Chapter XI
King's Landing
Isildur awoke with Ohtar gently shaking his shoulder. The chamber was dark and the candles had burned low. It smelled like herbs and boiled wine, blood, and corrupted flesh. The moon was already sending silver light through windows that opened onto an inky black sky. Isildur rubbed his eyes and looked up at his squire's scarred face.
"It is late my lord, you should retire. Robert sleeps still," Ohtar said.
"I dreamed of Lyanna, Ohtar," said Isildur. He had fallen asleep in a chair by King Robert's bedside.
The wounded king lay in heavy slumber. He had wavered between waking and sleeping, between living and dying. For how long? Isildur could not tell anymore. The hours and days since Robert fell had blended together. Days, weeks, Robert could have been on the edge of death for an eternity for all Isildur knew.
Not dying though, not yet, he reminded himself, a reassurance as he looked on the King's pallid face and shrunken cheeks.
Years of decadence and gluttony seemed drained out of Robert, but they had not left him unmarked. His skin lay in loose jowls upon his chin and his neck. It looked like a man who had suddenly taken a fast that he would not break. His eyes had sunken deep into his face. He looked strange, still fat yet oddly gaunt despite it. What life and vitality he had had before the wound was gone. Even when he awoke, he spoke in a thin, weak voice and could eat only broth. Still the King held on though, stubbornly and fiercely he clung to his life, and it seemed to Isildur that his breathing was growing stronger and he was waking up more often now than before. Yet still he seemed very fragile.
"Lyanna? Lyanna Stark?" said Ohtar, drawing his master away from Robert's bed.
"Yes, she stood there over Robert, and she begged me, begged me to save his life Ohtar," Isildur rubbed his eyes. It had been a long time since he had felt such weariness. His limbs felt leaden. His face bristled with black stubble.
Ohtar opened the door. On the other side stood Cersei Lannister, wearing only an evening gown. Golden curls lay upon bare shoulders. Her green eyes widened in shock when she saw them. She looked like she did not expect them to be here at this hour, and she looked like she had been weeping not long ago. She was alone.
"Isildur," she said, her voice surprised and unsure.
"Your Grace," he replied, equally unsure. He had not seen her in days, and she had never come to visit Robert before.
"I… I came to see my lord husband, to see if he is well," Cersei's voice grew steadier as she spoke.
Isildur said nothing, he just stared at her, contemplating her. There was a storm of conflicting emotions written across her face. He stepped aside and let her into the bed chamber.
Cersei Lannister stood stiffly there, looking at her husband, her King, the wounded man before her. Her breath caught in her throat. She said nothing. Isildur closed the door behind her, leaving the King and Queen to the silence and the night.
"Was that wise my lord? To leave her alone with him?" whispered Ohtar after they had passed Ser Meryn and Ser Arys, who stood guard in the hall. They descended the long stone stairs of Maegor's Holdfast. Torches sputtered on the walls, lighting their way and casting flickering shadows on the walls like phantoms of the past.
"Whatever else she may be, she is his lady wife," Isildur replied.
"But my lord-"
"She slept beside him for many nights before this and did not slit his throat. She will not now," said Isildur.
They headed towards the Tower of the Hand. The air was cool in the courtyard and still smelled of the rain. The moon was not yet full but it shone bright in the sky. Isildur cast his eyes northward and spied Earendil's Star gleaming brightly. Somehow that gave him comfort.
"You will have to hold court soon, Robert cannot," said Ohtar. They climbed the broad stairs to the door of the Hand's Tower. Isildur sighed.
"Yes, I will. The grievances of the great and the small will not wait for Robert to mend," he replied. He had no wish to sit on that cursed iron chair.
The heavy doors opened with a push and a strong creaking of hinges and they passed inside.
"The Andals will not like seeing one of our folk upon their Throne," remarked Ohtar, shaking his head.
"No, they shall not. Many already look on me with resentment in their hearts. Best to do it quickly, so they will not think that I relish or desire that seat," Isildur said in a tired voice.
Ohtar kept his tongue for a long while. They climbed the spiraling stairs towards the Hand's bedchamber in silence. When they reached the top, Earendil's Star was shining brightly through the north window. Ohtar finally spoke then:
"It should have been your throne,"
The words hung in the air for a moment. Isildur stopped. Ohtar was behind him. He slowly turned around to face his squire.
"What did you say?"
"The throne should have been yours to begin with, my lord," Ohtar said. There was no jest in his words.
"Ohtar…"
"Are you not heir of a royal line? Yours is the blood of Elros and Earendil!"
"The line of Elros has no claim to the throne of Westeros. We lost our right to kinghood when Numenor was cast down. We swore our allegiance to Aegon long ago," Isildur reminded him, his voice hard.
"We swore allegiance to save our people from dragonfire. The dragons now are withered and dead and their bones are crumbling. And the dragon-lords are banished across the sea, you overthrew them," said Ohtar.
"Robert overthrew them," Isildur said. He couldn't believe what Ohtar was saying.
"Yours is the higher lineage my lord, you and your father both, yours is the greater right. You and your kin are the greatest men living in the Eight Kingdoms, why should you bend the knee to any king of these men of the twilight? You who were born of Numenor! Robert lays near to death, his heirs are illegitimate. Stannis would be just but a hated and unloved king with no sympathy in his heart, and Renly would be beloved but he is weak-willed and weak-minded. You have it in you to be king, a true king, strong, just and wise. Reach out your hand and take the crown, my lord, I beg you. It is your right," Ohtar urged him, stepping forward. His voice was low, intense, impassioned by what he was saying.
"Eru Himself cast our people down for our wickedness and pride Ohtar, I remember, I was there, and so were you. And tell me my friend, why did we find ourselves in this place when we fled that doom?" asked Isildur. Ohtar fell silent.
"It is a punishment," the son of Elendil said. "Or I have always felt it to be so. I long ago guessed that we were banished here, where we can do no more harm to the lands we knew and the people we tormented,"
"Or perhaps we were sent here as a blessing to the men of the twilight, perhaps we were meant to land here," said Ohtar.
"I will not be a usurper Ohtar! I will not be another Pharazon!" Isildur growled. There was a hard, sharp edge to his words. Ohtar stood and blinked, taken aback, realizing what he had said. His eyes and scarred face turned deeply sad.
