Chapter 8: Arrival at the Capital
Ages:
Pycelle: 67
Barristan Selmy: 71
Varys: 48
Syrio Forel: 44
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At King's Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms…
The royal party reaches King's Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Home to almost more than half a million people, King's Landing was the largest city in the realm. Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon had already gone ahead of the group en route to the Red Keep via the Gate of the Gods, one of the seven entrances into the capital, all while being greeted by the city's smallfolk and nobles alike. Some extended their warm welcome to the Oathkeeper, others offered their condolences for what happened to his brother Joffrey.
"Look, Mother! It's the Oathkeeper!"
"Seven blessings to you, Prince Daveth."
"Welcome home, Prince Daveth!"
"How was your day, my lord?"
"Sorry about your brother, my Prince."
"Oathkeeper!"
"Your family is always in our thoughts, Oathkeeper."
Daveth politely bowed his head at the people coming to extend their greetings whilst remaining on his horse, riding through the streets of King's Landing.
"Some things never change," Daveth sighs exhausted.
He soon arrives at the gates to the Red Keep, a patrol of the City Watch bowing before Daveth and they soon open the gates for him. As he dismounts, a royal steward arrives to greet him.
"Welcome, Prince Daveth," he says. "Grand Maester Pycelle has already called forth a meeting of the Small Council."
Daveth nodded. "I see. And the others?"
"They're on their way now, my lord. Shall I tell them to postpone the meeting?"
"That won't be necessary," he shook his head. "It is imperative that the Small Council should not be delayed. I'll go inform them myself."
"Understood."
Before stepping inside, Daveth looks back. "Also, be a good man and extend a proper welcome to the new Hand of the King. He'll be arriving at the main gate shortly with his household guards."
The steward nods. "We'll begin making the necessary arrangements at once, my lord."
Once that business was taken care of, Daveth sets off to the Small Council chambers in the Red Keep's Great Hall. The Small Council was the royal institution which serves to advise the King of the Seven Kingdoms and carry out his commands, helping him to govern the kingdoms. The King chairs the council and takes their advice under consideration, but it is he who has the final word.
Unfortunately, since King Robert Baratheon was more interested in drinking, whoring and hunting, was notoriously uninterested in matters of governance and only attended three meetings throughout his entire sixteen year reign. As such, Robert let his small council govern the kingdoms – with Daveth often presiding over the meetings in his father's stead these last nine years with the late Lord Hand Jon Arryn advising him.
But that was then. An old Hand; an old life. Now the realm had a new Hand of the King, and it was now time to get things underway for Daveth to ensure this one's survival. The court politics of King's Landing can be rather dangerous to the uninitiated after all.
######
At the gates…
Eddard Stark rode through the towering bronze doors of the Red Keep sore, tired, hungry, and irritable. He was still on his horse, dreaming of a long hot soak, a roast fowl, and a featherbed, when the king's steward told him that Grand Maester Pycelle had convened an urgent meeting of the small council. The honor of the Hand's presence was requested as soon as it was convenient.
The royal steward sent by Prince Daveth arrived to greet Eddard.
"Welcome, Lord Stark. The Crown Prince extends his greetings and hospitality. Grand Maester Pycelle has called a meeting of the Small Council. The honor of your presence is requested."
Eddard was tired. He turned to look at Jory, his daughters Sansa and Arya, along with the rest of his household guard.
"Get the girls settled in," he ordered. "I'll be back in time for supper. And Jory, you go with them."
"Yes, my lord," Jory obeyed and helped the Stark girls settle in.
"The Prince has given you Lord Arryn's former chambers in the Tower of the Hand," the steward said. "If you'd like to change into something more appropriate…"
Eddard gives him a blank stare before taking off his gloves; the steward realizing the Stark patriarch's disinterest and has him escorted to the Small Council chambers.
######
At the Great Hall of the Red Keep…
Eddard Stark walks through the Great Hall, where in front lays the Iron Throne. The seat of power of the ruling royal House of Westeros, where it is said that the legendary Aegon the Conqueror himself had forged the throne itself from the 1,000 swords of his conquered enemies during the War of Conquest and melted down by Aegon's dragon Balerion the Black Dread.
