hardly matters, in any case, why you broke the king’s command—broke it you did, and you do not deny it, ser.” A shake of his head, the silver-gold pale hair—flecked by grey and white, which are noticeable—brushing his shoulders. A hand comes down at the chair’s arm, gripping the curling end briefly before he leans forward.
“There shall be a fine,” Viserys says, his eyes intent upon the young knight. “I leave it to the justiciar to determine it, though I suppose a hundred dragons, more or less, will be appropriate. “But the justiciar recommends rather more, ser. It’s his belief you’ve become ... erratic, volatile, in your time in Dorne. Not, in other words, to be trusted.”
The knight blanches at the implications, the crime he cannot deny now or the rest of his story is entirely invalidated. “An unnamed witness…” Ethos repeats softly, swallowing hard as the prince continues, speaking of the fine. “I am to pay a fine, when I-..”
He catches himself and looks around the room for a moment, piecing together his next words, “Your grace, with respect, things -were- very erratic in Dorne. The army fell apart, the soldiers were fighting over food and supplies. How can the justicar make judgement on trust when things such as that were going on?”
“He was there as well,” says Viserys, firmly, unsympathetic to that line of reasoning. “It was why he had the task from the king to investigate this business to the end. The gods saw fit to see Ser Stevyn survive, when my nephew did not. It is honorable in him, to see his king’s last command to him done.” He frowns—it’s a grim thing, a frown on that stern face, much given to frowning as it is—and then waves a hand away. “Your erratic behavior, as it was reported to us, came before the disasterous events. A maester has confirmed that many blows to the head—and you suffered many, ser—can make a man unreliable. Even ... dangerous.”
There’s a sound from behind Ser Ethos—the knight on guard, shifting his weight from one foot to another, his face bland as he hears without listening. Viserys glances past the younger knight to the man, then back again, before he says, “It is Ser Stevyn’s hope that time and treatment at a maester’s hands will put matters aright for you, ser. Grand Maester Clement or one of his assistants will doubtless be glad to assist you.”
Ethos gazes back with his own face torn between disagreement with this judgement and an expression of wariness. “I… admit that I suffered some injuries, but a great deal of time has passed and I do not feel that they are ... ” He falters, mentally grasping for a moment, “impacting me to such a degree any more.”
He turns to look at the knight behind him, then back to Viserys, “Your grace, do you think I would seek to harm yourself or anyone else in your noble house? I mourned the loss of our king as deeply as any other.”
A heavy shrug is the prince’s response to that. “One can never be too cautious when a man is ill,” is all he says on that subject. Gnarled fingers—stained by ink, calloused just where a man might hold a quill day after day for more than a decade—drum on the arm of his chair. And then he says, bluntly, “Your services shall no longer be required as royal huntsman, ser. Some other will fill that office.”
He waits a beat, to see the initial reaction, before he adds, “Ser Stevyn suggested that you may find it better to return to service in the Kingswood. I cannot say the truth of that. But you are no longer part of the royal household. Just as well, one supposes, if you mean to ... accompany Lady Joleta to Salt Shore, when such things are allowed.” He watches quite carefully after that, purple eyes sharp as a hawk’s.
“I am -not- ill.” Ethos retorts, but his thunder is snatched away as the prince goes on. The knight’s features pale, jaw clenching tightly with contained rage. Just how many times is the Stormlord silently reminding himself whose presence he is in?
It doesn’t seem to be helping. “Is that what this is about? Her?? I was trying to gain our kingdom an advantage in a time of crisis! Winter is upon us and by all rumors the coffers are empty. Why would I risk my life with people that despise me… why?” He draws in a sharp breath, “Have I not tried to serve my duty to the best of my ability?”
The beetled brows rise up at Ser Ethos’s outburst. “It has nothing to do with Lady Joleta, ser, nor your time in the office,” Prince Viserys says with surprising mildness. “You failed your king. That is all. You remain the lady’s consort, a rich enough gift to remember King Daeron by, the Seven keep him. You host a feast in honor of our new king. If you will not accompany her… well, doubtless she’ll give you a generous stipend.” He could not care less, it seems, as to what arrangements Mertyns may or may not make with the Lady Joleta.
“Sometimes one’s best,” he says in the end, with finality, “is not good enough. Such is life.” A last shrug, and a dismissive gesture of his hand. “If you wish, say you have left the office, to devote your time and attention to your lady wife and her home. In fact, I expect his grace, the king, will wish to speak with her in the coming weeks. We only await word from Sunspear.”
There’s something that clues Ethos in that there is little room to change the prince’s mind on this decision. And of course there is the fact that he’s not to be hung or sent to the Wall, it seems. Probably a good thing, if one were rationally considering it all. The knight bristles at the simplistic accusation of failure, but Viserys is still speaking and Ethos holds his tongue.
The knight is silent for a long time, then nods slowly. “If that is your desire, your grace. I will say as much.” His words are hard-edged as he battles to keep a grip, but controlled. “I would also… wish to make a strong recommendation for another to take the position of huntsman if you will allow such.”
“Hmm…. you may make a suggestion, if you wish it,” says Viserys, after a moment’s thought. What harm could it do, after all?
Ethos does remember his friends, even through all of his machinations and questionably amoral choices. There a pause, for whatever reason, an expression of concentration on his face. Does he have second thoughts? Maybe it’s that difficulty with names coming into play. “Ser Janden Melcolm. He is well-suited to the task.”
. . . and I don’t know all that far in advance.
A brief nod at that, as if the name were an expected one. “Very well. We will bear him in mind, ser.” And with that, Prince Viserys dismisses Ser Ethos with a brief nod and a, “Good day to you, ser.” The knight stationed at the door opens it, to usher Mertyns out.
There is little curtesy in return, and the knight stands without much ceremony. His fury is likely to explode soon, but he keeps it internal as he departs the tower.