The soft buzz of conversation, stifled by the heavy oaken door leading into the small council chmabers, has droned on for a good half hour when it comes to an end. There’s a moment’s pause, and a last murmur, and then someone barks from within, “Send Ser Dagur in.” A liviried attendant standing beside the door jumps at the command—quite literally, having begun to doze off—and hurriedly ushers the ironborn knight forward as he opens the door for him. Once Ser Dagur is through, the door is closed with greater care than when it was opened.
Arrayed about the long table are the lords of the small council, every one of them but for Ser Alyn away in Dorne. At its head, the king sits, and opposite him is Prince Viserys. It’s the Hand who speaks first to the knight. “Good day to you, ser,” he says, briskly. “We’ve a matter to discuss with you.”
Striding in, the ironborn knight stops a few paces from the foot of the table, bowing to the King: “Your grace.” He casts his eye around the table: “My lords.” If he is surprised at the summons, there is no sign of it in his inscrutable manner—but then, the council meeting has gone on long enough for him to have reined in any curiosity.
“If I may, my lords?” asks Lord Ryger, looking up and down the table for assent; a few nods, a wave of the hand, grant it. “Thank you.” He turns his attention on Saltcliffe, pursing his lips a moment before asking, “Would you share with us, ser, your opinion as to this violence that troubled the city recently? We all know—and Ser Reynard has let us know—that you helped to put it to an end with your sword, and for which I for one am glad to thank you, as I have thanked many others who put an end to the trouble.” He’s a man given to smiles and pleasantries, clearly enough, but his gaze suggests there’s nothing foolish about this business.
The ironman, on the other hand, is not a man given to pleasantries. He arches his brows at the question, then answers laconically: “Madness by the rioters, butchery by us. It should never have gone so far. Any sane man you care to ask would likely tell you no different, my lord.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence after that pronouncement, and Ryger and the Grand Maester each glance sidelong at the king. Daeron, silent until now, speaks up. “Given that it did go so far as it did, how would you have responded, if you had been asked to deal with the problem?” the king asks, voice quiet yet carrying in the silence in the chamber. All eyes are on Dagur after the question is posed.
“As you did, your grace.” That it is not merely an answer meant to please can be seen by the ironman’s grimace as he gives it. “It was that or have the folk of Manse Row pay the butcher’s bill instead. I thought the mob would flee the mounted men and the goldcloaks could be sent into Flea Bottom to round it up. Broken men are no threat. But they fought, the fools.”
“So they did, and as you said, the butcher’s bill was due—it was only a matter of who would pay the penalty,” the Young Dragon says, and he smiles. The room seems to relax at that, and it’s then that Daeron looks to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Nodding his head at that, the old Kingsguard asks bluntly, “And what would you have done, ser, to prevent it from getting to that point in the first place? If not butchery, then what?”
“I would have broken some heads. Better that than having to cut off ten times the number later,” the ironman shrugs with little time needed to consider his answer. “Men with hot blood and a blade in hand are the same whether they are in Dorne or in Flea Bottom. Break the leaders and the rest will think again. Break the ones who come forward to take the leaders’ places and no one will come forward a second time.”
He looks around the table again and this time he allows a hint of the curiosity that must be plaguing him to be glimpsed before speaking again: “So. Companies sent into Flea Bottom and examples made of the ones leading the rioting before bringing them back to the keep. Some would have fought and men would doubtless have died. But it should have been ended there.”
A sprig of a younger branch of a minor house in the Crownlands, Barent Cargyll spent his childhood as any nobleborn lad of no great station might, and his growing years more fortunately than most. For this he could thank his father who managed to secure a position for him as a page in the Red Keep itself, the great seat of the Targaryen. This and the advice to make of it what he could for there was little enough in his portion at home were his father’s parting gifts to him. In the years that followed, Barent wasted neither one.
From page to aide serving one of the court functionaries—the martial training that the other nobleborn youth at court exulted in were never to his liking—was a natural progression for him. He did well at his duty, showing an astute mind and a way of getting things done however difficult. He proved the former beyond doubt when the old king died and the struggle for the throne between Aegon II and Rhaenyra began. His kin declared for the former but he chose to follow the lordling he served to the princess who would be Queen; after her death, he gave his loyalty to her son. He had risen to become a trusted counsellor in these few years; if it bothered him that his peers judged him an upstart for his rapid rise, he did not show it.