"Forgive me my lord, I spoke hastily and stepped beyond my place," the squire said, dropping his eyes. He looked back up at his master, and then clasped his hand to his chest and bowed his head in salute.
"My lord, I have been with your family since your father and I were young. I swear, where you lead I will follow, forgive me for words spoken in foolishness,"
Isildur's frown softened. Faithful Ohtar, only wanting what he thought was his lord's due honour, only trying to do what he thought was best. Ohtar had been a young man with their father, Isildur remembered Ohtar playing with him and Anarion when they were just boys, carrying them around on strong shoulders and teaching them how to sail in the bay. He had squired for Elendil for so many years, only to become Isildur's squire in turn, ever loyal to the Lords of Andunie. He saw then; Ohtar did not speak out of ambition or lust for power, but out of love for his lord. Isildur reached out and clasped his squire's shoulder.
"Ohtar, dearest friend, you are forgiven. We must not speak of such things though, I am the King's Servant, an Arandur, not the King's Heir, nor the King himself," he said. Ohtar smiled weakly.
"I meant what I said though my lord, you would be a great and splendid king, a king such as this land has never known," the squire said.
"Think it if you must, but we cannot speak of such things. Not while Robert and his brothers live. Not unless every house in Westeros begged me to be king and every other heir was dead or mad or evil and cruel would I consider taking that crown for my own," Isildur replied.
"As you will, my lord,"
"Good, let us consider that settled and speak no more of it. I will retire now. In the morning announce that I will hold court in five days' time, if Robert has not mended by then,"
"Aye my lord, will there be anything else?" asked Ohtar.
"Yes, inform Lord Baelish that he is summoned to be my chambers tomorrow, I would speak to him about his bookkeeping,"
Ohtar left him in his bedchamber. Moonlight poured through open windows, and Isildur felt a cool breeze as he undressed. It felt good after the heat and stuffiness of Robert's chambers. Papers and scrolls were strewn across the table. He glanced over them briefly. The long lists of sums and figures that Baelish had recorded did not add up with what Isildur knew about the state of the treasury. He sighed, laying down on his bed and staring up at the bare ceiling sleeplessly. Baelish was corrupt or incompetent or both, but that was the least of Isildur's worries at the moment.
They were not able to identify the knight who had attacked the King. They knew him only by his arms: A snarling red leopard on a green field. Robert's last blow had crushed the Leopard's head, helm and skull and face alike, to a bloody pulp beyond even the Silent Sister's skill at embalming. He had been a younger man, lean and muscled with the scars of a freerider, yet the heraldry of a knight. After much questioning of the tourney knights, it was Cirion who had finally found his name: Ser Albar Vortimer. Once a knightly house of ancient honour in the Reach, the Vortimers had sided with the Targaryens in the rebellion and were nearly wiped out but for the infant Albar. Though the last heir of his house, he was impoverished and lived as nearly a hedge-knight. Had he struck down the King as revenge for his family? Isildur could not say, and the mangled ruin of Ser Albar's skull had no answers.
Stannis had returned too on that awful day. He had been glad of the dour Lord of Dragonstone's return at first, hoping to finally get answers for Stannis' absence, but those answers were what most troubled him. Stannis had told him what seemed at first to be a mummer's farce, but Stannis Baratheon was not a man to lie or even to jest. The King's sons and daughter, not the King's children at all but misbegotten products of incest. They were the children of the Queen and her brother the Kingslayer, or so Stannis had said. Isildur and Ned had thought it impossible at first, but then Stannis had started showing them the King's bastards. All of them mothered by women of yellow or red hair, all of them black-haired and blue-eyed as their father, even the daughters.
It was the last one, the armourer's apprentice, which had convinced Isildur that Stannis was speaking the truth. He had sent that boy to the King's Host, near at hand for the trial to come but where he hoped the Queen would not be able to find him. Others he sent to Rosby, some to farms outside of the city. Few enough went when commanded, but some did. He hoped that they would be safe. It was the armourer's boy though that was the real key, he was the oldest and his resemblance to a young Robert was uncanny. When Robert had mended, he would call them back to the city and show them to the King. He would reveal the truth then.
But what will Robert do when we tell him that his wife has cuckolded him with her own brother? What will Lord Tywin do when we reveal his daughter's incest? Isildur thought. He was troubled and sleep did not come easily.
He dreamt a dream that had plagued him for many years. He was in Ithilien, but it was not as he knew it. The trees were dead and full of shadows. The river Sirhun was before him, and though in life it flowed quickly here there was no current. It was as calm and silent as a mirror of silver glass. He waded out into the river till he stood with the still waters around his waist.
Then he saw it. A white boat, fair to look upon, glowing with a pale light like the light of the moon. It bore neither oars nor sail yet it moved slowly and surely down the River. The sight of it brought a deep sadness in his heart. On a bier on the boat lay a tall man. His face was an image of the face of Elendil, but older, more lined with cares. His hair and his beard were long and white as snow, and they had been combed out and arrayed on his chest and shoulders. A sword was clasped in cold hands on his breast. He wore clothes of fine linen. It was Amandil, Isildur's grandfather.
"Grandfather! Grandfather!" Isildur said in a voice that sounded like it was far away "Where do you go Grandfather? Where did the seas bear you?"
Amandil's funeral-boat glided away, leaving not even a ripple in the water. More followed. All were dressed in the same white linen, all laid out on the same fair white boats. Their faces were peaceful and beautiful but cold and dead. There came Miriel, Isildur's cousin, whom Ar-Pharazon had forced into marriage, and his sorrow deepened beyond words when he saw her. Tears stung his eyes. Many more came. Friends, kinsmen, family, all lost to him over the course of a long life. He saw Lyanna Stark on a bed of roses. He saw his mother and he wept aloud. It was the last one though that rent his heart in two.
She lay on the last and fairest boat of all, and her bier was the highest, and her face the most peaceful. Long black hair spread out around her. Eyes he knew to be the most beautiful blue he had ever seen were forever closed. Firiel, his wife, taken from him by the Greyjoys.
"My love!" he cried out, stricken by the sight "Come back, my lady, come back! Do not go! Your sons need you! I need you!"
