(King's Landing: 4/3/299) Renly II
"First time in the Black Cells, Baelish?" Renly chuckled humorlessly, as they descended down the spiral stairs, his annoyance at the Lord of the Fingers carefully hidden beneath pleasant guise. He watched as the man pranced upon the stone steps with torch in hand. The sense of caution readily evident, in his gray-green eyes, during his attempts in avoiding the numerous puddles of discolored foul-smelling water that littered every other patch of cracked stone. Leading them, holding but a paper lantern, was the red priestess and the acting Mistress of Whisperers, Cyvia. At their backs marched two of Baelish's retainers, large and silent, both had been supplied by his goodsister in order to keep watchful eye upon the Master of Coin.
"Until this war is done, I will endeavor to do everything in my power to keep you safe, Lord Baelish. Accidents happen, especially in tumultuous times such as these, and I certainly do not wish you to be so cruelly robbed of the bright future I know you have awaiting on your horizon. Your friendship, and your life, mean the worlds to me. So for your safety, I do so humbly request you allow them to remain with you, at all times,"Azula had said, during their second small council meeting, when Baelish had questioned how long she had intended to have them shadow him after he had written to the Vale. Renly had understood, as they all did, that her words had been anything but a request. Unlike the others, the one thing he knew was shared between he and her, was a deep-seated suspicion of the Lord of the Fingers. The Lord of Storm's End, was not blind, for he knew Petyr Baelish was a man too dangerous to be left without handler. A sentiment Renly oft held about his goodsister, Azula, yet he knew no handler would be enough to keep her muzzled.
'Why has she kept you around so long,'he wondered, glancing at the man, as Azula's words rang out in his memories.'And why did you mention his name to me on your deathbed, Jon? Was it he that ended you? And if he was, to what purpose? Or perhaps you thought he would help counter Azula's influence? You never trusted her, you told me as such, but why? Did both endeavor to end you?'his mind spun at the questions, suspecting both his goodsister and Baelish as having been cut from the same cloth, yet unable to act upon those very worries that unnerved him. Instead, he felt more like a boat, cast out to sea amidst a raging storm. Rudderless and worn, he may be, but Renly strove to not be so forever.
"No, he has tread these halls before," the red priestess stated plainly. Not once having turned to face them, as she spoke. Crimson hood had remained raised, hiding what he knew to be pale-golden hair, and a disturbingly comely face.
"Yes," Baelish muttered, with raised brow. "I must admit to having been allowed access once or twice," the raspy-voice man continued with a smirk, seemingly unperturbed by the woman's words, and looking to him but a moment as they finished their descent. As soon as they had touched upon proper ground, the man waved the torch in front of himself, seemingly in order to gain his bearings within the dim grime-covered dungeon hall.
"Hmm, certainly not by me," he stared, his eye threatening to twitch through his carefully practiced false gaiety.
"Members of the Small Council need not ask permission for access, Lord Renly," Baelish countered smoothly, briefly peering through an empty cell along their path.
"He is correct," the red woman confirmed, her back still fully to them, as she led them to wherever it was their destination lie.
"True, but it would be appreciated. Lest the Master ofLawssuspect those doing so, to be engaging in otherwise unlawful activities," Renly suddenly felt the tight grin upon his face as if it had been nailed to his jawbone. "I trust your business was nothing of the sort?"
"I would never," the man feigned shocked, as they continued their walk down the dungeons dark passages, illuminated only by wall torches every five cells. "It was purely financial in nature. Debts to crown, owed by the incarcerated, are not known to be beneficial if the indebted are to be locked away indefinitely. Measures need to be taken to ensure a prompt release and an equally prompt repayment."
"And I suppose their debt to the crown is paid in service to you?" he pressed, the frown threatening to melt through his nailed mask.
"I assure you, all debts owed to the crown eventually find their way back into the royal coffers," the man deflected with a chuckle.
"Quite a roundabout way to regain lost investments, don't you think?" Renly probed, letting the question hang in the air before continuing on. "Prior to your 'financial pardons,' no one had ever been released from the black cells, without my knowledge, Baelish. Save to travel to the wall, or face summary execution," he ribbed Littlefinger, rather roughly, with his elbow. Pretend smile judiciously maintained, the threat had been playful, yet understood by both men.
