EDDARD II
"He made his way in to the heart of the castle, striding his way forward, his great grey and white direwolf cloak streaming behind him like a covering of snow still lingering in his steps from the beloved Winterfell they had left behind. He marched straight up to his solar, as Septa Mordane went her own separate way to hers, and he said to her that he would manage supper with the children later.
It was still warm here, as well, he noted. Enormously warm and sweaty. He was half soaking by the time he felt the comforting embrace of the massive wooden armchair around himself.
Jory stood beside him as he finally sunk down into the fabric of the chair. It welcomed him back, and though it was a rueful return, he still felt glad for it.
I am back here again, I am come home again, he thought.
And surely enough, it was home, to him and most of all to everyone around him, to his family, and so he was content with it after all, he supposed. Reinvigorated after their stay at Winterfell, and the important talks with Benjen about the Gift, although after that once again tired with their journey back, he longed to return to the Small Council and all its matters of importance.
His cupbearer poured him a drink of red Dornish wine, which he swallowed into his mouth and throat without a sound. Then he bent down to look at the parchments that Littlefinger, Grand Maester Pycelle and the others had left him.
Signings and recountings of the two small emergency Small Council Meetings which they had had during his absence, with Ser Barristan tentatively leading the meetings in the stead of the Hand.
He turned the parchments over to read the oldest one first, from nine days into their trip. There had been a drunken ruckus again, with many violent fights in the city, some fire in the haylofts at the Street of Milk, fastly put out, though, as well as several important shiploads of new goods from the Free Cities and else. Mostly nothing too important, he was glad to note.
Petyr Baelish had signed the parchments with his new seal, the little mockingbird stamp, which the King thought a particularly luxurious one, a small green one with grey and brown details. Lord Gyles' seal was the same as usual, the red, white and black of House Rosby, the green of House Manderly and [ ]...
The second parchment was about a meeting held much later, while they had been at Winterfell during the last couple of days, and it was a longer piece. He began reading it, carefully, word for word, as he made notes inside his head. It was longer than he would have thought. He decided that he would read it later when he would be well-rested on the morrow instead, when he had slept for a night after the ride. His whole body was still somewhat sore, especially in his poor old back.
…
He joined Robb and the girls for dinner, as Septa Mordane sat where Catelyn would usually be. It was strange to not have her there with him, but they would all have to do their part while they waited for Bran to wake all the way back up in Winterfell.
In the middle of dinner, he found that he had to go to the privy. He excused himself, nodded to Jory and went out to the privy room. When he returned some time later, treading silently back into the dining hall, he saw that they had all stopped eating.
Arya did not touch her food. She only sat trailing the edges of her knife. He watched her from the side with contemplating eyes, as she still did not see that he had returned to stand watching in the tall archway of the room, some thirty to fifty feet away.
Then she began rolling it between her fingers, stabbing at the table underneath the embroidered cloth.
"Arya! What are you doing?" Septa Mordane said.
"Practicing."
"For what?"
"For Lord Joffrey."
"What are you talking about?"
"He is a liar, and a stupid, arrogant, golden-haired bastard. And he hurt my friend for no reason!"
"Arya!" Ned shouted.
Arya became terrified, dropping her meat knife to the floor.
Ned marched all the way up to her, taking her by the scruff of her neck and lifting her up from her chair.
"That is enough. Far enough. We have just returned, and you act like this? Go to your chambers. We'll speak of this later. And you will stay and remain there for the next three days. No exceptions."
His voice was like ice in his command. His daugher had to finally learn her lesson. Again.
Arya froze like stone. Then she dropped her fork to the ground as well, seemed to turn to fast crumbling stone, and then to a growing of some sort deep inside, like the growing red furious rush of a volcano inside her blood, but then slowly turned her head down instead, and made for the stairway, as Jory accompanied her with heavy steps without a second word.
"The fork, Arya! Pick up your fork before you leave!" Septa Mordane called after her. She pretended not to hear it, as they slid out of the archway and up the stairs of the keep.
"Leave it.", Ned said, slumping down in his chair close to Robb and Sansa. He was tired, tired still from the long journey, and from all of his roudy children, oh so tired.
Robb made his best to try and lighten his temper somewhat, at least.