Then a shadow fell over the sunlight and the ground shuddered and there was mighty roaring sound. He turned and there was the great wave. It was vast as a mountain and swift as the wind, crashing down and drowning all life beneath cold, black waters.
He awoke suddenly with a loud knocking on the door. Cirion's voice called to him:
"My lord, there is a black brother of the Night's Watch begging to see you, he says it is urgent,"
He rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up.
"See him to my solar, I must dress," he replied. As he pulled a shirt of light linen over his head, he looked out the window. It was dawn, or would have been if the sky had not been covered by a veil of gray clouds. In the east the world was beginning to lighten, but the night sky still held on in the west.
The man of the Night's Watch was short, and his face was craggy and could not be called handsome. He looked weather-worn, like a man who had seen many hard miles in his life. The phrase 'black brother' sprung to Isildur's mind. The man's hair and beard were both black, the same black as his eyes. His clothes and cloak were black too, but ragged and faded to gray in many places. They were spattered with mud and dust and his hair was matted to his head by sweat and rain.
"My lord, this is the man, Yoren of the Night's Watch. He asked for you urgently," said Cirion. He nodded to his housecarl, and Cirion left the room.
"May I offer you some food? Something to drink? You look as if you have ridden hard," Isildur said.
"Yes my lord, on the wings of a storm," said Yoren grimly. Isildur furrowed his brows.
"A storm? What news from the Wall?" he asked.
"Nay my lord, not the Wall, the Riverlands. Near a week now I been riding to get here, damn near killed my horse to do it. The Old Bear, he always said you were a man of honour," Yoren replied.
"What has happened in the Riverlands?" said Isildur.
"It was Lady Stark, my lord, she's taken the Imp hostage,"
"Valar have mercy," The bare-faced rashness of the action shocked him. He had always known Catelyn to be a peaceful woman, though strong-willed. He remembered the dagger in the night. He also knew that, though Tyrion Lannister was only a dwarf, Lord Tywin would suffer no slight to the honour of Casterly Rock. Armies would ride.
"When did this happen?" he asked.
"Near a week ago. She took him hostage at the Crossroads Inn. I set out as soon as she rode away with him, but there were dozens of others who saw it. I tried to outrun 'em but they'll be on my heels. The whole city will be talking about it by breakfast, and there are other places nearer than King's Landing," said Yoren.
"And ravens' wings are swifter than horses' hooves," Isildur said darkly. He remembered an old Westerosi saying he had heard before: Dark wings, dark words.
"Aye my lord. The Lannisters know what happened already, I would put money on it. There were many heading west, hoping maybe for some of that gold that Lord Tywin shits," replied Yoren.
"Why did you bring this to me?" Isildur asked.
"I heard the King got himself stuck in some fool tourney, and telling the Queen would only make it worse. The Night's Watch ain't never taken no part in the quarrels of you lords, but we honour the King's Peace same as any. You're the only one who can protect it now," A man of the Night's Watch was not one to mince words.
"I thank you for this Yoren, you have my gratitude. If there is any boon that is in my power to grant you…" said Isildur. The black brother had done him a great service in doing this.
"A bed would be a nice change, and some hot food. Let me have the pick of your dungeons and maybe look over some of the boys of that Host you're raising," Yoren said.
"You shall have it. Speak to my son Aratan at the Host's encampment, he has men for you," replied Isildur. He called for Cirion. The captain of the housecarls appeared at the door in an instant. He ordered that Yoren be given a room in the Tower of the Hand, and food as soon as the cooks could be wakened.
"And summon Mablung to me. And when the Queen and the Kingslayer have awakened, summon them as well, and send a rider for Lord Stark" he added. Cirion bowed his head and Yoren followed him out of the solar.
Isildur sat down at his desk heavily, head in his hands. He looked back out his window and saw that the overcast skies were lightening. He knew how Tywin Lannister would see this. No house that claimed nobility could allow another house to seize its kin at will. Tywin would demand retribution and he would extract it from the Riverlands and all of Catelyn Stark's family; Tully, Stark, and Arryn. Isildur understood this well, he had once led the White Fleet against the Greyjoys for such a reason.
But the oathbreakers did not stop with taking captives, he thought with hatred. Isildur's sword through Balon Greyjoy's heart was too kind a death for the 'Lord Reaper'
War would come, just as Robert had said. If he could stop it, he must. But how? Lady Stark believed that Tyrion had tried to kill her son. Tywin could say to be defending his family from the aggression of the Starks, but his own daughter had placed Lannister children of incest as the King's heirs. Did Lord Tywin know that?
I will summon them to court, the Lannisters and the Starks, and Robert must sit in judgement, he decided. Who would Robert favour though? His childhood friend was a Stark, but he was married to a Lannister.
An adultress who cuckolded him with her own brother, he thought miserably. King's Landing truly was a pit of rats. He wished for no more than ride away to Gondor. He yearned for Minas Ithil and the moon glinting on the Sirhun. He yearned for his sons; sombre Elendur, and merry Ciryon, and young Valandil. Yet the Lannisters remained here, and Isildur had never yet left a foe in command of the field.
A thought struck him suddenly. He quickly went to his chest and drew forth the palantir. Isildur placed it on his desk and then stood so that he faced north, and he looked deep into the black c crystal of the Seeing Stone.
Soon he was soaring over King's Landing and the lands north and west and south spread out beneath him. He flew to the north, following the Kingsroad. The inn at the crossroads sat beneath him, small like a child's toy. He gazed north. To Winterfell? If Lady Stark could reach Moat Cailin then her captive would be beyond even the long arm of Tywin Lannister. But there were many leagues to the Neck and Lannister riders would be on the roads. On a guess, he turned east towards the Vale of Arryn. Lysa Arryn ruled there for her infant son, he remembered. And there, on a pass in the Mountains of the Moon, he saw what he was looking for: A small party of riders, distant beneath him, yet when he looked closer he saw that one was a dwarf and was riding as if his arms were bound. Bands of mountain tribesmen were following on all sides. They were nearing the Bloody Gate.
Mablung came to him just as Isildur was putting the palantir away. He was one of the oldest of Isildur's housecarls, tall, lean and rangy like a wolfhound, with a worn face that looked like granite weathered by the wind.