"Or a lonely, yet illuminating, voyage to Dragonstone," the woman added. Her voice had scarcely been above a whisper, but it had had an almost deafening quality in the silence of the dungeons.
"It was not always so," Littlefinger sighed, almost contentedly, as he glanced towards the golden-haired red priestess and rubbed the area Renly had just tapped with his elbow.
"Dangerous times, these are," Cyvia echoed Azula's prior words, amidst the sounds of rattling chains and dripping water, which resonated out from somewhere off in the murky labyrinth.
As they walked, Renly's ears perked up at the sound of light footsteps scurrying across wet stone. Noting the others had continued on without distraction, he had dismissed the sounds as nothing more than rats or some such vermin.
"Speaking of Dragonstone, I have been noticing a bit of a trend with your fair lady, my…fair lady," Baelish rasped with a light titter.
"Oh?" The red woman paused mid-step, before turning and bearing an unsettling smile.
"Your Lady Azula seems to be collecting prisoners upon her island like a child would their favorite toys. What does she do with them there, I wonder?" Baelish idled, looking towards both of them, and awaiting answer.
"Yes," Cyvia's smile grew with the vague reply, and her eyes twinkled for but a moment, before she turned her back to them once more and continued forward.
The interest, within Baelish's grey-green pools, died within his laughing eyes.
"Only the gods know," he muttered to the man, shrugging his shoulders as he stared.'And perhaps even they don't wish to know,'the thought leaked into his mind, before their group turned at a corner junction in their path.
"Yet what does it matter what is done with the condemned? Times of war often leave little room for forgiveness, or mercy, in any case. Why should the crown waste precious coin upon them, if they serve no purpose? If my lady wishes to feed and clothe them upon Dragonstone, then she should be allowed the opportunity, should she not? Surely, rapist, thieves, and murderers, are no concern of yours, are they?" Azula's priestess queried, stopping momentarily at a cross junction and looking both ways before eyeing them. "Surely, you'd both find yourself in agreeance with such, now wouldn't you, my lords? Especially you, Lord Baelish? You, who are Master of Coin?"
"And why would I, in particular, find agreeance with such activities?" Littlefinger questioned, holding torch to the talking woman.
"My lady spends from her own purse, to house the condemned, and thus the crown bears none of the costs of doing so. Therefore allowing more to be spent upon the war, and public works," she countered with a seductive smirk.
"Well, it is quite difficult to counter such blessings. Especially given the precarious state of the crown's finances," Baelish smiled, before uncomfortably clearing his throat.
"Precarious? Are not the crown's finances under your purview, my lord? What manner of state are they that would warrant use of such a word?" the priestess inquired, stealing the very same words from out of Renly's own mouth.
"I would also like to know the answer to this particular question, Littlefinger," Renly smiled, narrowing his eyes at the man whom he suspected of treachery and having friends such as those that would find themselves in the Black Cells.
"The King is difficult to say 'no' to, my lady, when he wishes to spend coin," Baelish countered effortlessly, deflecting answer from himself and towards the man who bore the crown. "'Counting coppers,'he calls it, and who am I to deny a king?"
"Who indeed?" Renly tightened his smile. "Though, I must say, I do commend your efforts. Especially in regards to that business with the City Watch. I recall hearing that our coffers saw lots of coin spread around, when Cersei attempted her little stunt, and his grace was away. Or am I mistaken?"
"No, you are quite correct," Baelish nodded his head. "And tis a good thing that I was here to assist the crown's coin in finding its way into the right hands. Lest we had found ourselves listed amongst the newest residents of these cells?"
"Unlikely," he scoffed. "I'm fairly certain Cersei would have seen to it that our stay, within these filthy little rooms, would have been short.Veryshort," Renly added, knowing what he did now of the incest, and the threat his own claims would have posed to the former Queen and her bastard children. As he looked to the Valelord, he felt something gnawing at him. Of the many gifts, the old crones had instilled him in his youth, Renly had regarded their intuition as easily the most valuable lesson he had learned under their tutelage. Detecting duplicitous people within the court of Fire Lord Azulon, had been their trade, and in Westeros such things still rang true.'You're a carefully meticulous little shit aren't you, Baelish?'he thought, staring at the man with the deceitfully affable expression. After the attempted coup, Renly had grown increasingly suspicious of the Master of Coin. Even now, as tantalizingly close as the little man stood to him and his judgement, Renly had yet to unearth any scrap of parchment hinting towards malicious trickery against the one who sat the Iron Throne. Time and again, the Stormlord's spies had come to him bearing outdated or entirely inaccurate information, which were naturally intermingled with sudden disappearances and grisly murders. Easily attributed to playing the game, but no less frustrating to his efforts at imprisoning the man.
