Jon Arryn

Lysa was still coldly furious with him. However, he cared not a whit. He had known, instinctively, that it had been the right thing to do, that sending his son away from King's Landing was the only thing to do.

His wife had not taken it well, had cried and screamed and then shouted hysterically that without her young Sweetrobin would die, that only she could take care of her baby, that only she loved him. And there had been a look of such hatred on her face that he was quite taken aback and had ordered her confined to her rooms until she recovered her balance. Which had taken some time. Although she had finally warmed a little recently, after Baelish had begged to have a word with her.

Jon had breathed easier once word had arrived that young Robert had reached White Harbour, although he admitted that he would not truly relax until Ned sent word that the boy had arrived safe and sound at Winterfell. And why had Lord Manderly sent so large an escort with them?

He tapped a finger against the side of the window that he had been staring out for the past few minutes and then shrugged internally. He had no answers and besides he had a meeting of the Small Council to attend.

When he reached the room he was unsurprised to find Stannis Baratheon there. He was invariably early for such meetings, as if he had an internal sundial. Robert had once actually said that, only he had been far more… colourful in his terminology.

"My Lord Hand," the Master of Ships said, standing and bowing slightly.

"Lord Baratheon," Jon replied with a bow of his own. There was no-one else there, but Jon knew that it would not do to mention the Great Matter there. He had his suspicions about the place. Too many dark corners, too many corniches, too many fireplaces. Too many potential ears. And yet the great matters of the kingdom were discussed here. Who listened to what and reported to who? Oh, this terrible game they all played, this game of thrones.

Hearing feet he turned to the passageway to the right. Pycelle, unless he missed his guess, judging from the shuffling gait. And sure enough it was the old Grand Maester, clutching something in his hand. A message?

"My Lord Hand," the older man puffed weakly, his wattles jiggling a little, "A message from His Grace the King. And a passing strange one too."

Jon frowned and took the proffered piece of parchment. Well, it was certainly written in Robert's hand. It was near-illegible, meaning that he had either been extremely drunk or incredibly excited when he had written it. 'Staying at Storm's end for a few more days. Have found lost Durrandon relic. Lost Durrandon tombs too. Robert, King of Westeros etc. etc. etc.' Yes, 'passing strange' was one way to put it.

He handed it over to Stannis, who looked at it with a deepening scowl. "Lost Durrandon relic?" Stannis asked with as much incredulity as Jon thought he was capable of expressing. "What nonsense is this? Lost Durrandon tombs as well? Preposterous. I know that castle like the back of my hand. I grew up there and I was besieged there. There are no lost tombs there that I know of. Just the Baratheon ones."

"And yet that is what His Grace claims. Well – we must wait for his return."

The sound of slippered feet could be heard approaching and Varys appeared. A Varys who looked as puzzled as he ever appeared. Seeing the others he seemed to smooth his countenance and bowed slightly to them all. "My Lords, Grand Maester Pycelle, I trust that you are all well?"

Stannis, whom Jon knew loathed the Spider, nodded shortly before returning to his seat. "Well enough," he grated. "Better once the King returns from Storm's End."

Varys nodded and then fluttered his hands a little as he himself sat at the same time as the others. "Has any word of His Grace arrived? His trip to his ancestral home was… somewhat precipitate."

"Here," grunted Stannis as he handed over the message. "See what you make of that."

The Master of Whispers looked at the parchment, seemed to re-read it and then looked up, his brow furrowed. "Durrandon relic? Durrandon tombs? I was unaware that such things existed."

"They don't," Stannis ground out as he looked at Varys. "We'll have to wait and hear what he found, but I know nothing of any such things ever even being suspected there."

There was a short pause whilst Varys seemed to absorb that information. "That would fit in with the odder snippets that my little birds have brought me on this day," he muttered. "Which have been… odd indeed."

"I see that this meeting of the smaller version of the Small Council has already started," a voice said to one side and Petyr Baelish swept in to take his place at the table, placing his book of accounts down to one side. "What word of the King?"

Varys passed the parchment down, the Master of Coin squinted at it and then looked up. "Relic? Tombs? At Storm's End?"

"I am sure that His Grace will enlighten us when he returns with Lord Renly," Jon said, taking charge of the meeting. "Now, Varys – you said that you had odd information?"

The eunuch nodded. "Apparently there has been a great meeting between the Brackens and the Blackwoods at the Red Fork, fifty miles East of Riverrun."

"Oho!" Baelish chuckled, "Another attempt at a truce? How many died this time? A dozen? A score? Those two families will hate each other until the end of time."

But Varys greeted this with a slight clearing of the throat. "Actually, Lord Baelish, not one man died. They seem to have met and discussed most seriously an end to the enmity between the two houses. Sand then they, erm, swore a great oath to, erm, protect the land against…" He wound down.