"You were a ranger, were you not?" asked Isildur as soon as Mablung stepped into the solar.
"Yes my lord, spent forty years in the wilds," Mablung replied. The rangers of Gondor wandered the wildernesses and the Wolfswood, hunting wildling raiders and criminals and dangerous beasts alike.
"I have an urgent errand for you Mablung. I want you to take four or five of our men, rangers like you, you're to ride hard for the Vale of Arryn. Lady Stark has taken Tyrion Lannister hostage, and she is heading to the Eyrie. You are to find them and return them to the city with all haste. Depart as soon as you are able, this errand requires the utmost speed. War will come if you fail," As he spoke, Isildur brought out a piece of parchment and quickly wrote a royal warrant commanding Catelyn Stark and Tyrion Lannister to come to court. He sealed it with the Hand of the King's own seal, then folded it carefully and gave it to Mablung.
"As you command, my lord," Mablung said. He was not one to ask questions of his lord's commands. He placed the warrant carefully in a pocket by his heart and then quickly left.
Cirion returned sometime after Mablung. He found Isildur at his desk, writing many letters in a quick hand.
"My lord, the Kingslayer has left the city. He headed north with twenty men," the housecarl told him. Isildur looked up from his writing and sighed deeply.
"It seems all things go ill today. And the Queen?" he said.
"Her guards would not let me see her," replied Cirion.
"Of course," Isildur said wearily. He quickly put a final signature on the last letter.
"Take these to Maester Pycelle, for Winterfell, Riverrun, the Eyrie and Casterly Rock. Make sure you watch him send the birds," Isildur trusted Pycelle less and less with each passing day. He had to be someone's puppet, and the way he defended the Lannisters in the council did not sit well with Isildur.
Ned came thundering up into the courtyard on horseback late in the morning, near noon, his rouncey slick with sweat from his hard ride. Eight of his guards rode up in his wake. Isildur watched from a window as the Lord of Winterfell vaulted down from his horse and ran up into the Tower of the Hand. Isildur met him in the Small Hall.
"What's she done?" Eddard asked urgently, without preamble. Isildur told him.
"Gods… Why would she go and do a thing like that?" wondered Ned.
"You well know her suspicions. Tyrion Lannister may be a foul lecher but I think he is not the Lannister behind this," Isildur replied.
"What will you-"
"I'm sending some of my men to summon them back to court. I promise you Ned, we will resolve this," the Hand of the King told him.
"What will happen to Catelyn?" asked Eddard. Worry for his lady wife was written as plain as day across his long, solemn face.
"No harm will come to her my friend, I swear to you, but she must return Tyrion and make amends to the Lannisters. If not, it will be war. How stands the King's Host?"
"Unready, and inexperienced," Ned seemed distracted by his fear for his wife, but Isildur could tell that he was telling the truth and it did not comfort him
The day passed slowly beneath clouded skies. The Red Keep was as silent as the grave. Isildur went and checked on Robert shortly after midday and found him resting. Ser Barristan told him that Robert had been awake that morning and spoken with Tommen and Myrcella. He seemed tranquil and his breathing was easy. Isildur did not relish the notion of what the King would find when he was finally well again.
When he returned from Maegor's Holdfast, he found Lord Petyr Baelish waiting for him. He wore a green doublet trimmed with silver, tight around his waist, with a gray-green half-cloak secured by a silver mockingbird pin at his throat. He looked at Isildur with his customary mocking half-smile.
"My Lord Hand," Baelish said, bowing with exaggerated courtesy. Isildur narrowed his eyes. He wished to be rid of this arrogant fool but they still had business to settle.
"Good day to you Lord Baelish. We have matters to discuss," Isildur led Lord Baelish through the entrance hall of the Tower of the Hand. In the Small Hall, beneath high-vaulted ceilings, his housecarls sat at luncheon, all in black surcoats and black mail.
"You Dunedain have such a dull taste in colours. All blacks and whites. One would almost suspect you can't see colour at all. Or perhaps it's only you, you are quite old I understand," Lord Baelish said lightly, but there was a barb in his words. Petyr Baelish rarely said anything without some insult or verbal jab.
"They are the colours of our fathers and our house. I do not think you have a better reason than that for your choice of sigil," Isildur said, nodding towards the mockingbird broach.
"Oh I have always felt a kinship to the mockingbird. Such a clever bird, so many songs to sing," Baelish replied.
Isildur led him to the audience chamber, adjacent to the small hall. It was not as grand as the audience chamber of the King's Council, but it was quiet and out of the way. He offered Littlefinger food or drink.
"Oh I couldn't, I'm to sup with Lady Tanda later and she sets a very fine table. She's trying to wed me to her daughter of course, and I've no interest in that cow, but I could never say no to a good rack of lamb," said Baelish, still smiling as if all the world was his own private joke.
"I wonder then, Mockingbird, if you might sing me a song about the Realm's debts?" said Isildur, leaning back against a desk. The desk was strewn with old scrolls and ancient tomes with cracked leather bindings.
"Only what you already know. We're six million gold dragons in debt, our Robert doesn't enjoy counting coppers," Baelish's words were easy, relaxed.
"In debt to whom?"
"Oh the usual suspects. Tywin Lannister, the Faith, the Iron Bank, some particularly wealthy traders," said Petyr Baelish flippantly.
"Hm, I find that interesting because the Realm has been in summer for nearly ten years now. The fields are ripe, the cattle are fat, and everyone is rich… Everyone it seems except us," said Isildur.
"The Master of Coin finds the money, the King and the Hand spend it. You know how Robert loves his feasts and tourneys," said Littlefinger. A flicker of a smile touched Isildur's face. Despite himself, he was looking forward to this.
"Curious, then, that the Mad King left vaults flowing with gold and silver, and Lord Arryn kept the Realm solvent for many years, and under you we are six million in debt. I find that very curious indeed. Do you know what these are?" He gestured to the books behind him. Baelish glanced at a title on one of the tomes.
"Aegon's Book of Judgement? Ponderous reading my lord, are you having trouble sleeping?" he said.
"Need I remind you of its history?" said Isildur.
"It might be interesting, you are a piece of history after all," Baelish quipped.
"Aegon the Conqueror had this book made when he set his kingdoms in order, recording the lands of each house, their value and how much tax they would owe him," replied the Hand of the King.
