Varys POV
"WAR?"
The sound came from beyond the doors, which burst open a heartbeat later to reveal a mountain of a man filling the frame — well over six and a half feet tall, a rum bottle clenched in one fist, his face flushed scarlet and split by a wide grin.
King Robert Baratheon entered the room with the rolling gait of a man who had been drinking since well before noon. He dropped into his seat and set the bottle down with all the tenderness most men reserve for a newborn child.
"What war? Tell me which head wants smashing under my hammer."
"Only our king could drink rum in such quantity at this hour," Petyr murmured, glancing sideways at Renly.
"That much I'll grant my brother," Renly replied, his eyes glinting with amusement. "The man has a gift for it."
I could smell the rum from the far end of the table. Every man at the council had risen at his entrance — a small courtesy paid to the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Robert slapped both palms flat on the table, hard enough to send two bottles of wine rolling toward the edge. Lord Stannis caught them before they fell.
"Well? What war?" Robert demanded. "Have the Ironborn rebelled again, or has that dragon-spawn whelp from Essos finally called for one?"
"The realm remains at peace, Your Grace," I said with a small bow. "The matter concerns Slaver's Bay. The cities of Elyria and Tolos have fought several naval engagements against the fleets of Yunkai and Meereen, who sought to restore the old slave trade there. Ser Artys has assisted in those battles."
Robert turned slowly toward Jon Arryn.
"Jon… why is it you got a son worth having, and I'm cursed with mine?"
"Your Grace, Prince Joffrey is still young," Pycelle said carefully. "He will grow into himself with time."
"Grow?" Robert snorted. "The boy should have learned to swing a hammer by now. Cersei's gone and made him soft — clings to her skirts like a bee to honey, while your boy is off having the time of his life in Essos."
The King had no notion of what his son was actually building out there.
I caught Stannis's expression — the look of a man with several things he very much wished to say, none of them appropriate for a royal council. He held his tongue.
The armies of the Vale were already among the finest in the realm, and after Artys's reforms, the most equipped. He would need the might of the Vale behind him once he declared the royal children to be bastards.
The things happening a thousand miles away were not worth risking everything for… at least, not yet.
"There do seem to be rather too many stories surrounding that boy," Littlefinger murmured.
"Where is he now?" Jon Arryn asked quietly.
There was something worn in his voice — the exhaustion of a father whose son had been making him age faster than time itself.
"The last word placed him near the northern edge of New Valyria," I said, "alongside the combined armies of Elyria and Tolos, and three mercenary companies — the Blades of Broken Chains, the Spears of the Widows, and the Second Sons. They are preparing for battle."
"Another war," Renly said, straightening in his seat.
"So it would seem," I replied.
I looked toward the Lord of Storm's End as I continued.
"Though this time it is Khal Mongo, who commands a Dothraki horde of seventy thousand — of which roughly thirty-five thousand are mounted riders."
The room went still.
"And how many men does Ser Artys have?" Stannis asked, voice carefully even.
"Roughly twenty thousand," I said. "A thousand of his own household guard. Five thousand from the two larger companies. Two thousand from the Second Sons. The remainder are volunteers and trained fighters drawn from the pits of Tolos and Elyria, along with their city guards."
I paused.
"There is also an unconfirmed report that Elyria's governor attempted to hire the Golden Company. Whether they accepted, I cannot say."
"Seven save us," Jon Arryn said grimly. "Where is Lord Royce in all this?"
"With Ser Artys, my lord," I replied.
"Send a raven," Jon Arryn said sharply. His hand struck the table. "Tell the boy to abandon this foolishness and return home. For once in his life."
"Only a fool meets a Dothraki horde in open field — doubly so when outnumbered three to one," Robert said, setting down his rum. For a brief moment, the drunken grin vanished entirely.
So the Demon of the Trident still lived somewhere beneath the crown and wine.
"I am not certain a raven would arrive in time, Your Grace," I said carefully. "The news itself has come late. By now, the battle may already be underway… or concluded."
I paused.
"And Ser Artys does not appear to intend to meet them in open field at all. He has fortified a position in the mountain passes of New Valyria. He intends to choose his ground."
"Why are the Dothraki fighting him at all?" Stannis asked sharply.
It was, finally, the correct question. Every eye turned to me.
"Khal Mongo demanded tribute from Tolos. The governor refused. While the horde was camped outside the city, several men of Tolos abducted the Khal's wife, who had been left lightly guarded."
I folded my hands.
"The Khal, predictably, took that rather personally. His wife is now said to be held within Ser Artys's own camp."
"How fortunate," Littlefinger said softly, the thin smile returning. "A Khal's wife inside his enemy's camp. A fortified position in the mountains. And a Dothraki horde angry enough to march into a kill zone."
"And what of you, Lord Baelish?" Renly asked lightly. "Any urge to sail east and join the adventure?"
"Coin is my talent, my lord. I leave heroics to braver men."
"Of course you do," Renly said cheerfully. "I did hear of that duel you fought once — with the wolf of Winterfell, for the Hand of the current Lady Stark."
"Old history," Littlefinger said, smile tightening.
"More like an arse-whipping he gave you," Renly added with a grin.
Ah. Revenge, at last.
I turned my gaze briefly to Jon Arryn. His eyes had drifted toward the window, fixed somewhere beyond the Red Keep toward the Narrow Sea.
A father's worry. Plain and simple.
Though privately, I doubted the young falcon would lose.
"Enough, both of you," Robert's voice cut through the chamber. "Let's speak of this damned tournament and be done with it."
"You cannot be serious," Stannis said, rising halfway from his chair. "What is the point of any of this?"
He believed Joffrey a bastard down to his bones. The thought of kneeling before the boy alone was enough to twist him into fury.
"What do you mean, Stannis?" Robert snapped back. "One day I'll be dead, and that boy will sit this throne. Better the realm meets him now than after."
He slammed his fist down.
"There are many who still call me usurper… what if the dragon-spawn lands while I am gone? Will these lords serve my son, or that son of a whore?"
His eyes burned.
"I am not taking any risks. And that is final."
"You don't care about any of that, do you?" Jon Arryn said quietly. "You only want your tournament… your wine… your celebration."
King Robert stared at him for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
Seven save me.
Stannis muttered something under his breath, rose fully from his chair, and stormed out of the chamber. The door shut hard behind him.
POV Ends