"Against?" Jon prompted gently as they all stared at the eunuch.

"Against the Others," Varys finally said, looking around the table. "My little birds were very exact on that term, because I questioned it."

Oddly enough it was Pycelle who first spoke next. "Preposterous! The Others are but a Northern myth!"

"Ah, Lord Varys, I fear that your little birds have led you astray," Baelish said with a slow shake of his head. "The Others? Rank madness."

"Normally I would agree with you," Varys said with more than a little hauteur, "If it were not for my other news. From Essos I hear that the sellsword company the Company of the Rose are seeking passage across the Narrow Sea. Apparently they claim that their time of exile is over."

"Time of exile? They are hardly Westerosi anymore, they are the descendants of those that would not bend the knee to the Targaryens when they obtained the surrender of the North," Stannis exclaimed. "Why would they want to return? Who is paying them?"

"Apparently no-one," Varys said quietly. "It is most… confusing."

"Then it is my turn to add to the confusion," Jon broke in. "I have had word of two most peculiar things. The first is from the Vale. Apparently some days ago the leaders of the Mountain Clans appeared before the Bloody Gate. All ten of them."

This seemed to stun Baelish, who as a Vale lord knew how bizarre this news was. "Impossible! All ten?"

"All ten, Lord Baelish – and you know how likely that is."

"Not even a little," Baelish muttered. Then he looked at him, his eyes narrowed. "What did they want?"

"Apparently to say that they will return. That the Eyrie should not think that their absence means that their battle for their old rights has been suspended."

"Absence, my Lord Hand?" Varys asked, his eyebrows heading upwards again.

"According to the Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully, who was at the Bloody Gate, the Mountain Clans said that they are going to the North. That the Others have returned, and that they are heeding some kind of call." He looked at their faces. "Had this news come from anyone else than the Blackfish I would have thought them mad. However – he is reliable."

Another silence. Pycelle broke it. "Preposterous!" But it sounded weak.

"Grand Maester Pycelle," Jon said eventually. "Is it true that the Citadel at Oldtown has announced that the glass candles can now be relit?"

The joggle of the wattles gave them all their answer before the wretched man said another word. "I have sent a raven back to the Citadel," he said eventually. "Asking them to confirm that message. As it is insane! Magic has gone from this world!"

Jon looked around the table. And then he saw that Varys was pale and trembling, his eyes on something that no-one else could see. "Lord Varys? Are you well?"

The others looked at the eunuch as well, who finally noticed that he was being stared at and offered them all a weak smile. "Your pardon my lords," he said shakily. "Bad memories. Talk of magic… brings on bad memories."

"Perhaps," Pycelle wheezed, "You might need bloodletting my lord Varys! Yes, looking at you I can see that your humors are out of balance."

The eunuch shot a dirty look at the Grand Maester. "My humors, Grand Maester, are exactly where they need to be and do not need correcting with a bloodletting."

Pycelle leant back in his chair and humphed with disgust. "You know nothing about modern medicine," he muttered. "Plus I have a new bloodletting device. With six blades!"

"If I may return to the purpose of this meeting," Jon broke in, "Grand Maester, the messages about the glass candles have gone out to every major house in Westeros and even some of the Free Cities by now. I hardly think that it can be a mistake – not without having been corrected by now."

Pycelle seemed to slump a little in his chair at this, whilst Varys closed his eyes for a long moment, but then reopened them as he seemed to rally. "What would you have us do, my Lord Hand?" The eunuch asked the question in a very steady voice.

"Something… bizarre is happening and we need to find out exactly what. And the King will soon be returning from Storm's End, so that we can get to the bottom of what he found there. In the meantime we still have to ensure the smooth running of the Realm."

And so they plunged back into the business of the Realm, Baelish with his woeful accounts, Pycelle with his expostulations about the health of the city and then Stannis with his growled update on the current state of the Royal Fleet. As he watched them all Jon wondered about them. Stannis was the one man he could trust. Pycelle seemed to have ties to the Queen – thank the Gods she was not present, although Pycelle would soon relay what they had discussed back to her – and Baelish… well, he was still having doubts about the man. Yes, he was very skilled at finding revenue in the most unlikely places, but he seemed to be, well, far too amused by things. As well as on no-one's side but his own.

That said, something seemed to be worrying the smooth little man a little today. There were small, tiny indications – a tap of a finger on the table, a look at the window occasionally. What could be wrong? Jon shrugged a little internally. He knew not.

They ran through the meeting and then as they went their separate ways a man in Baratheon livery appeared out of a doorway to one side and then silently bowed to Stannis and passed on a piece of paper. Stannis took it silently, nodded and then looked around them. It was just Jon, Stannis Baratheon and the messenger.

"Ser Davos Seaworth has returned," Stannis muttered quietly. "And he requests an urgent – and most secret – meeting with us both."