"I remember now, but there hasn't been a royal survey since-"
"Aegon the Fifth, I know. It took my men some searching in some very deep places of the castle to find it, but it is recent enough as a Dunadan reckons things and it told me what I needed to know," said Isildur. Baelish stiffened where he stood, realization seeming to dawn upon him.
"At the end of a ten year summer, should we be six million in debt? I think not, not unless Robert was holding tourneys every week. And you have been claiming a tenfold increase in revenue in your accounts. Where has that gold come from? And where is all our gold going? Someone, it seems, has had their fingers in our purse," Isildur said.
"These things happen. You put enough money through a tax collector's fingers, eventually they'll start thinking it's theirs. No helping it really, you realize this when you work in the treasury, but I will make some new appointments if it'll comfort your old heart," said Littlefinger lightly. He made to leave as if the matter was settled.
"That will not be necessary Lord Baelish. You may return to the Fingers," said Isildur. Baelish turned back to him slowly. All trace of his smile was gone.
"Why would I do that? My duties are here and I can hardly take the mint with me," he said.
"You will not have to. You are dismissed. Thank you for your service to the Realm, you may return to your home," Isildur did not allow himself to smile but inside he felt satisfaction.
"You cannot dismiss me, I assure you, I am the Master of Coin," said Littlefinger.
"And I am the Hand of the King and we will find a new Master of Coin. If I had my will, Lord Baelish, you would be rotting in the dungeons for corruption, but because I can only prove that you are incompetent I will merely dismiss you. Consider that a blessing," Isildur said. His voice was stern and he stared into Baelish with a hard glint in his gray eyes. Littlefinger recoiled briefly, and then recovering he spread his arms wide.
"Come now, I'm an intelligent man, you are an intelligent man, let us speak plainly," he said, voice friendly. "You seek to defeat the Lannisters, yes? He who would oppose the Lannisters would do well to reach out to other friends, influential friends, friends like myself,"
"Why would I need your friendship" Isildur said, suspecting some trick and seeing a gleam of mischief in Baelish's eyes.
"Oh because I know things. I know what you know. I know that the Queen knows that you know. You know that I know and I know that you know that I know, and we know that the Queen knows that we know and the Queen knows we know it," Baelish said, seeming pleased by his clever words.
"I tremble before your great knowledge," Isildur said drily.
"Perhaps you should. I am a very knowledgeable man and a very knowledgeable man is very dangerous. Let me keep my place on the Council and I can be of great service to you, my lord" said Baelish. He spoke smoothly, flatteringly. Isildur had heard speech like this before, honey-tongued and wise-seeming, by something far greater and far more terrible than Petyr Baelish. He was not deceived then, he was not now.
"If you know, then what would you advise?" asked Isildur carefully, testing to see what Baelish was actually aware of.
"You plan to put Stannis on the throne. Oh don't look so surprised my lord, you think no one has noticed you riding around hooded and cloaked and speaking with Stannis and Stark so often? There is a wiser course though. Joffrey is young, weak, pliable, let him take the throne and rule through him, and if he gets defiant then we can be rid of him and put Renly on the throne. You can see much in the minds of men, but I have my own ways of seeing, I know much of what goes on in this castle, and I'm one of the wealthiest men in the city I assure you. Together, my lord, with my gold and your strong arm, we can deal with the Queen and any Lannister," Littlefinger said, smiling like a cat that was watching a mouse squirm in its claws. He offered a hand. Isildur did not take it.
"No Lord Baelish, I will not. I ought to throw you into the sea, truly, you are a treacherous, petty man who would sell his own mother to slavers if it profited him. Now be gone, go back to the Fingers and consider yourself lucky I have only stripped you of your office," he said, slowly to let Baelish hear every word. Littlefinger's smile disappeared and a black look twisted his face.
"Then let me share some counsel with you, my lord, from one knowledgeable man to another: In this game it is foolish to spit in the face of one who would aid you. Perhaps one day you shall learn that, and you will regret the lesson," he spat the words harshly. Whirling on his heels, Lord Petyr Baelish strode out.
As the days passed, the clouds blew away and were replaced by a sweltering heat. Isildur soon missed the rains. The sky was clear and cloudless and the sun beat down on the city relentlessly. The air was humid and still, muggy and oppressive. Men and women alike wore their lightest linens and silks and sweated even in those.
The city seemed strangely silent in those days, like it waited for something. It matched the apprehension Isildur felt. He could feel the storm that Yoren spoke of, brewing in the air. The ravens flew, bearing his letters to Starks, Lannisters, Tullys and Arryns. He commanded them, by royal decree, to not call their banners, to keep their armies at home, draw no swords and shed no blood, until Isildur could resolve the quarrel between the Starks and Lannisters. He told himself many times that there were many miles and many dangers between King's Landing and the seats of the great houses, but he felt in his heart that he would get no answers. He spent hours in his study pouring over maps, tracing routes from the North to the Riverlands, from Casterly Rock and the Eyrie to Riverrun, pondering upon whom would march first and where would they bear their steel.
What will you do? What can you do? He asked himself, over and over. The King's Host had only existed for a few months, they were still inexperienced and unblooded. Isildur's own hosts and vassals were in Gondor, hundreds of miles away. He could call upon the Tyrells and Baratheons, but would it come to that? And would they come if called? What if they did? Surely Tywin would not be mad enough to destroy his house against all the great powers of the realm?
Though his mind was troubled by omens of war, Isildur was glad Robert still rested much of the day. Under care he slowly grew stronger. Grand Maester Pycelle assured the Hand that he could take care of the King, but Isildur assured him in return that he would take care of it personally. Robert woke more often now, though he tired easily. One day he awoke and immediately called out in a loud voice for meat and beer, and Isildur felt a flicker of hope within him. The King's face was still pale and his flesh hung from his bones loosely, but he was mending.
Then one afternoon, unexpectedly, the Queen summoned the Hand of the King.
Her hair was shining and her eyes gleamed as green as a spring morning. She wore a long dress, silk and velvet, red and gold, the Lannister colours. Perfect lips smiled with perfect teeth when she saw him. She was beautiful, there could be no other word for it, golden like a goddess. Cersei Lannister stood on the south battlements, the sea and the river gleaming behind her. Beneath them, the earthy scent of the castle gardens drifted up.