"True enough," Baelish chuckled, almost as if he had known Renly's thoughts on him.
In that moment, as he watched the seedy man laugh, he found himself ever so briefly considering simply bypassing proper judgement and bludgeoning him to death with his torch, before tossing his corpse into an empty cell.'They are aplenty now,'he reasoned, before looking towards their escorts.'However, they may pose a problem. Still, I wonder how long it would have taken her to find you? A day? A week? A month? No, perhaps that is what she wants? Damn you, Azula,'he dismissed the idle thought, shaking his head and allowing himself a soft snicker at the suddenness of the idea.
"Finding yourself a bit more humorous than you expected, my lord?" Baelish looked to him with a grin and shadowed eyes.
"You could say that," he replied, watching as the red woman arrived at a blind turn.
Glancing to the right, the priestess spun to face them. "We appear to be nearing our destination, my lords," Cyvia proceeded ahead, out into the hall, and they followed. As Renly turned and surveyed the hall, their terminus had become crystal clear. He needed no direction, nor instruction, on which entryway led to their mutual host. At the far end of the sparsely lit passage, stood an iron door illuminated by a pair of torches that burned bright blue. The woman stood back and motioned for them to go on. As they made for the door, a sharp buzz rang in his ear, and he felt the hairs on his arm rise up. Not but a moment afterwards, a series of white lights flashed through a small window fitted to the iron door, which had been quickly followed by an agonizing cry.
"No more!" it whimpered, sounding weak and defeated, and so very familiar to him. Lined with iron bars, the strobing lights cast strange shadows upon the stone floor of the foul-smelling passageway. At either side of the door, at the end of the passage, stood two large men in full-plate and a single man bearing the trappings of Azula's people standing opposite of them and holding something in his hands.
"Perhaps we should turn back?" Baelish whispered to him, coughing anxiously and releasing only the barest of chuckles as he did so.
'Maybe we should,'he had wanted to say, before he found a cold draft rolling up his spine. Turning to face the source of the cool air, he found himself sharing an uncomfortable silence with the man from the Fingers. There, standing just out of reach of the quivering torchlight and behind Baelish's escorts like a trio of haunting statues, were hooded figures clad in tattered black cloaks. Swirling sweet-smelling white smoke, lingered below their knees, helping to obscure the positioning of their feet from unwelcome eyes. In the gloom, he spied masks of painted porcelain hiding unknown faces. One half of the mask bore cloud designs, while the other half remain unblemished save for a singular black pit where one's eye would be.
"T'was only a jest," Baelish declared uneasily, raising his hands, appearing almost as if his whispered words had betrayed him. "We have an audience with the Lady of Dragonstone," the trio remained silent, ignoring Littlefinger's words, and taking a unified step towards them.
"TheFire Lordof Dragonstone," Renly corrected the Master of Coin, who appeared very nearly out of his depth in the suddenly very suffocating confines of their current locale. The earlier sounds of light footfalls, once again tickled Renly's ears. Instantly, and as one, two of the trio turned and faded back into the darkness while the third simply took another step forward.
"If you two are done playing around, my lords? Best not to dawdle," a coarse voice at his back startled him. "The Kemurikage are very…suspicious.Even more thanherpeople, if you could believe it," he gestured towards the woman who had accompanied them down into the Black Cells. Seeing nothing but her crimson cloak in the shadows, she appeared almost as ghost-like as the lone figure who now stood unnervingly close to them. Turning his neck, he saw a small Yi-Tishman eating a peach, before his eyes shifted towards the iron door and back again. It did not take long for him to realize that the man behind him, was the very same one who had been standing guard opposite of the cell door.