"Gerion said that he's become a double so good swordsman from our journey, Father. He reckons that he has crossed swords with opponents from four or five of the Seven Kingdoms now, the Crownlands, Dorne, the Riverlands, the Iron Islands and the North, and only has three left."
Ned tried his best to smile somewhat, but it did not turn out as he planned, looking more like a tired frown.
"That is good", he only said. "Certainly..."
He finished his meal, took a large swallow of ale, told the children to return to their chambers, and joined Jory up in his solar for another mug of ale, or two. Or three, perhaps, gods save me... I am turning into Robert.
...
Alyn woke him in the morning, at the hour of the hedgehog, as he'd been instructed. Ned woke up well-rested enough to start his day in a goodly manner. Today the Red Keep wakes back up again,with my true return, body and mind, he told himself. Today would be better, he hoped.
He broke his fast on a great bowl of porridge, bread, fried bacon, eggs and fish, along with water and a mug of light ale, as his children played and made ruckus around him. Without their Mother to tell them off, Septa Mordane had her hands full. Then he walked up to his solar, ready for managing the day's work.
His great manganian wooden desk stood before him, a mahoggany table carved by the best woodworkers in King's Landing ever since his first time on the throne, some fourteen years ago. On it lay the many letters and parchments that Ser Barristan had left for him in his absence.
There was some quarrel between Blackwood and Bracken again, over the village Blackbuckle and the small hill known as Missy's Teats or Barba's Teats, depending on who one asked, as the seed of King Aegon the Unworthy's loins continued to create troubles more than a hundred years after his death.
Other than that, there were some typical fights and robberies along the Street of Steel again, wherein the thieves had been caught by the City Watch, and currently stuck inside the castle dungeons, which he would deal with personally later, as well as troubles with robbers along the Gold Road, three lost or presumed missing cargo ships from the Free Cities bearing fruits, spices and wine, which had not yet made their way to their port – the first sure signs of late summer storms ravaging the south of the Narrow Sea, according to the notes of Lord Wylis – the death of old Lord [ ] in [The Westerlands?], from the recent heatstroke apparently, as well as the birth of some Freys, twins apparently, a large skirmish in Dorne erupting in a small attack towards the old sept at Sunspear, which had been beaten bloodily back by the city guard after a half day, however, and finally a decree of raised tolls by 40 % on wheat and barley coming from The Vale.
Is this poor Lysa's work, or some other sudden meddler who is taking charge of her in her grief? He thought to himself. Prices would rise, now in late summer, surely, but 40 %... That was too much than reasonable, he thought.
Then there was the telling of how they had chosen to pay for a spectaculary large shark – twelve feet and six inches, if the measurements could be believed – which some fishermen had caught down at the docks of the Fishmarket by the [River/Mud ] Gate. An extravagance, in truth, though Ned supposed it was not as bad as that. The price seemed not altogether too high. 2600 golden dragons, after some haggling back and forth. A large sum, to be sure, but it was of great appreciation to the people, heightening the popularity of the king's rule, as it had been proclaimed a sign of his good and just rule over land as well as the waters of his realm, and it had also apparently kept the servants' quarters fed for a good six days, saving them the expensive cost of cow meat exported from the fertile hages around Rosby.
King Eddard Stark put down the parchment again after reading, and reached for a glass of fresh lemonwater from his large caraff that one of the servants had placed at his desk earlier before his entrance. He was thankful for that it was at least not any more than all that the letter contained. It said nothing about Daenerys, or any of Littlefinger's schemes with the Velaryons which he had spoken to him about the last time before he had left. And aside from being in the care of Lysa, the Vale seemed to be more or less stable after Jon Arryn's passing. He had not been there for the past fourteen years, after all, instead entrusting it to Bronze Yohn and others doing the ruling for him from afar.
Jon's own family was the bigger issue, however. He only prayed that the boy, young Lord Robert, would grow up big and strong, like his father, in spite of no longer having him around in this life. He was the warden of the East, now after his father's death, and as such needed to be strong, surely, for the safety of his people and the kingdoms, Ned thought.