As he approached Eddard noticed Jaime Lannister lingering in front of the throne.
"Thank the gods you're here, Stark," he callously greets. "About time we had some northern leadership."
"Glad to see you're protecting the throne," Eddard replied.
"Sturdy old thing. How many kings' asses have polished it, I wonder? What's the line? 'The King shits and the Hand wipes.'"
Eddard looked at Jaime, eye him up and down.
"Very handsome armor," he complemented. "Not a scratch on it."
Jaime smirked with pride and arrogance, feeling quite pleased with himself as a distinguished knight of the Kingsguard. "I know. People have been swinging at me for years, but they always seem to miss."
"You've chosen your opponents wisely then."
"I have a knack for it," Jaime grinned as he approached Eddard. "Must be strange for you coming into this room. I was standing right here when it happened. He was very brave, your brother. Your father too. They didn't deserve to die like that."
Eddard frowned. He had remembered the atrocities committed during King Aerys II Targaryen's reign, and when a raven informed him the Mad King brutally executed both his father and older brother on charges of treason without a fair trial.
"But you just stood there and watched," Eddard remarked coolly.
"500 men just stood there and watched," Jaime corrected. "All the great knights of the Seven Kingdoms. You think anyone said a word, lifted a finger? No, Lord Stark," his grin slowly faded, but his smugness remained. "500 men and this room was silent as a crypt. Except for the screams, of course, and the Mad King laughing. And later… When I watched the Mad King die, I remembered him laughing as your father burned… It felt like justice."
"Is that what you tell yourself at night?" Eddard accused rather curtly. "You're a servant of justice? That you were avenging my father when you shoved your sword in Aerys Targaryen's back?"
Jaime was now no longer smug or arrogant. Instead, his facial expression twisted slightly into a deep frown of irritation, anger and humiliation. "Kingslayer", "Oathbreaker" and "Man without Honor" was Jaime was called by everyone he crossed paths with these past seventeen years. Jaime was still unrepentant about it and felt increasingly frustrated that Eddard still judged him as dishonorable for killing the Mad King, the murder of Eddard's father Rickard and brother Brandon, and for having the nerve to casually seat himself upon the Iron Throne after the brutal Sack of King's Landing was through during the final stages of Robert's Rebellion.
"Tell me," he challenged. "If I'd stabbed the Mad King in the belly instead of the back, would you admire me more?"
Eddard remained unmoved. "You served him well, when serving was safe."
As he brushed past him, Jaime silently clenched his knuckles into a tight fist. Every day he's been forced to endure such mockery from people his House considered inferior.
'A lion shouldn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep,' Jaime thought bitterly. 'By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right?!'
######
At the Small Council chambers…
Eddard finally finds his way to the Small Council chambers where the others are already waiting for him. In attendance, he meets the council members: Lord Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish, the king's Master of Coin and a childhood friend of Eddard's wife Catelyn; Grand Maester Pycelle, the king's elderly adviser in all matters scientific and academic; Lord Renly Baratheon, the youngest of the three Baratheon brothers and Master of Laws; and Varys, a foreign eunuch from the Free Cities of Lys and the Master of Whisperers (the head of the king's intelligence network). Also in attendance was Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon, who stood next to the king's seat at the head of the table, the crowned stage of Baratheon embroidered in gold thread on its pillows.
The chamber was richly furnished. Myrish carpets covered the floor instead of rushes, and in one corner a hundred fabulous beasts cavorted in bright paints on a carved screen from the Summer Isles. The walls were hung with tapestries from Norvos and Qohor and Lys, and a pair of Valyrian sphinxes flanked the door, eyes of polished garnet smoldering in black marble faces.
Varys, the advisor Eddard disliked, accosted him the moment he entered.
"Lord Stark," he greeted.
"Lord Varys."
"I was grievously sorry to hear of your troubles on the Kingsroad," Varys offered his condolences, his hands left powder stains on Eddard's sleeve and smelling as foul and sweet as flowers on a grave. "Prince Daveth told us everything. We are all praying for Prince Joffrey's full recovery."
"A shame you didn't say a prayer for the butcher's son," Eddard replied grimly, which visibly upsets Varys.