"Ahem," the Yi-Tishman cleared his throat. "The Fire Lord has indeed summoned them," he announced, producing a dull orange flame within the palm of his free hand. The figure in the darkness stopped, as if waiting for something more. Arching his neck, the man from Dragonstone stared at he and Baelish, "I trust you still hold the game tokens given to you by the Fire Lord's envoy?"
"Ah yes!" Littlefinger nearly yelped, as he dug into his pockets, to procure the aforementioned piece from the Fire Nation game of Pai-Sho.
Renly reached into his own pockets, slowly and wordlessly, feeling around for the small disc-shaped wooden piece. Taking hold of it, he retrieved the little thing and presented it to the Yi-Tishman.
"Do not show it to me, my lords," the man nodded towards the hooded figure. "She wishes to see it for herself."
'That's a woman?'his mind reeled at the notion as he and Baelish lifted their hands, bearing the aforementioned tokens, and displaying them as suggested.
The figure craned its neck, then stared at them, before vanishing back into the black depths of the dungeons.
"The two of you had me worried that you had lost your tokens," the Yi-Tishman sputtered in-between his loud chewing. "The Fire Lord would have been displeased." After the moment had passed, the man patted their shoulders, acquiring their attention, before leading them to the flashing cell.
As they drew closer, Renly heard two voices, one old and frail and the other young and vibrant.
"My Fire Lord," the man said, softly tapping upon the iron door. "Lords Renly and Baelish have arrived."
"Yes! Yes! Let them in," Azula barked from behind the door, instantly causing the man to move into action.
Slowly, the door gave way to the Yi-Tishman's push, and once the iron access had opened, the smell of shit, piss, and burned hair assaulted Renly's senses causing bile to rise up into his throat. Looking to his side, he saw that Baelish had felt the same, clutching at his own stomach in disgust.
"What other secrets are you keeping from me, Pycelle?" Azula hissed beneath azure shadow. Her lithe hands had been firmly wrapped around the collar of the prisoner's garb worn by the former Grand Maester, while her belly had grown nearly twice as large since the days after her fiery return to the capital. "Why has the mage chosen now to keep me in the dark? What have you told him!? What are he and the rest of those decrepit old men planning?!"
'The mage?'he wondered, his recollection of the word buried deep in his childhood's memory.
"I…promise you, I have said…nothing…my lady," the old man choked out, grasping at his throat.
"Quite a lot of 'nothing' to relay withfourteenmessages. Yes, I know how many ravens had been dispatched from the rookery. I know they had been sent to the Citadel, before my return, so do not lie to me! What news did they carry that required the use of so many? Hmm? What was so important that so desperately needed to be conveyed before I secured the city?" Azula's face had turned sharp, the scowl etched upon it appearing as a ghastly figure in the night.
"It wasn't…me…" Pycelle continued, the strength in his words lesser than before, his skin the color of curdled milk.
"So you would have me believe, but I assure you that I will not allow the King's command to be undermined by old men with too much time on their hands!" she pressed, lifting the man above her head. As she interrogated the elderly man in the cerulean gloom, Renly felt the inside of his chest grow uncomfortably cold as his goodsister's normally blazing orbs emitted a cobaltic gleam. Then, just as suddenly, did he feel his skin grow hot as Azula's eyes returned to burning gold. The change bringing with it a sapphiric flare to the surrounding torches, their own included.
"I held the man to be...a disgrace and a charlatan…I swear to you, what…ever rumors have been spread within…the Citadel are not of my make…" Pycelle coughed, turning a near deathly blue as the air left his addled lungs.
"His corpse will not do well at trial, Azula. We need him alive to bring Cersei and the rest to justice," Renly pointed out, managing to overcome the whispers of doubt that had threatened to overcome him during the grim display.
"Justice," Azula mocked, glaring at him with glittery golden eyes and seemingly considering his very salient fact, before turning to the former Grand Maester. "We shall see," she spat, tightening her grip around the old man's throat.
As the man remained suspended in the air Renly had felt, for the briefest of instants, that his goodsister would strangle the former Grand Maester to death right then. However, at the cusp of his divination, Azula dropped the aged man and turned to face them.
"Go on, Pycelle," she said, without looking to the man who struggled to take in air at her feet. "Tell them of the Queen's treachery. Tell them of the conspiracy by the Lannisters to usurp the throne. Tell them, as you told me, and perhaps an executioner's sword will not be awaiting for you at the end of your long-delayed trial."
