Chapter 31: Varys V & Olenna VI (AC 293)
Varys V
"It would be unlikely that King Robert would call a Great Council in order to go to war with Pentos," Varys assured Illyrio as they lounged opposite each other on couches, wine close to hand and the remains of a fine meal being removed from the table between them.
"I admit to being uncertain of the extent of his authority," his old friend replied. "The Targaryens could rule arbitarily, at least while they had dragons at their command. Since that changed, I would anticipate that the various lords may be less closely bound."
"The lords of Westeros are raised for war." Varys looked into the surface of his wine for a moment. "It would take little to stir them to the prospect of battle and plunder. Organising the logistics of shipping thousands of men across the Narrow Sea would be more challenging but..." He drained the cup and set it down. "Oh he could do it. It would take months for the western levies to arrive but he could have an army from his own domain and the Vale here within two months... six or seven weeks after I heard about it."
"Your famous little flowers."
"Those and a few little birds that he didn't manage to find."
"Your friend, Arthur, he seemed to think that you felt King Robert would want to reclaim Andalos for his faith."
"Ser Arthur is a direct man, who functions best with a clear and martial purpose. Robert Baratheon would have been dismissed as nothing more than that before he was king."
"And now?"
Varys held out his goblet to be refilled. "I believe he is a player."
"Ah." Ilyrio rubbed his beard with beringed fingers. "Nor is he friendly to Pentos."
Calling Pentos out on the issue of bond service had certainly damaged trade between Westeros and the city, but Varys gathered that Braavos had more than made up the difference. These days there was a permanent representative of the Westerosi King resident in Pentos' northern neighbour, one who was at least listened to by the Sealord.
"I wouldn't rule out a Great Council as a cover for planning for war," Varys conceded. "But it is traditionally called to settle matters of royal succession. Every lord of any note in the Seven Kingdoms has a voice and vote at such a time. At least informally such a council - in the form of rebel lords - acclaimed Robert as king."
"Are there matters of succession that might require a Council? The king has a son, healthy as of the last I had heard."
"Prince Eddard is, so far as I know, in good health. Since Queen Alysanne gave birth to another daughter only a year ago, there's every possibility he might have a brother someday. And, of course, there are the king's brothers." Varys paused. "Which may be the answer perhaps."
Illyrio's eyes narrowed. "You're not thinking of the younger?"
"Bold young Prince Renly? It seems unlikely, but Stannis Ironfoot is a rising man. Until Prince Jon had a son, Stannis' own son was a strong candidate to rule the Vale. And, of course, he remains second in line to wear the crown of Westeros."
"A crown for himself and a kingdom for his son to rule... a tempting thing for an ambitious lord, I would think. Is this Ironfoot such a man?"
"He is a man who keeps close counsel. His own lands are prosperous enough but they are only a small part of the Easterlands. He may feel short-changed, having lost a foot in service to his brother and yet he appears to have Robert's trust, with the appointment as Master of Coin..."
"Westerosi ideas of finance are primitive. Could he have bankrupted the Kingdom?"
Varys nodded thoughtfully. "If Robert wished to formally exclude Stannis from the succession then a Great Council would be necessary to enforce such a matter, since by definition, Robert would be in no position to do so once it became an issue. But I have no signs of such. We are building mountains of air."
"Then you may need something better than air." Illyrio toyed with his goblet. "The magisters are concerned and there is some expectation that you will keep them informed."
"My broadsheet only costs a few coppers."
"More than that."
Varys tried to smile. Influence and the chance to play the game again. The challenge of it. This was what he had hoped for, was it not... Years of building up his network again, of handling often minor and grubby secrets.
So why did he feel that this was a dangerous step.
No, that was foolish. He felt that because it was the truth. Why did he feel this was a step he would regret? Was he getting old?
"When the Great Council convenes, it won't only be lords who attend," he said instead. "My old colleague Pycelle will be attending, among the Maesters. He has no fondness for Robert, having been forced out of his position as Grand Maester. I'll see what he has to say."
"I knew I could rely on you, old friend."
"Naturally," Varys said with a smile he didn't feel.
Olenna VI
"Mace, if the King told me why he called this council then he would have done so in confidence. Since sharing it with you means sharing it with anyone you choose to tell, not to mention anyone who overhears you talking about it. And then anyone they happen to mention it to or around. You see how that works?" Olenna paused for breath.
"Mo-"
"No, of course not, what was I thinking? In any case, he didn't tell me so you're wasting your time, as usual." She leant on her stick as she walked past where the Reach lords were.
Mace made to follow her for a moment but Paxter Redwyne caught his attention and drew him back to his chair, talking to him about Randyll Tarly and their recent disagreement over the Redwyne ships. Having already heard about it in great detail from other sources, Olenna found no need to go back and hear it all again.