He told a servant to declare a meeting of the Small Council after noon, and then got down to the dining hall to get himself a bite to eat. He ordered meat and a turnip salad from the kitchens, as it was soon served to him. Robb, Quentyn, Gerion and Matthys Cassel came to have some as well, but Sansa and all the other girls were still in the common hall sewing and talking, not feeling very hungry in the warm heat of the day.
…
The Small Council meeting was convened around an hour or two later, and all present expressed their gratitude that the King was finally back at the Red Keep again.
"I thank the seven gods and the old ones alike that you have returned, Your Grace", Ser Wylis Manderly said. "We have longed for your just hammer of judgement to return to these halls, just like the Father above."
"Indeed", Grand Maester Pycelle agreed, and Lord Gyles mumbled something along the lines as well. "And we all pray deeply for the soon and safe return of the Queen and Prince Bran and Prince Rickon."
"You are most kind, my lords. Now perhaps we should start the meeting. What are the points of consideration ever since my absence?"
"Apart from the continuing feud between Blackwood and Bracken... ", Grand Maester Pycelle said, "and the... various other matters which were forwarded to Your Grace in our letters... The most important upcoming event should be the arrival of Lord Tywin, to take up his rule as Hand."
"Yes", Ned agreed, nodding with the severity of the task at hand. "Certainly. We shall have to make preparations for it."
"I am told that Lord Tywin will be expecting a tourney to mark his ascension to the position as Hand. Not an unreasonable proposition, if I may say so, Your Grace..." Pycelle said.
Ned thought about it.
No, of course it was not, and the coffers were well-stocked, as far as he had heard the last time. Surely such a thing could be managed, for the pride of Lord Tywin as well as the joy of smallfolk, knights and lords alike, although he personally had never been a great one for tourneys himself.
"Certainly", he replied, feigning a slight interest. "Have we any suggestions?"
"Lord Tywin writes that he suggests the traditional tournament at lance, sword and morning star, as well as archery and a melée, if it would please the King."
"Mm", Littlefinger nodded, shifting in his seat and angling his neck forth, intrigued as if he was tasting the money already. "How much?"
Pycelle took the letter and gave it to Ned, reaching across the table as far as he could, as Lord Baelish acted middleman and passed it onto him, stretching his brown sleeve striped with white to Ned's own hand.
He took the letter in hand, carefully reading through it before giving a reply.
"40 000 gold dragons to the champion of the tourney. 20 000 to the runner up. 10 000 to the third place. 20 000 to the best archer. 20 000 to the winner of the melée." Ned was slightly taken aback. "Gods be good..." He said.
"Can the crown suffice to pay out such a reward?" Pycelle enquired.
"I should think so", Lord Gyles responded, coughing slightly as he took up his parchments.
"Yes... Hmm... If Lord Tywin were to pay some small portion of the winnings... Perhaps a quarter or fifth of it, then... It would not bear down too much on the royal treasury within the coming four or five moons. As long as there are no unforeseen large expenses after that, of course", Gyles said.
"Lord Tywin writes here that he is willing to pay 2/3 of the cost himself", Ned said. "A large sum..."
"Indeed", Littlefinger nodded [instämmande]. "And a wise man would do his best to not be indebted to the Lannisters. As they are, as we all know, known for their payment of debts..."
His words hinted at many things. Ned knew that he was right. He had thought so himself, and told Lord Baelish the same himself several years back. It was an old point of kenning between them.
"Perhaps we can lower the amounts somewhat. 30 000 for the champion, 15 000 for the runner up, and 15 000 for the best archer.", King Eddard said.
"No winnings for third place?" Littlefinger asked.
"If we can keep ourselves from it", Ned replied.
"And what of the melée?" Grand Maester Pycelle inclined.
"If it is for my own sake, or for the commonfolk, then I don't need to have such a high price for it. Perhaps 10 000, or less. Skill can be rewarded in other ways. By becoming a member of the royal household guard, for one."
Grand Maester Pycelle nodded, seemingly pleased with the idea.
"Excellent, Your Grace. I am sure that it will capture the strive for valor in the hearts of many young men."
"More so than gold?..." Littlefinger jested.
"We are already plenty indebted to Lord Tywin, if I don't misrecall", Ned said, scratching at his hair in the heat as he felt himself becoming sweaty already, now that he was back at the Keep and reminded of how warm the throne room and the adjoining Small Council chamber always was.