"Your Grace," he said in greeting, bowing his head.
"I wondered, Lord Isildur, if you might walk with me in the godswood? Your people are fond of forests I am told," she said in a voice like music.
She led him along the wall. Cersei's guards followed distantly behind her. Her hips swayed within her dress as she walked. Isildur was wary, this all seemed very suspicious. She had never spoken to him much and she had always seemed wary or contemptuous of him before. Why this now?
The godswood was an acre of shade and cool amidst tall red walls of stone. Cottonwoods and alder trees and ancient oaks laced together to form a canopy of green through which streamed golden rays of light. A merciful breeze, the first in days, rustled the leaves. Cersei left her guards at the stairs. They walked in a silence, watching each other out of the corner of their eyes, waiting for the other to speak.
They came to stand beneath a tall elm tree when the Queen finally stopped walking and turned to Isildur. Green boughs spread all around them. She looked down, and then up to meet his eyes, with fear and pleading written on her face.
"Isildur, I… I am worried," she said. He raised an eyebrow. He had never spoken to him so personally before.
"What burdens your heart, Your Grace?" he asked her.
"My lord husband has been gravely wounded by a traitor. We have never been close, he and I, but I fear for his life… I fear that my life and the lives of my children are not safe," she said. She seemed small, vulnerable; she was something very precious. He stared at her, cool gray eyes meeting bright green. He had often found that silence could draw forth what words would not, and so it was with Cersei Lannister.
"There are many in the city who wish me ill, who wish my children harm, and many who desire the Throne for themselves… Or me for themselves. I am just a woman, my husband was my shield and armour and without him I am laid bare. I need protection, Isildur," she took a step closer to him.
"And what about your father?" he asked.
"He is in Casterly Rock, hundreds of leagues away. You are here," she stepped closer still.
"Your husband lives still, Your Grace," Isildur said.
"For how long? The gods could take him from us at any time, I need to know that my children are protected, that I am protected. Be kind to me Isildur and you will have my gratitude; and I can be kind to you," Cersei reached out to him, grazing her fingertips against his arm, promising things with the lightest touch. Isildur understood.
He looked at her and smiled.
She raised a hand to caress his face.
"Have you ever been in love?" He took her hand gently but firmly in his and put it back down at her side.
"Yes," she said, still maintaining the sad green eyes regarding him. He saw the confusion though.
"I met my wife when I was young, so young, even by the reckoning of your people. We met in a forest not unlike this one, near my home. She was singing in the glade and I saw her and thought that Tinuviel herself had come upon the earth again. We married young, for love, and she gave me the four best sons that any father has ever had," his smile was genuine now at the memory. Remembering that day amidst the leaves of Andunie brought a warmth to him, and a feeling of longing and loss too deep for any words.
He looked back at her. Cersei knew now what he was saying and it did not please her.
"She was taken away from me, from her sons, and no one can ever again be to me what my Firiel was," he said, in words of bittersweet sadness.
She raised her chin haughtily.
"You would refuse a queen?"
"Firiel was my queen, not in Armenelos or Nargothrond or Gondolin was there ever such a queen, and though you are beautiful, I would refuse you and any woman on this earth if it would bring her back to me,"
A shadow had fallen on Cersei Lannister's fair face. She did not look accustomed to rejection.
"Your Grace," he said gently "Out of respect to your honour, and my love for Robert, I will speak of this to no one, but I will not forget it. Do not insult your husband in this way again, or I will have to tell him of this,"
"And what of his respect for my honour? What of his insults to me? How many bastards has he put into the bellies of whores?" she spat, suddenly hateful.
He looked at her with a deep sadness. Oh Cersei Lannister he thought Fair you are amongst queens of this realm, but cold and brittle as ice. I wish your life had led you somewhere far away from here. He knew that she would try to persuade him to side with her. He knew what her methods would be.
Yet for all her lies, for all her ambition and falsehoods and crimes, he could not find it in himself to hate her. He knew he must defeat her, but all he felt when he looked on Cersei Lannister was pity.
"He has not been as kind to you as a man should, but he is the King, and he is my friend. Remember that well, Your Grace," he told her.
He left her there, standing amongst the elm boughs.
The next day, dawn came pale and bright on a day that Isildur had dreaded. It could be delayed no longer. He would have to hold court in Robert's place. As he went to the council meeting of that day, the Iron Throne seemed to almost stare at him as he passed it. Afterwards, Isildur could not recall much of what was said or done, his mind was elsewhere and the matters of the council seemed trivial. At least, he reflected, he did not have to put up with any more of Baelish's voice.
When Ohtar opened the door, he found his lord standing on the balcony of the bed chamber. He was looking out over the city. Isildur knew from the sound of the heavy footfalls that it was his squire. The sky was reddening as afternoon wore into evening.
"Ohtar," he said.
"My lord, they await you in the great hall," the squire said.
I shall bear this burden only a little while, until Robert shall recover and be strong enough to take it up once more, he thought as he turned around.
"Bring me my silvered mail, and the high-collared surcoat, and have ten of my housecarls be made ready," he commanded. If he had to sit upon the Iron Throne, he would at least look worthy.
With Ohtar's help, Isildur donned a hauberk of mail that had been burnished till it shone black and silver. Over this he wore a black surcoat, with the white tree and the crescent moon in silver thread and the stars gleaming with jewels. On his shoulders, his squire placed a long white cloak, and he fastened it with the eagle broach he was accustomed to wearing. Isildur girt himself with Narsil at his side. Somehow the presence of his father's great sword at his hip was a comforting thought.
From Isildur's chest, Ohtar drew forth a circlet of mithril. A white stone was set in its front. His father had brought the Elendilmir, ancient crown of Andunie, out of the Downfall. He had taken the Jewel of the Elf-friends as an heirloom of his house, but this was not it. Two crowns alike in appearance but lesser in craft he had commanded made, one for each of his sons, so that all may know a lord of the House of Elendil when it was worn. This crown Isildur set on his brow.