When Aegon III ascended to the Iron Throne, he was duly rewarded for his loyalty with the lordship of House Cargyll, its former lord, his uncle, and most of his cousins having fallen in the Dance. He was also raised to become the Master of Coin’s right hand after which he used what credit he had with the new King to obtains pardons for his father and surviving cousins. Filial duty observed, he had little to do with them thereafter. And when the old Master of Coin died, he was the natural choice to succeed him.
In the years since, he has shown himself more than capable of the office, even managing to meet the challenge of financing the Young Dragon’s massive war of Dornish conquest without beggaring the realm, although it earned him few friends among the highborn from whom he extracted gold. Be that as it may, he did his job well even after word reached him that his only son, Ser Jerome, the result of a sedate, companionable marriage, had fallen at Ghost Hill. If his rivals had hoped that this would break him, they were disappointed, and he continues at this most difficult of tasks that is far from over. The war may be won but its effects are being felt yet and Garvys Tyrell is not backward in asking for gold to supplement his own coffers in financing the Westerosi troops still occupying Dorne. And so Barent Cargyll keeps close counsel with Daeron but more especially with the Hand, Viserys, and has a high standing in the Small Council.
The council members digest that for a few moments, and then it’s Lord Cargyll who speaks next. “An effecient response, certainly,” he remarks. “And less costly, if it succeeded. There are still homes and buildings being rebuilt as it is.” He looks across the table to Lord Ryger, who smiles fatuously at him, and there’s a thinly concealed distaste for the man in that gaze. “Part of the failure was that of the City Watch, as I’m sure you’re aware; Ser Richard was able enough, but too old, maybe, to deal with it properly. The rest of the Watch doesn’t have that excuse, however, and his grace pays them enough to do better.”
The Master of Whisperers nods his head, and Viserys. “Yes, the Watch failed us this time,” the Hand says, expression inscrutable as he regards Ser Dagur. A pause, and then he smiles thinly. “I suspect you’re a perceptive man, ser, so you probably already have an inkling as to why you are here.”
There is silence now as the the ironman meets the Hand’s gaze and then the Young Dragon’s, long enough almost for it to seem lacking in the respect due royal blood. But it is clearly speculation hardening now into knowledge that causes it, and he inclines his head then.
“This is…unexpected. You honour me, your grace. But…”
If that single word causes frowns at the table he pays it no mind, continuing: “I know battlefields. It is why you sent me to Dorne. But city streets may need a gentler hand. I am not a man like Richard Harte.”
“The smallfolk of the city did not appreciate Ser Richard when they had him to watch over them,” Ser Reynard says, still blunt in his speech. “A man of your reputation may do better.” Lord Ryger nods his head amiabl, and offers, “A little fear never hurts a man, my father used to say. I think it’s an apt solution to the problem, your grace.” The Young Dragon seems inclined to agree.
“I would expect great things of you, ser, as commander of the City Watch. You can always find men who know the streets better than you—I do not need to school you on command, when you lead your Reavers so ably,” King Daeron says. “If you wonder about what they shall do when you are no longer for the field, offer them commissions as officers and sergeants-in-arms—a few battle-hardened men will add some backbone to the Watch, to say the least. Or, no doubt, your good-brother can find good employment for them in Dorne or the Marches.” He shrugs his shoulders, casually, and dismisses the issue. “If you’ve questions or concerns, best say them now, ser.”
A brief, unexpected flash of amusement crosses the ironman’s face: “Set a thief to catch a thief. I have men who may do better on the streets than knights wearing the gold cloak, true enough.”
But it fades quickly enough; he inclines his head, impassive again: “If sterner measures than Ser Richard’s do not trouble you, I have nothing more to say, your grace.”
“A true soldier’s answer,” Daeron says, with an admiring tone. “Thank you, ser. As master of laws, Lord Ryger will discuss some other details with you, and he’ll see to informing the senior officers of the Watch to be ready at your convenience. I believe Lord Cargyll has some matters regarding the accounts for the Watch, as well…?” Cargyll nods and starts to speak, but the Young Dragon’s voice rides over his and cuts him off, “... which we do not need to concern ourselves just yet. Find your footing first, ser, and then deal with the penny-counting or I fear you’ll be lost under piles of parchment.” There’s a laugh from Lord Ryger, and old Grand Maester Clement; Cargyll looks ... less than pleased, but smiles at it. And with that, the meeting is at an end as Viserys says, “Thank you, Ser Dagur. You may leave.” Turning to the rest, he starts, “Now turning to this Braavosi envoy…”