Nine long years of crackling warm summer, stuck in this very same room, he marvelled to himself at his own and the others' composure when he thought back to all the endless hours they had spent here over the years, much the same as they still did now, although he knew full well that the alternative would have been – and might in only a couple of years prove to be – far worse.
"How much is it?" He asked.
Lord Gyles consulted his parchments, turning over the pages of the thick binding of the book.
"Let me see..." He coughed. "Hmm... Around 60 000 gold dragons, I do believe. The exact numbers, according to this, seem to be 60 435 golden dragons."
Ned looked at Lord Gyles apprehensively, then nodded. Then he turned to Littlefinger, who knew what he meant without a second look given.
"That was... Also my recollection, Your Grace. Although a slight miscredence might be given for the usury of the 15000 golden dragons lended in order to fix the reparations around the Gate of the Gods and the Lion's Gate, as well as the extra costs attached to that of the last gold transport from the Rock. According to my old calculations, it was only 15 % a moon, but Lord Tywin's messenger assured Lord Gyles recently that it was as high as 25 %. Opinions between the Crown and Casterly Rock seem to differ on that account..."
Littlefinger had previously been Master of Coin, serving for near two years, but Ned had been forced to take him off the Small Council due to his irresponsible loaning from all too many sources at once, although primarily some houses in the Vale as well as Lord Tywin and the Iron Bank, as well as due to other reasons. As Lord Gyles had only held the position for a little over ten moons, however, Littlefinger was still nonetheless important in reporting the reckonings of previous goings-on with the treasury stretching back into his time at the position.
"Yes... " Lord Gyles mumbled, "Lord Baelish is right, it would seem..."
Ned sighed, looking out across the table.
"To increase our debt with two thirds of the tourney is not a wise choice, regardless of when Lord Tywin expects to have it back. I propose that we will lower the prices for the champions, as I said."
Grand Maester Pycelle took to word.
"Your Grace, please forgive me but I fear I must make my worries heard... Lord Tywin is the wealthiest lord in the Seven Kingdoms. House Lannister is known for its gold all across the land. If he can not pay out as large prices as these at the tournament, but only half those of the famed Great Tournament at Lannisport in 276, then what will the common people think of it?"
"Perhaps that the famed gold mines of the west are not quite as lucrative as they were before...?" Littlefinger japed. "Five thousand years of constant digging will do that to a place."
"I care not for the bribery of the smallfolk's hearts to win their love. I did not partake in the Great Tourney at Lannisport myself, nor did my father Lord Rickard, who was old enough to do so at the time, nor do I believe that many men who participate here will have done. That was an age ago. It is a memory long gone, from long before I won this throne, and if we must lower our standards before the people to have some semblance at bearing it through winter, then so be it. There are more important things to spend our coin on than mock fighting at the end of summer."
"Your Grace, I fully understand your sentiment, but a great tourney is always much appreciated by the people. In the time of old King Aegon, for example, there were most always a tournament going on, when it was not winter time, and even sometimes then. Especially with the warm summer and crimes we've had, it would take the mind of the city off the heat and troubles.", Ser Barristan said.
"Forget the heat and troubles? It would be cheaper to have all the city shipped off to White Harbour for a half-moon then, if a distraction is what they crave", Ser Wylis japed, laughing so that his immense belly shook from it at the edge of the table. "My father can stage a tourney for a tenth of the price Lord Tywin requires, and he will not ask for the money back. Our coffers are full, and glad to be of service to that of the King and House Stark's sake, without any second thoughts about it."
"That is very good, Ser Wylis", Ned said, meeting Ser Wylis' gaze. "As always, your father's support is much appreciated."
"But a tourney... But, a-... a tourney at-... At White Harbour..." said Grand Maester Pycelle, clearly not understanding the earlier jape of Ser Wylis. "Surely it would be better to have the affair strictly between those it concerns? The Crown and Lord Tywin? If not he, who else...?"