Watching as the man choked on lungful's of air, Renly could not help but wonder if the words that were to leave Pycelle's lips were the Grand Maester's or Azula's own.
"Lord Arryn," the old man coughed, his lungs sounding as if they were ready to be expelled from his own body. "His symptoms…when he had come to me…" the man paused, cutting short his words.
"Had been those of what?" the flames within the cell had flared blue at Azula's sharp demand.
"Poison," Pycelle cringed, tucking away ever so slightly from the acting Hand of the King. "His skin, its pallor, had born a striking resemblance to victims suffering the debilitating effects of the tears of Lys."
"Tears of Lys?" Renly pressed, recognizing the name but unsure of its overall paucity.
"It is a rare poison, my lord Renly. One that takes much time and effort to brew, only the most skilled can even attempt to create the foul liquid," Pycelle stuttered, keeping to the floor on his hands and knees.
"I see," he narrowed his eyes at the man.
"I trust you had no hand in brewing the poison for the Queen, did you Pycelle?" Baelish cut in, raspy voice wavering slightly in the paradoxically scorching cold cell.
"I did not. I swear to you all, that I did not murder Lord Arryn," the man pleaded on his hands and knees.
"You lie," Renly nearly growled, pointing to the man at his feet, after having expected such foul play when he had broken words with the Lord of Vale only days before he had fallen ill and subsequently perished. "I spoke to Lord Arryn, and he had seemed to be getting better before you had taken over his care."
"The…the…poison had had a delayed effect on Lord Arryn," Pycelle countered uncertainly.
Renly delved deep into begging old eyes, spotting the truth in short order as it lay openly displayed within the pathetically wide stare. "Howconvenient," he snarled, chancing a glance at his goodsister and spotting no reaction, before finally choosing to drop his pleasant demeanor in its entirety. He drew closer to the old man and rose to his full height, before posing the question. "Did Lord Arryn suffer symptomsresemblingthe effects of the poison, or were theyexact?" Renly continued, "You must be certain of it, Grand Maester. There can be no room for doubt," he added, knowing that such vagueness and uncertainty would be heavily scrutinized by the royal court at trial. Thereby allowing such doubts to spread about the Seven-Kingdoms like wildfire. While a part of him wished for such an outcome, in order to lower Azula's standing and influence, he also recognized doing so would also be to the detriment of them all, he and Robert included.
"Exact," Pycelle continued, stealing glances towards the Lady of Dragonstone in-between every other word.
"Was it the Queen's doing?" Baelish asked, bringing the torch ever closer to the former Grand Maester, his interest in the scene having taken hold of his normally laughing eyes.
"Most certainly, my lord. Only she could have afforded such a thing, especially…" the aged man sputtered, his gaze shifting between the Lord of the Fingers and the Lady of Dragonstone, both of whom had shared looks with each other.
"Especially, what?" Renly resumed his query, ignoring whatever it was that the Master of Coin had wished to add.
"Once she had become aware of Lord Arryn's investigations involving the…bastard children born out of incest between her and her brother the King…the Kingslayer Jaime Lannister," the man seemed to visibly struggle at the effort of getting the words out. Appearing almost as if they had needed to be pried free from his very mouth. "And once she knew…so too did…did Lord Tywin. He is not one known to suffer such embarrassment of his house. He demanded the problem be silenced, and entrusted the Queen to do so."
"And how did you come into this knowledge?" Renly prodded, wanting to uncover as much of the truth as he could, even if he suspected the taint of lies within the old man's all-to-convenient words.
"Reading ravenscrolls not meant for you again, Grand Maester?" a dangerous smirk crossed Baelish's thin face.
"Preposterous!" he exclaimed, before Pycelle could answer. "Tywin Lannister would never put such illicit commands to ink. And he would most definitely not trust them to be carried by mere ravens! If Tywin Lannister did as you say, then he would most certainly have delivered it in person, or left such message in the hands of someone he could trust to deliver…it…" he let the last words leave his mouth in hush, as the realization set in. "Joffrey's name day?" he looked towards Baelish, who had seemingly come to the same conclusion as he. As he remembered Joffrey's name day and the myriad of knights from the Westerlands who had come, only one had stood out. "The Blood Rose? But…why?" his mind spun at the idea, knowing the old lion's ward to be clever enough to charge with such a delicate task, but confused at the motive of sending him to do so.
