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Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
Game of Thrones: Dragon Knight of Harrenhal
Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
Game of Thrones: BLOODTHIRSTY BASTARD
Game of Thrones: House of Black Dragon
King's Landing, Small Council chamber.
"Honor is honor," Jon Arryn said quietly. "A knight without honor is no better than a cutthroat."
Only Ser Barristan nodded. The old knight had given up lands, title, and a betrothed to join the Kingsguard; he was the living standard for that kind of talk.
Everyone else pretended they hadn't heard.
"We're not talking about honor," Robert roared. "We're talking about war. What Aerys did to Rickard Stark, Brandon, and your own son—that was the real crime, the one with no honor in it. Years ago, when it would have been easy to kill those Targaryen whelps, I listened to you. Now we're going to pay in blood."
Jon Arryn didn't argue. He knew his foster son's temper.
Robert dropped back into his chair, scowling. He understood the old man. Jon Arryn was stubborn as a mule about knightly oaths. No wonder people joked that the knights of the Vale fucked sheep.
Jon had refused to let Robert send assassins after Viserys and Daenerys. Honor again. Always honor.
The Hand had two heirs dead at Targaryen hands—one by the Mad King, one on the battlefield—yet he still wouldn't let the king put a knife in the last dragonspawn.
Littlefinger sat perfectly still, smiling faintly. Everyone liked him. Low-born, friendly to all, never turned anyone away.
He had already read every face around the table: the old Hand, Grand Maester Pycelle, Barristan, green Renly, Robert and Stannis in their prime. Everyone except Barristan and Jon had their own angle.
The Baratheon dynasty had always carried a whiff of borrowed glory. It was born from a coalition of great lords, not true conquest. The small council was a patchwork. The court was stuffed with Lannisters.
All because of your soft heart, Lord Arryn, Littlefinger thought. You swallowed honor like it was milk of the poppy and forgot your own ancestors won by stealth and shadow.
Jon Arryn had broken one oath—to the Mad King—but only to protect the boys he loved. He had never taken a mistress, never fathered a bastard. One sworn promise and he tossed away everything else.
And you, Littlefinger thought, eyes flicking to the empty seat where Varys used to sit, you slippery little spider. I never guessed your ambition ran this deep, old friend. Me? I'm simpler. I still just want the Vale.
"I will kill every last Targaryen," Robert snarled. "I will wipe them out clean, the way dragons should die, then piss on their graves."
The council stayed silent. When the king was this angry, no one pushed back.
"So we can't help Tyrosh?" Robert demanded.
"Impossible, Your Grace," Stannis said flatly.
"Fine." Robert slammed a meaty fist on the table. "Let the Tyroshi hold out a little longer. It's still summer. We'll sail straight across, land in Andalos, and I'll smash that little bastard Viserys with my hammer the same way I smashed Rhaegar."
"You need to hear the rest, Your Grace," Stannis cut in, calm as iron. "The royal fleet can't sail empty. We don't have enough ships."
Jon Arryn's brow furrowed. The reports were grim. A living dragon, tens of thousands of men, heavy cavalry, Dothraki screamers under Targaryen banners. That wasn't something one squadron could handle. They needed a full army, supply lines, and allies in the Free Cities.
Robert waved a hand. "What about the Redwyne fleet? You commanded them against the Ironborn. Do it again."
Stannis's jaw tightened. "This war is nothing like the Shield Islands, Your Grace. The Redwynes hate the ironborn—they raid their wine ships. Asking them to sail east against a dragon and its army is another matter."
Robert glared. "You have doubts?"
Stannis said nothing, face like stone.
"I hear the dragon still has no fleet," Littlefinger offered smoothly. "And the Dothraki fear the open sea. Our task may not be as hard as it sounds."
"Perhaps," Stannis allowed, "but the Free Cities have ships to spare."
Robert leaned forward. "You all know they still call me Usurper. I haven't forgotten how many great houses rose for the Targaryens. They're quiet now, but the moment that dragon king crosses the Narrow Sea with his Andalos army and horse-lords, those same lords will flock to him. I will not sit and wait. I want every banner, every sword, every oar. We kill him first."
He turned to the Hand. "And money. Can the treasury pay for this war?"
Jon Arryn looked pained. "Your Grace… the treasury is not what it was."
"Where the hell is my gold?" Robert barked.
He had never liked counting coppers. He liked eating, drinking, hunting, whoring, and tourneys. The how of money bored him.
"We have spent a great deal," Jon Arryn said carefully. "Rebuilding the royal fleet after the storm that sank it when Princess Daenerys was born. Your wedding. The tourneys. The births of the prince and princess. The war against the ironborn. The list is long."
Robert rubbed his face. "I don't care. Find the gold, Littlefinger, or I'll have your head."
"As you command, Your Grace." Littlefinger bowed. "I will speak with Lord Tywin again. The Tyroshi banking houses, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and Lord Tyrell may also be approached."
Inside, Littlefinger was already recalculating. He had hoped to skim a little cream from the Master of Coin's post. Now there was barely any cream left.
"Be nicer to Cersei," Robert muttered. "We'll need Tywin's gold for this."
"Hmph. I'm the king. She'll agree." Robert waved it off.
"Frugality would help," Jon Arryn reminded him.
Pycelle nodded sagely. "The Hand speaks wisdom."
"I know, Father," Robert grumbled. "But look around. Everything costs coin."
"Money is the least of it," Littlefinger added. "We will need to send ravens to every lord, call the banners, muster knights and levies."
"Our knights are few," Jon Arryn said. "The farmers and small merchants will need training, or we will simply be sending them to die."
"Train them, then," Robert said, suddenly tired. He had been eager for war an hour ago. Now every corner seemed to be missing a piece.
"I'll write to Ned. He'll come. He always does, and he works fast. Not like the rest of you fools." Robert's face brightened. "Haven't seen him in years. We'll fight side by side again."
"He has his own duties in the North," Jon Arryn said, the faintest smile touching his lips.
Stannis glanced at his brother. Here we go again. Ned Stark, the white moon. Robert always said they were like brothers. Stannis had heard it a thousand times. Robert's actual brother was right here, yet the king never spoke of him the same way.
Robert had loved Eddard Stark. He still did. Stannis had held Storm's End while men starved and rats became supper, while Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne feasted outside the walls. Had Robert thanked him? No. He thanked Stark for lifting the siege.
Robert had ordered Stannis to build a fleet and take Dragonstone in his name. Had he ever gripped Stannis's hand and said, "Well done, brother"? No. Instead he blamed Stannis for letting Ser Willem Darry sail away with Viserys and the babe.
Stannis kept his mouth shut and nodded.
"Anyway, that's the shape of it," Robert said. "No more waiting. Get me the gold, Master of Coin. Stannis, you handle the ships and the transport. Ned and I will lead the main host."
Unfair, Stannis thought, teeth clenched. Again. But he only nodded.
The council murmured assent, faces long.
Littlefinger's mind spun ahead. If the loyalists rose again, he would have to decide where he stood. The Vale had been rock-solid. Now a dragon had crossed mountains and seas.
Robert shoved back his chair and stood. The meeting had gone longer than he liked.
Jaime Lannister stood guard outside in gleaming white armor.
Robert gave the Kingslayer a rough shove. "War's coming, Kingslayer. Look alive."
"Yes, Your Grace," Jaime said, eyes lowered.
Robert stormed off, still fuming.