His housecarls awaited him downstairs, in the proud and sombre garb of the Guard of the Tower of the Rising Moon. Their finest mail they wore, black as jet, and black surcoats with Isildur's sigil upon their chests. Each had a grey cloak and a silver broach shaped like a many-rayed star. Spears were in their hands and swords at their belts, and a gleam of mithril flamed from high helms. They formed double-files, five on each side, and followed their lord silently.
The heavy doors of the Great Hall were opened and Isildur was met with a host of faces. The late-day light poured brightly through stained glass windows, leaving long shadows on the marble floor.
"Lord Isildur Elendilion, of the House of Elendil, Lord of Minas Ithil, and the Hand of the King," a herald cried loudly as they stepped into the hall.
The hall was silent, but filled with people. Lords with the sigils of a dozen noble houses, noble ladies in silks, knights in mail, commoners in what patched finery they could muster. All standing, lining the hall beneath the tapestries where dragon skulls once hung. Yet as Isildur walked the length of the Great Hall, he could almost feel the empty eyes of dragons upon him. He heard faint whispers as he passed. He saw looks of wonder, of awe, even of fear. The Iron Throne stood forbidding and empty, fangs of steel reaching out to him.
The only people who sat in the Great Hall were members of the Council. They were seated upon the dais, on lesser wooden chairs to each side. Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys to the left, Lord Renly and Lord Stannis to the left. Renly sat with the account-books in his lap, looking annoyed that he had been given them until a new Master of Coin was appointed.
The Kingsguard lined the great hall. The Ironguard, in their black plate trimmed with white, stood by their mute Brother-Captain Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice. A pair of knights of the Redguard stood in the gallery looking down, watching the Hand of the King approach the dais. Out of the corner of his eye, Isildur spotted Ser Barristan Selmy watching him with grave eyes.
Finally, he stood before the throne and stood before the crowds. Hundreds of eyes looked up at him. His housecarls spread out at the lowest step of the dais, standing still as carven statues. The mithril of their winged helmets caught the sunlight and blazed like fire. Isildur took up the Seat of Kings.
"In the name of our King, Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and of the Rhoynar, and of the Numenoreans, and of the First Men, Lord of the Eight Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lord Isildur, the Hand of the King, shall hold court. He shall sit in judgement and hear the petitions of the peoples of the Realm. Let all who would speak before the Throne come forth," boomed the herald.
It was, Isildur reflected as the hours passed, a deeply uncomfortable chair. The Throne was full of razor edges, ribbons of metal and barbs of iron still sharp despite the centuries. It was said that it had taken fifty nine days to forge it, heated in the furnace-breath of Balerion the Great Wyrm. One could not even lean back fully in it, or else they risked cutting themselves on the jagged points and steel spikes. Aegon had once told Isildur that a King should never rest easy on his throne.
Arrogant as an old dragon, I hope this accursed throne cut him deeply Isildur thought.
The petitioners came, by themselves or in pairs or in whole groups. Lords bickered over who owned what land and which villages, rival heirs brought competing claims to castles and holdfasts, noble ladies accused each other of libel and slander. The Guild of Bakers wanted a royal charter commanding that no baker could work in King's Landing without membership of the guild. Two farmers argued, in front of the Hand of the King and the whole court, over the ownership of a certain cow until Isildur threatened to have it cut in half unless they shared the animal.
"And that's why we shouldn't let the smallfolk into the court," muttered Renly after the peasants had left "You listen to their problems enough and soon enough they start thinking we're here to solve everything for them,"
A group of merchants came forward. They bowed reverently before Isildur. Their clothes were rich, rings glinted on every finger and many of them were fat.
"My Lord Hand, we are the Honourable Company of Venturing Merchants," announced one who stood forward from the rest, the most overweight merchant of the lot. He bowed, a gesture of some difficulty with his girth. "We seek your leave to mount a trading expedition beyond Qarth to the Jade Sea and Asshai-by-the-Shadow. We have assembled seven ships to make this journey, and we would request an escort from the royal navy. If it pleases you, my Lord Hand, the Crown will share in our profits,"
Isildur remembered that Baelish had mentioned this.
"Lord Stannis, you are the Master of Ships, what say you?" he asked.
"Your company has not asked for royal ships before, what need have you of our galleys?" Lord Stannis questioned the man.
"The Summer Sea has grown dangerous of late, my lord, ships are disappearing and people whisper of pirates and raiders with black sails, we wish only to guarantee to safety of our crews and wares," the merchant answered.
Isildur shifted upon the throne. Black sails, a disquieting thought. Anarion's warning echoed in his ears.
"I can spare you two warships to travel with you, no more," said Lord Stannis. The merchants bowed again and thanked them for their generosity.
The sun was waning and the shadows were lengthening in the Great Hall by the time Isildur finished with the court. He had had to cajole some people, coax others, force agreements with stern words in some cases, he had arbitrated and judged and made royal commands. It was much like sitting in judgement from his high seat in Minas Ithil, but here he could feel the eyes of the Realm upon him.
The herald was stepped up to announce the end of the court, when the doors of the great hall were flung open. Before Isildur's eyes, a grim band of women and children and a few men filed in. They were escorted by a party of goldcloaks.
"Forgive me my Lord Hand, these people have come from the town of Sherrer, they say they must speak to you," said the leader of the goldcloaks, a broad-shouldered young man with a scar across his eye.
"Court is concluded, they will have to return another day," said Grand Maester Pycelle in irritation.
"No Grand Maester, I shall listen to them. Come forth! What has brought you here?" Isildur asked.
They turned their gaze down at the sound of his voice. Hesitantly, a gray-haired old man stepped forward. He was wringing a hat in his hands nervously. He had the eyes of a man who had seen horrors.
"My folk have elected me to speak for them, Your Grace," he said.
"It is the King's Hand you are addressing, not the King," interrupted Pycelle.
"That is enough Grand Maester. You may speak," Isildur said.
"Milord, we come to you to beg for your help, we had to travel hard to get here, and I brought all my folk because we hope that together you'll listen to what we have to say: The town of Sherrer is no more," the old man said. There was a sound of a child weeping in the back.
"What? What has happened?" the Hand of the King asked.