"I repose that I still maintain my good connections with the Iron Bank of Braavos", Littlefinger said. clearly seeing a forbidden entrypoint which he must force. "If a third party is indeed to be introduced, and one from the freezing waters away from the capital at that, then perhaps...-"
"My lords..." Ned tried again, heightening his voice somewhat and gathering their attention with the strength of his command. His voice was strong, his determination clear. "I will give my offer to Lord Tywin, such as it is. I think it a generous one when considering the situation. 30 000 for the champion, 15 000 for the runner up, 15 000 for best archer, and 8 000 for the champion of the melée."
Jon Arryn would have agreed, he knew inside his heart. He imagined him floating around somewhere at the sky-high ceiling of the throne room, almost watching over him from his seven heavens, or indeed from the high cloudy mountains of the Vale.
Pycelle seemed to want to say something, but reluctantly lowered his head and bowed, as Littlefinger smiled, his emerald green eyes surveying the length of the table with an amused smile.
"As you say, Your Grace. I am sure that Lord Tywin will be reasonable in the matter."
The gods only know if he will be... Ned thought to himself. Elsewise it will have to be me. … Again.
"Right then. Next on...?" King Eddard asked.
"There is then the matter of the reconstruction of the tourney stands", Pycelle said. "They are in good need of reparations. Many parts of them have not been repaired since the last tourney, for Prince Bran's name day three moons back. Along with all of the other adjoining buildings, of course... A sicktent, the three or four tents for the participants, the entrance tent..."
"Yes, I am well aware of it. What builders are available? And how many?"
"I will look into it", Lord Gyles replied. "My guess would be that we can have twenty builders working on it within a day, and perhaps another twenty or thirty on the next one."
"We will not need more than twenty, I'm sure", Ser Barristan said. "The state of the tourney grounds is not all that bad. Only some broken logs, faded paint, the fabric for the tents... As well as trestles."
"So be it. What would be a fair payment?"
"Perhaps... 20 golden dragons per man?" Ser Wylis suggested.
"Shall we be paying them by the day or by the work?" Lord Gyles asked.
"By the work when it is finished, I hope, else the build will never be complete", Littlefinger smiled.
"By the work", the King confirmed.
"Very good, Your Grace", Lord Gyles said, taking a note of it, and getting another coughing fit on the purchase of it.
"There will have to be letters sent out", Pycelle said. "How many keeps should we send the news to?"
"Not too many", the King said. "The North has no interest in this, I'm sure. Nor would the Iron Islands, or Dorne. I might write simply to Prince Doran at Sunspear, though. Highgarden, perhaps... The Stormlands, for certain. I will write to Robert. And the Vale..."
Shall I have to write to Lysa of this as well in her grief? He thought. Bronze Yohn might be better.
"What of the Riverlands?" Pycelle asked.
"House Blackwood, House Bracken, House Frey, House Vance, House Roote, House Mallister. Tell me if you would think any others later."
Pycelle took notes, scrabbling down the names of the houses with his giant white feather quill.
"Not House Tully, my lord?" He said, troubled in his tone as he looked up at the King.
"No." Ned was decided in his tone. "We can blame Lord Hoster's illness if any should wonder."
"Surely Lord Hoster wants his sickness to be less known as well", Littlefinger enquired.
"Then we make some other reason for it", the King said. "I am sure your rich imagination will come up with something, Lord Baelish." He scoffed, his tone making clear what he thought of it all in truth.
"And the true reason being...?" Ser Wylis asked.
"I would not want the safety of the Princess Daenerys nor her guardians further endangered for the sake of a tourney. I thought that I had already made such things clear, my lords."
"Surely her guardians would feel more of an urge to protect her if they feel included and noted for in the King's and the new Hand's fold?", Littlefinger asked.
"I do not know. Perhaps they would. At any rate: I will not have any further dangers befall the Princess. Certainly not for a simple tourney. May Lord Hoster feel slighted by it or no. The same goes for House Piper, now that she has had her engagement. I shall write as much to Ser Marq."
Pycelle looked troubled with his weary ancient eyebrows, yet accepted the matter.
"Hrmm... Very well, Your Grace..." He mumbled, still writing down the houses on his parchment.
"A wise choice, then, Your Grace", Lord Gyles said amiably.
"We shall have to extend the City Watch with at least two hundred men, if it is possible to find in time for the tourney", the King said then.
"A very wise choice, Your Grace", Ser Barristan said, echoing Gyles's words. "I will speak to Bywater and the other captains of the gates."
