~~~King's Landing~~~
~~~Small council, Red Keep ~~~
Varys POV
The young falcon has spread his wings.
And in doing so, he has become dangerous.
I did expect great things from him, but things have gotten out of control.
The problem is simple. I cannot see him.
Every little bird I sent to the Vale has vanished, like they never existed. Not even bodies were found.
"Lord Arryn, perhaps we could borrow from House Lannister," Petyr Baelish spoke in his vicious voice. "The crown prince's tourney can't be done with empty coffers!"
He is another problem. Unlike the others, he knows how to play the game.
That alone makes him dangerous, since he knows when to make which move.
"I agree with Lord Baelish's advice, but I would prefer House Arryn over Lannister any day," Lord Stannis said, his tone firm. The younger brother of King Robert and Master of Ships rarely spoke without reason.
The king spends a fortune on his wines, the new drinks from the Vale, and endless tourneys. The crown bleeds more than it earns.
He has beggared the realm.
"Lord Stannis, I wish I could help you, truly, I do, but House Arryn is in no position to lend coin to the crown," Lord Arryn said, trying to remain composed.
Of course not, I thought. His son spends coin as though he sits atop a second Casterly Rock. Distilleries, shipyards, roads, docks, more ships, lending to the riverlords, and now the Iron Circle makes weapons in bulk.
If the Lannisters did all that at once, they might also start feeling pain in their pockets.
The Vale grows richer day by day while the Iron Throne bleeds.
"Are you certain, Lord Hand? Last I heard, House Arryn sits on a mountain of silver," Lord Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, said with a casual smile.
"Where does all that silver go, I wonder?" Renly Baratheon asked with a lazy smile. "And the coins you earn from trade—selling clothes, rum, vodka, wine, food, sugar—hell, what is it you don't sell?"
"The Vale does not pay taxes to the crown since Robert took the debt. How much could House Arryn even spend?" Lord Stannis asked, frustration clear in his voice. He despised the idea of the crown borrowing from its own subjects.
"The boy builds towns, roads, and let us not forget the Iron Circle, the multiple investments, the navy of House Arryn, then docks for it," Baelish added smoothly. "All expensive undertakings."
Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat. "Perhaps Lord Tywin—"
"No," Stannis cut in sharply. "We will not crawl to Casterly Rock again."
"I would beg to differ. For the first time, I agree with the old man. If House Arryn cannot lend, we have few options left," Baelish said, a faint smile on his face.
"We already owe Lord Tywin two million. What's another two hundred thousand?"
"Two hundred thousand… for a tourney?" Lord Arryn asked, disbelief clear in his voice.
"Not just any tourney. The crown prince's nameday. It must be grand. The queen insists," Petyr replied as he opened his account book.
"Of course she does," Stannis muttered, his expression darkening.
"Lord Arryn, send word to your son. Ask him for two hundred thousand gold dragons," Stannis said, his eyes distant, lost in thought.
"I am afraid he cannot. As you heard, the Vale is preparing for war, and the entire cost is borne by House Arryn alone," Lord Arryn replied, a faint smile on his lips.
"Ah, young blood. So eager to prove himself," Renly said with a chuckle.
"Send word anyway," Stannis said sharply. "If he cannot provide, we turn to the Tyrells or the Faith, but not west. If we have to, we will ask the Iron Bank to fill in."
"My lord, borrowing from the Iron Bank… I would suggest rethinking such a step. After all, they always collect their debts," I suggested. The Iron Bank was just not a great option.
"Lannisters are a better option than the Iron Bank," I added.
"Yes, the king is Lord Tywin's son-in-law. I am sure he would be more than happy to lend for the crown prince's tourney," Grand Maester Pycelle spoke.
"I say you all are wasting your time discussing from whom to borrow. Robert is the king of the Seven Kingdoms," Renly joined in the conversation as he took sips of red wine.
"Even the king has to pay his debts, Lord Renly," Petyr spoke with a smirk forming on his wicked face as he continued writing.
Stannis didn't respond to Renly at all, but stared at him with anger as if he would lunge forward and slit his throat the next moment.
"You think all this is a joke, don't you, Renly? You are Master of Laws and Lord of Storm's End. Stop acting like a boy," Stannis said to Renly while looking at him.
"I say we all should go to our king and talk some sense into him," Lord Stannis added.
"Robert would—" Lord Arryn tried to speak, only to be cut off by Renly.
"Stannis, I am far more competent than you think you are," Renly said with anger after Stannis' harsh scolding.
Stannis scoffed, "I held Storm's End against a host of fifty thousand strong while you were shitting in your pants, boy."
To all this, Renly only smiled, ignoring his remarks.
"For that, I am grateful," Renly said as his smile grew.
I have a bad feeling about this.
"Thank you for keeping my castle safe," he added with a smirk.
He shouldn't have said that. Not getting Storm's End even after being next in line and all the service he had done to Robert during the rebellion has left a deep scar on him.
Lord Stannis got up from his chair in anger, his hands on the table, gripping it as tightly as they could, as if he was trying to tear the table apart.