He disentangled himself from the eunuch's grip and crossed the room to where Lord Renly stood by the screen, talking quietly with a short man who could only be Littlefinger. Renly had been a boy of ten when Robert won the throne during the rebellion, but he had grown into a man so like his brother that Eddard found it disconcerting. Whenever he saw him, it was as if the years had slipped away and Robert stood before him, fresh from his victory on the Trident.
"Renly!" Eddard smiled, accepting the younger Baratheon's hug. "You're looking well."
"And you look tired from the road," Renly replied as he pulled away. "I told them this meeting could wait another day, but…"
"But we have a kingdom to look after," Petyr finished. "I've hoped to meet you for some time, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me."
"She has, Lord Baelish. I understood you knew my brother Brandon as well."
Petyr gave a weasel-like smile. "All too well. I still carry a token of his esteem from navel to collarbone," he said as he moved his fingers from his stomach to his torso.
He received his terrible injury when he foolishly challenged Brandon Stark to a duel for Catelyn's hand in marriage after her betrothal was announced by her father Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun. Although he survived (at Catelyn's behest since she still thought of Petyr as a little brother), Petyr's insolence caused him to be banished from Riverrun and sent back to the Fingers at the Vale.
"Perhaps you chose a wrong man to duel with," Eddard joked in a chill tone, hoping that would end it. The sly arrogance of Baelish's comment clearly rankled him and he had no time with Petyr's games of dueling with words.
But Petyr shook his head in amusement. "It wasn't the man I chose, my lord. It was Catelyn Tully. A woman worth fighting for, I'm sure you'll agree."
Daveth, watching the two men bickering back and forth, merely groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance.
'Gods have mercy, Littlefinger, would you please shut up?' Daveth thought irritatingly.
"I humbly beg your pardon, my Lord Stark," Pycelle interrupted.
"Grand Maester," Eddard greeted.
Pycelle smiled gently from his seat. Wispy strands of white hair fringed the broad bald dome of his forehead above a kindly face. "How many years has it been? You were a young man."
His maester's collar was no simple metal choker such as Luwin wore, but two dozen heavy chains wound together into a ponderous metal necklace that covered him from throat to breast. The links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum. Garnets and amethysts and black pearls adorned the metalwork, and here and there an emerald or ruby.
"And you served another king," Eddard replied.
Pycelle looked briefly lost for a moment. "Oh, how forgetful of me," he remembered as he reached into his robes to reveal the badge of office for the Hand of the King and handed it to Eddard. "This belongs to you now."
Eddard took the badge, looking at Daveth who nodded at him and motioned for him to take the seat next to him.
"Shall we begin?" Pycelle asked.
"Indeed," Daveth agreed as he sat down, clearing his throat. "This meeting of the Small Council is now called to order on behalf of His Grace, Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
Eddard looked around the chambers, momentarily confused. "We're starting without the King?" he asks rather surprised.
Renly shook his head. "Winter may be coming, but I'm afraid the same cannot be said for my brother."
"His Grace has many cares," Varys chimed in. "He entrusts some small matters to use that we might lighten the load."
Petyr joined in. "We are the lords of small matters here."
"Every decision we make here in this very chamber, Lord Stark, could greatly affect the lives of every person within the Seven Kingdoms," Daveth answers as well, explaining the government cabinet's role. "Whether the task is great or small, it is our duty to ensure that the realm prospers in times of peace or war."
As the others had taken to their accustomed seats, it struck Eddard Stark forcefully that he did not belong here, in this room, with these men. He remembered what Robert had told him in the crypts below Winterfell.
'I am surrounded by flatterers and fools,' Eddard thought. The king had insisted.
He looked down the council table and wondered which were the flatterers and which the fools. He thought he knew already. "We are but six," he pointed out.
Daveth took notice.
"I'm afraid that the Master of Ships, my uncle Lord Stannis Baratheon, had already left to return to the island fortress of Dragonstone not long after Father decided to take us to the North to send for you. As for Ser Barristan Selmy, well… traditionally as Lord Commander of the Kinsguard, Barristan does have a seat on the council but Father chose to exclude him from the talks," he shook his head. "Not that he didn't mind Father's decision, mind you. Ser Barristan… is not one who enjoys discussing politics."