While hundreds of lords had assembled from the Seven Kingdoms, they didn't come close to filling the great space at the heart of the Dragonpit - or as the King insisted on re-naming it, the Crown of Westeros. A modest oval of stone was raised out of the centre of the vast tiled floor, barely knee high on the King and the throne sat upon it, facing north. A great arc of chairs faced the humble chair that still wore the cloak of Baratheon heraldry as its only adornment - the Red Keep had been stripped of almost every remaining seat to supply them.
As one of the Small Council, Olenna sat slightly apart, not on the dais but immediately to the right. Grand Maester Coleman was already there, glancing occasionally across the dais to where a handful of men who didn't fall neatly into any category sat. The High Septon was there, as was a stooped man in the black of the Night's Watch. It was the small party of Maesters that drew Coleman's attention though.
"Pycelle hasn't died yet, I see." Olenna sniffed as she took her chair. "He's been claiming to be infirm for too long to be plausible."
"He's an astute man," the current Grand Maester replied quietly. "Perhaps the more so that he hides the fact."
"Bah. If he won't share with the King then who is that astute mind in service to? Robert was right to rid himself of the man."
There was a stir among the eastern lords and Olenna craned her head around to see Robert Baratheon striding across the floor, leading the rest of the Small Council. Out of deference to his brother, the king was restraining his usual vigorous stride which also gave the remaining lords time to take their seats.
Even once he reached the council, Robert didn't seem in haste. Instead he threaded his way through the seated lords, working around the arc, greeting many of the men by name, shaking hands with some and offering nods or other greetings to the rest. He wasn't just setting them at ease, the Queen of Thorns noted, he was also giving the Small Council time to get settled. Lord Bolton took a seat next to her, as had been his custom for years, while Stannis and his replacement as Master of Ships, Ser Davos Seaworth, took adjacent seats. Olenna had found the common-born sailor to be a startlingly valuable addition to the council. Hesitant to speak at times but when he did speak the words were usually well thought out.
Stafford Lannister took the last seat. He'd only recently replaced Stannis as Master of Coins, following yet another sideways movement of Stannis to take up the post of Master of Laws. Lord Estermont had to all practical purposes continued to effectively control that position even while he was Hand. Without him the incumbent had managed all of one stumbling meeting with the King before offering his own resignation.
"So do you have your eye on my seat next, or Lord Bolton's?" Olenna asked the Prince as Robert reached the Vale lords and stopped to embrace Jon Arryn as if the man was his father.
Stannis took his eyes off the king and then jerked his head over to Eddard Stark. "There."
"Ah." The northern prince was standing next to the throne. Standing almost motionless and wearing his customary grey he was almost like a statue. It suited him, rigid as stone. Honourable, yes, but being the Hand demanded a certain flexibility. Which would be a mark against giving Stannis the role come to think of it.
Moving through the Dornish and even at one point daring to exchange civil greetings with Doran Martell (who had limped into the hall and now had his foot propped up on a stool), Robert at last reached the throne and seated himself without any further ceremony.
"My lords, my friends, my countrymen," he declared in a carrying voice. "I won't keep you in any further suspense as to why I've called you here. While the precendent only exists for a Grand Council to manage the succession, I believe that it can also serve to address matters of concern to all Seven Kingdoms." He paused. "Besides which, I have no concerns about my son or those after him in the succession."
Then what was this about? Olenna elected to hold her tongue, if only because she could see Mace puzzling over the same question.
"Winter is coming," Robert continued. "Not immediately, the Maesters tell me, but the seasons are inexorable. And almost without exception, a long summer is followed by a long and savage winter. We have now known almost five years of summer and there is no sign of autumn. While most of us lack his years, I am sure Lord Frey and those few of his generation here remember how the seven years summer sixty years ago was followed by more than five years of winter."
He paused. "It's hardly unique, there was a six year winter a century before. Even a strong and well prepared lord might see his people decimated by famine and plague under these circumstances. And even before the winter, we can expect problems. Long summers allow the Wildlings north of the Wall to build their strength. The last King-Beyond-the-Wall, Raymun Redbeard was in just such a time - and the Night's Watch, far stronger then than they are now, could do nothing to stop them."
Robert's fist slammed against the arm of the chair. "I will not see the Wall breached again."
There was a brief cheer from the Northern lords.
"And nor will I see Westeros ravaged by famine and plague. I have called you here in order to coordinate plans to make the most of the summer, to reinforce the Wall and to enter the next winter - whenever it comes - with every possible barn, larder and cellar stuffed with food to see us through it, no matter how long it proves to be!"
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