"Why indeed? Why would the Reachmen, who cursed me as 'the Butcher of Shipbreaker Bay,' wish to see us destroyed?" Azula's voice became as silk when she had uttered the words he knew to be true. "Mace Tyrell and the rest of his countrymen will forever feel the sting of my flames, and because of that, they will never let go of their enmity towards us. If Mace Tyrell can seat a bastard lion upon the Iron Throne and see us dead, then that is what he will do. Together, the Reach and the Westerlands have enough gold to outspend the rest of the Seven-Kingdoms combined, and thus a formidable enemy for one to face. And given the circumstance, which we currently find ourselves in, they would be natural allies."
His eyes grew wide, "We must warn Robert!"
"Yes, but not too soon," Azula clasped her hands at her back.
"Why in the Seven-Hells not?! What has Stannis to say of this?!" he roared, seeing no reason to keep such revelations from his brother.
"Stannis agrees because the trap we have set for our wayward roses," molten gold rings started at him from within the shadowy murk, "must not be sprung prematurely. You know how his grace can get, when his blood is raised. As of this moment, I have only informed Steffon and Ursa of the impending treachery. Steffon will ensure a measure of caution for our army around their Tyrell escort, and to make all preparation for the King's escape should things become…untenable. As for Ursa, she has been ordered to make for Silverhill, and take or destroy it will all haste, in order to establish a killing field for the fat flower and his band of traitors. And with the combined armies of Dorne and the Golden Company shadowing the royal army, the utter destruction of the Reach's power will be assured."
"Brilliant!" Baelish declared excitedly with a clap. "And what of the Vale?" he asked, the genuinely happy curiosity readily evident within his grey-green eyes. "What purpose do they serve in this?"
"They are to secure the Riverlands and drive the lions out of them, that is all," Azula replied flatly, ostensibly much to Baelish's disappointment.
"And what if Lord Mace decides to attack before making approach to Silverhill?" Renly frowned, his displeasure of such trickery showing upon his face. "Are you and Stannis willing to risk the lives of your own children and that of your King?"
"No! Never," the flames within the cell flared dangerously, as an equally dangerous glare overcame Azula's burning eyes. "However, I expect Mace Tyrell to have learned enough from his mistakes with me, to not do so again with Ursa," she continued, staring at him all the while. "He will not make attempt on the King's life, until he is certain Ursa is within grasp, lest the Reach suffer the same fate as before, only at the hands of even more unforgiving butcher."
"How can you be so sure? You are not infalliable, Azula. You have been wrong before," he pointed out, without uttering specifics.
"Never aboutpeople," the room grew cold, and the flames flickered low, before a knock at the iron door stirred them from their quiet stalemate.
"My Fire Lord," Cyvia's voice chirped from behind the metal entryway.
"What is it!?" Azula demanded, her eyes never leaving his own for even an instant.
"Word from the Iron Islands," the red woman continued from behind the door.
A confused look came upon his goodsister's fair face, and had it not been for their previously heated discussion, he was certain he would have found humor in the sight. But not today.
"Enter," the Lady of Dragonstone tore her fiery gaze from him and glared at the cell's entrance as it was gently opened.
"A thousand apologies for the disturbance, Fire Lord!" the woman's unsettlingly beautiful face popped out into the small space, followed shortly by her entire body. Offering a slight bow towards them all, while lingering only a moment longer for Azula, the woman continued with her pronouncement. "It appears Lord Greyjoy has fallen ill! He has sent for Ser Theon," the priestess stated with a seemingly fiery passion. "It is as the flames have said!"
"So it is," the acting Hand replied, as a grin slowly began to creep upon her face. Sharing one last look with them, she pouted at the old man prostrated before her. "Your trial with be held in three days, and I warn you again, do not stray in your words. Say them as you said here, and I will make attempt at holding true to my word, of there being no executioner awaiting you at the end of this. Renly, would you kindly make the necessary preparations? I have other matters to attend to," she left with a swish of her clothes and the rattling of the hand's chain at her neck.