The King nodded.
Wise... There is that word again... What should I do with Lysa?
Best simply leave her be, he supposed. If she is to improve herself, she will need long and good time for it.
"Now... On to the next matter then", Grand Maester Pycelle said. "The border conflict between House Blackwood and House Bracken. What shall we do with the settlement of Blackbuckle?"
"We will do the same as with the Honeyholt. Ask the villagers themselves which castle they would prefer to remain with. And hold it for such for the coming three years. After that such long passing of time, a new election might be held for it again."
He had tried a similar approach several times before, both in the Riverlands and along several lands and small villages along the Dornish marches, and Pycelle was well acquainted with the procedure.
"Very good, Your Grace." He nodded. "I shall write for them both to elect a council to oversee the process, a council of... Hm... Shall we say... Nine men, Your Grace?"
"Make it nine, aye", Ned said. "Three from Blackwood, three from Bracken, and three from the village itself. As close to neutral as any men can be said to be, if such might be found."
"Certainly", Pycelle agreed, putting the words to pen and paper for his own recollections later on.
"Now... as for the matter which I would not like to dwell on more than necessary..." the King said. "Lord Baelish. Have you had any news from your sources of Lord Varys's whereabouts?"
Littlefinger looked up at the king in as solemn a face as a smirking man could said to have.
"To my regrets... I have not, Your Grace. Or, that is to say... I have had much talk of it, whispers and rumours about the eunuch's passing through both Lys and Pentos of late... But nothing conclusive of his whereabouts at this exact moment. Nor indeed of the past fortnight, at all."
"Very well then. I see that we shall have to wait a little while longer for these results you promised me, Baelish."
"I do apologize, Your Grace. I had hoped for far better", he said, clearly somewhat ashamed at his failure to gather the necessary information.
"So be it. On to the next."
"There is a sickness of some unknown source in the Rainwood", Ser Wylis said. "Hundreds of men, women and children have been afflicted, many of them dead. More are arriving each day along the eastern coast roads on their way towards Storm's End. Lord Robert has decided to stop the roads for the moment, but many are wandering through the Kingswood and up into the Crownlands. What shall we do?"
"Have any been sighted north of the Blackwater Rush? ... Baelish?"
"Not yet, but I fear it may not be long. The bridges will need better guarding, if we are to escape this illness from reaching the city before long.", Lord Baelish said.
The King thought about it for a moment, then replied.
"Have the main bridge over the Rush fortified with double the amount of guards for now. And close off the roads to the south. We will allocate peacekeepers of some two hundred men for the moment. Though not from the Watch. Take them from the Crown's own holdings. Have them wear their helms and shawls all the time, and tell them not to take them off within range of those that are sick. Then we shall see what becomes of this. … And I shall speak to Robert about it as well."
"Very good, Your Grace", Grand Maester Pycelle approved. "We must all pray that it is only a passing disease, over within the coming moon."
"Indeed", the King said, nodding.
"Is that all?" He said then.
Everyone looked around the table to see whether there was something more to add to it.
"Not even out of your mouth, Lord Baelish? Or are you choosing to wait again until I have stood up from my chair this time again?"
Littlefinger laughed at the chiding. "Indeed, I promise that it is a no, Your Grace. As I said... my little birds were numb with information that was useful, to my regret. And if you have not changed your mind regarding our latest talk..." His green eyes glimmered slightly with the tiniest suggestion.
"I have not."
"Then there is surely not much else to be said,... Your Grace."
He bowed deep down, and Ned prayed to all the gods that it was true this time around.
"Very well then. In that case... I hereby declare the meeting at an end. We will convene again in five days."
He slammed the table with his hammer, and stood from his chair. They all arose from the table.
...
Littlefinger walked away towards his own way, as did Lord Gyles, Ser Wylis, and all the others.
Ser Barristan joined him at his side as he went up towards his solar.
"A long journey to Winterfell and back, was it, Your Grace...?" Ser Barristan asked him politely, as they made their way up the long [ ] of the stairs, his white cloak streaming behind him.
King Eddard Stark sighed, taking his grip around the handle of the stairway as he turned towards Ser Barristan and gave the man a look as if he had just been through a war.
"You have no idea, ser."