"Raiders, milord, they came down on us, hunnerds of them, out of the west. It was the small hours of the morning and we was just going about our business, milord, if you follow me. Our men were out in the fields working, and I was just drawing water out of the well when they came, milord." He paused, eyes watering, and for a long moment there was silence in the hall, as if the memory was too terrible to speak. Then he continued, slowly:
"They rode us down, hacking and slaying everyone they saw and shooting us with crossbows and sticking us with lances. I saw 'em chase a boy across a field, poking at 'em with spears, making like sport out of it. They covered our children and our animals in pitch… Then put a fire to them," his voice cracked and he stopped and wept. Isildur felt anger building as he listened to each word.
"They took our women… And then when they was done they took them again. Our lord came riding out of his holdfast to try and save us, a right proper knight was Ser Garlan, milord, but they killed him and his men and those of us that managed to get into the holdfast saw 'em cut his head off and carry it around on a spear, and then they set a fire to our homes, our granaries, our fields, they burned everything,"
Isildur's knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of the Iron Throne. None that stood in that hall could not feel the growing wrath of the son of Elendil.
"Common brigands most likely," said Pycelle, dismissively.
"Even common brigands must be brought to the King's Justice, that is the law," said Lord Stannis.
"You talk about the law an awful lot for the Master of Ships, brother, perhaps we ought to trade?" quipped Renly.
"Enough!" Isildur snarled out harshly "Let the man speak,"
"They wasn't thieves, Your Grace," said the old man, wiping tears from his eyes.
"This is not the King, it is the King's Hand, the King is resting," Pycelle intoned ponderously.
"They didn't take or steal nothing, they only killed and burned, milord," the old man went on as if he didn't hear the Grand Maester.
"These raiders, did they carry any banners? Did they carry any badges or sigils amongst them?" Isildur asked.
"Yes, milord, they had a big flag that was yellow with dogs on it, and there was one amongst them, their leader I think, taller than a foot than any man I've ever seen milord, and he had a fist on his helmet. Saw 'em cut men in two. Saw him take the head off a horse with a swing of his sword!" the man answered.
Whispers spread through the hall as lords and knights heard what he said. Isildur knew in that instant that this was the work of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Troll.
"My Lord Isildur!" cried a young and fair voice. Ser Loras Tyrell stepped forth from the crowd. He was even more slender outside of his armour, almost willowy. His doublet was a deep green and covered in studs shaped like golden roses. His hair was elaborately coiffed and hands that had clearly seen much care and attention rested on the jeweled hilt of a longsword.
"It is the work of Ser Gregor Clegane, it can be no other! My lord, I beg your leave to ride to Ser Gregor's keep and bring vengeance for Sherrer to the Troll!" the Knight of the Flowers declared boldly. More whispering in the back of the halls. Isildur raised a hand to silence it.
"Ser Loras, I agree with you that this is the work of Ser Gregor Clegane. Ever has he been a murderous and brutish man. And while I commend your courage, the task of bringing him to justice shall fall to others," said the Hand of the King.
"But my lord-"
"Enough, Ser Loras," Isildur warned. With a petulance that reminded Isildur of how young Loras Tyrell truly was, the knight stepped back into the crowd.
"Ser Gregor Clegane is an anointed knight, a bannerman with a keep and lands of his own, why would it profit him to turn brigand?" asked Pycelle. Quick to defend the Lannisters, Isildur noted, like a dog rushing to its master's aid.
"Sherrer is a town in the Riverlands, and the Riverlands are the holdings of House Tully, Catelyn Stark's house," said Lord Renly, implications in his words.
The court did not whisper, now they murmured. Again Isildur raised his hand and silence fell. He looked down on what remained of the people of Sherrer. A young girl was on her knees, staring, not at Isildur but through him. They had been robbed, robbed of family, of friends, of their homes. He remembered a wife and two young children, laid before the throne wrapped in red cloaks to hide the blood. He remembered the faceless ruin of what had been an innocent boy. He remembered the monstrous Troll that walked in the sun which had done this. As he looked upon the people of Sherrer, he knew what he must do.
"People of Sherrer, it is beyond my art and skill to restore your homes or bring your dead back to live. In times of horror, we can only remember that Death is the Gift of Men and not our Doom. All I can offer you is justice, justice in the name of King Robert," he said in a voice so strong and clear as had seldom been heard in the Great Hall of the Red Keep.
"Once, long ago, Torrhen Stark the last King of the North, he told me that in the North they believe that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. We Men of Numenor do not hold with the traditions of the North. However I cannot in good conscience ask any man to face the Troll That Walks in Daylight on my behalf. I shall ride forth to hunt down this monster who calls himself a man and bring him to justice!" he paused briefly, then raised his voice and spoke even louder:
"In the name of King Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and of the Rhoynar, and of the Numenoreans, and of the First Men, Lord of the Eight Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm; I, Isildur Elendilion, the Hand of the King, do hereby denounce and attaint the false knight Ser Gregor Clegane, and sentence him to die. I strip him of all rights and titles, of all lands and holdings, and I declare him an outlaw of the Eight Kingdoms, along with all who have shared in his crimes. Let any freeman put him to death if they are able, and let none shelter him lest they wish to share in his fate,"
"My lord, this is a drastic action, we ought to wait for King Robert to recover," urged Grand Maester Pycelle. Isildur fixed him with a hard stare.
"Grand Maester Pycelle, you will send a raven to Casterly Rock. Inform Lord Lannister that he shall meet me at the town of Pinkmaiden. He is to come with a hundred men within the fortnight to assist me in tracking down and bringing his rogue bannerman to justice. If he shelters Gregor or fails to comply, he will be branded an enemy of the Crown and a traitor to the Realm," Isildur told him. Wordlessly, the Grand Maester nodded.
Isildur scanned the shocked and awed faces of the court for any who might assist him. Ser Loras was too young and inexperienced despite his skill. He needed someone older, more dependable. He spotted a familiar looking man, one with a reputation for honour, whom had acquitted himself well in the tournament.
"Lord Beric Dondarrion," he said. "Assemble seventy mounted men. You will accompany me on this errand,"
"As you will, my lord Hand" replied Lord Beric.
The Hand of the King stepped down from the throne and led his housecarls from the hall silently. He knew that the whisperers and the eyes watching him would relay his message to Casterly Rock as surely as any raven.
That ought to ruffle Lord Tywin's mane, he thought with a certain grim satisfaction.