"Enough, both of you. You are members of the Small Council and lords, so behave like them instead of little children," Lord Arryn interjected, stopping the argument from turning into a brawl.
"Lord Varys, you seem rather quiet today," Petyr spoke, trying to break the tension between Renly and Stannis.
"What advice could a Master of Whisperers give about crown expenses?" I said with a smile.
"Though I do have some news, my little birds tell me House Bracken and House Blackwood have had some violent interactions," I said, trying to distract the Small Council from Pycelle to another matter.
"Again?" Renly complained, annoyed by how often it's occurring now.
"What is the old fish doing? This is the third time in the past four months that Brackens and Blackwoods have exchanged swords. Can't he keep his bannermen in control?" Lord Stannis said.
"I wish he could, but it seems House Tully's hold in the Riverlands is weakening again, despite their influence growing for a short time after the marriages of his daughters," Petyr Baelish said.
"Why? What happened?" Lord Stannis asked, confused.
Artys, that's what happened to the Riverlands.
Artys, while on his recent journey to Winterfell, made multiple stops in the Riverlands, striking deals with riverlords, which is making them richer—and with wealth comes power.
He seems to favor riverlords, especially Mooton and Darry more than others. Even Crakehall is falling into it.
"Perhaps age has caught up with Lord Hoster," Petyr suggested with a smile.
He was lying. He knows the reason; his spy network is only second to mine.
Suddenly, the gates of the Small Council room opened, and a guard walked in with a piece of paper in his hand and handed it to Lord Arryn.
"Did His Grace send it?" Lord Stannis asked while eyeing the paper in Lord Arryn's hand.
"No, my lord, a falcon came just now with this," the guard replied while bowing a little.
Only one man in the Seven Kingdoms sends letters with a falcon.
"You can leave," Lord Arryn ordered as he opened the page.
After reading it, Lord Arryn grew concerned.
"Now what has happened?" Renly asked, bored from all the conversation as he bit an apple.
"Artys has called the banners," Jon Arryn said quietly. "The war against the hill tribes has begun."
"So it begins," Littlefinger murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Grand Maester Pycelle leaned forward. "Forgive me, Lord Hand, but why have you granted your son such freedom and responsibility at so young an age?"
I see, trying to gather intel for the Citadel. The old folks don't like what's happening in the Vale either.
The relation between the Citadel and House Arryn has grown sour since Artys took command.
"Grand Maester, Lord Arryn's decision to give Artys the power to rule is not strange. After all, he is his heir. Yes, he is young, but so far he has proved himself to be competent," Petyr cut in, trying to do his usual task—support Lord Arryn in the Small Council.
"In fact, I would say the most competent heir in the realm," he added.
Pycelle continued carefully. "Maester Coleman died mysteriously, and the four maesters sent after him… three under questionable circumstances, and one executed by the young lord himself."
He is trying to hint at something dangerous.
The room grew still. I could see Lord Arryn getting angered by his words.
Petyr Baelish smiled thinly. "Maester Coleman was caught spying on House Arryn, sending information about the silver mines and the secret of making rum, vodka, and other drinks to someone, though it was never said who, but we all know where it was intended for," Petyr spoke mysteriously, putting an accusation of spying on the Citadel.
"As for the others… old men die, Grand Maester. Unless you are accusing the heir to the Eyrie of murder?" he added calmly.
Those few words meant a lot.
It was a vile accusation to throw on a lord and could cause the Grand Maester to lose his head.
He did kill them. One time, I understand, but four times in a row, counting Maester Coleman, the maester of the Eyrie when he arrived… though there is no evidence for it.
"Is that what you mean, Grand Maester? Are you suggesting my son of killing maesters? My son!" Jon Arryn shouted.
Looks like fatherly instinct kicked in, though I should say his protectiveness and him being so agreeable to all Artys' requests clearly fall back to one thing—
Rowena Arryn, his late wife.
Beyond that, I could not possibly understand any reason for him being this lenient with his son. Even in sleep, he still calls for her name.
The woman might have died, but she still lives inside Lord Arryn's heart and will continue to live until his last breath.
Why do men do this, for a woman? I could never understand.
How could I? I am no longer a man myself.
I have lost my sword.
"No, of course not, that's not what I meant," the Grand Maester said in fear.
Let me help this old man a little. I need him alive. If he dies, the Citadel might send someone competent, and that would become a problem.
I just hope Young Griff is doing well. He is my last hope that could bring peace to the realm—a king who truly cares about his people.
"My lords," I said softly, "I bring word from the east. News of the Targaryen children…"
Targaryens are the only topic that could get all of their attention.
"They are no threat to us—a little boy and a little girl across the other side of the Narrow Sea. What could they do? Hatch dragons and come burn us?" Renly joked.
"They do have a claim to the Iron Throne, and must I remind you the loyalist lords still wait for them to return?" I replied.
"Then let them wait. If they dare to cross the Narrow Sea, I will have their heads before they could even set foot on the Seven Kingdoms," spoke the Master of Ships, Lord of Dragonstone.
POV ends