"He rides beside the King as he makes his way through the city," Varys said, "as benefits the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
"Perhaps we had best wait for Ser Barristan and the King to join us," Eddard suggested.
Daveth shrugged. "Then you'll be in for a rather long wait, my lord. And time is a precious resource we cannot afford to waste when it comes to governing the realm."
Renly drew a tightly rolled paper from his green sleeve and laid it on the table.
"What my nephew means to say," Renly announced, "is that my brother has instructed us to stage a tournament in honor of Lord Stark's appointment as Hand of the King."
"Mmm, how much?" both Daveth and Petyr asked.
As the Master of Coin, Petyr's responsibilities were overseeing the kingdom's treasury and other financial concerns. Daveth, meanwhile, dreaded to hear the amount of money this tournament will likely cost. The Hand of the King is not going to be pleased when he learns the truth.
Eddard answered off the scroll of paper. "40,000 gold dragons to the champion of the joust, 20,000 to the runner-up, 20,000 to the winner of the melee competition, and 20,000 to the winning archer."
"100,000 gold dragons," Petyr sighed. No doubt Daveth did the exact same thing, as he was placed his palm over his face.
Grand Maester Pycelle looked to Petyr. "Can the treasury bear such expense?"
"I'll have to borrow it," Petyr replied with a twist of his mouth. "The Lannisters will accommodate, I expect. We already owe Lord Tywin 3 million gold. What's another 80,000?"
Daveth spoke grimly. "45,000 is the total amount the Crown owes to my grandfather," he corrected. "Thankfully, the trade negotiations with the Braavosi and Tyroshi merchant-lords went rather smoothly last month. It should bring our financial problems with Lord Tywin down a tad, but the biggest concern in regards to money is dealing with the amount Father currently owes to the Iron Bank of Braavos."
Eddard was stunned. "Are you telling me the Crown is three million in debt?"
"I'm telling you the Crown was previously six million in debt," Petyr corrected. "If not for Prince Daveth negotiating a new set of trade deals, the realm would have found itself seemingly fallen into an inescapable hole. As of last month, the Crown is more than one million in debt."
"How could he let this happen?" Eddard was aghast.
Petyr shrugged. "The Master of Coin finds the money. The King and the Hand spend it."
"I will not believe Jon Arryn allowed Robert to bankrupt the realm," Eddard said hotly.
Daveth shook his head in disbelief. "No, Lord Stark. Lord Arryn did not approve of such actions like reckless spending when he was serving as Hand of the King. He argued with Father about it day and night until exhaustion took him."
"Lord Arryn gave wise and prudent advice," Pycelle agreed, "but I fear His Grace doesn't always listen."
"'Counting coppers,' he calls it," said Renly.
"Father will always do whatever he wants, whenever he wants without taking our advice into consideration. Consequences be damned," Daveth informs Eddard.
"I'll speak to him tomorrow," Eddard spoke. "Based on the findings Lord Baelish and Prince Daveth provided, this tournament is an extravagance we cannot afford."
"As you will," Petyr said. "But still, we'd best make our plans in the meantime."
"There will be no plans until I speak to Robert!" Eddard said sharply. Perhaps too sharply, from the looks they gave him. He would have to remember he was not in the North. "Forgive me, my lords," he spoke softly. "I had a long ride."
"Think nothing of it, my lord," Daveth replied. "We could call a halt for today's business and resume at another date."
Varys nodded. "You are the King's Hand, Lord Stark, we serve at your pleasure."
"This meeting is adjourned," Daveth concludes. "Dismissed."
Without asking for their consent, Eddard stood up and made for the door as the others followed suit. Daveth gathered his pile of necessary paperwork and prepared to make to his chambers, no doubt having to make his throbbing headache go away. He worked very hard to bring the Crown's financial debt down, but with Robert's reckless spending it seemed to make his job that much harder as he worked to get the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros out of this mess.
When he approached his room, Daveth noticed a note sticking in between the doorway. He slowly opened it and began to read.
"The deed is done. The gift for your betrothed will arrive within the fortnight," was all it said.
'Hopefully this will make things better,' Daveth thought. 'I don't want to have to deal with a moping, naïve consort…'
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