As the maternal grandfather of Stannis Baratheon, Lord Eldon Estermont of Greenstone naturally occupied a seat on the Small Council. He had been named Master of Coin not for any brilliance in finance, but for his plodding, old-fashioned caution. In a city of vipers, Estermont was a tortoise; he was unlikely to generate new revenue, but he was even less likely to steal.
Not that there was much left to steal.
When Eddard Karstark had departed the capital, he hadn't just taken the Lannister influence; he had taken the gold. The Royal Treasury was a hollowed shell, echoing with the ghosts of dragons. The next head tax was a distant dream, and for now, the Crown's survival rested on the meager trickle of port tariffs and gate fees. Stannis had attempted to fill the gap by trying and executing those lords who had stayed too long in Joffrey's service, confiscating their manors and seizing the high-interest loans Petyr Baelish had hidden in the ledgers.
Dozens of merchants had been forced to liquidate their livelihoods to repay debts to a King who had no mercy for "accounting errors." Yet, even this blood-gold didn't stay long. Most of it was handed immediately to Salladhor Saan, the Lysene pirate whose fleet had carried Stannis to victory. Stannis Baratheon would sooner see his people starve than see a contract broken or his word doubted. He paid the pirate, and the coffers went silent once more.
Furthermore, sitting on the Iron Throne meant inheriting Robert's astronomical debts to the Iron Bank and the Faith. Between the interest payments, the salaries of the Gold Cloaks, and the constant repairs to a war-torn Red Keep, the Royal Family was effectively bankrupt. They only stayed afloat by ignoring the three-million-gold-dragon debt owed to Casterly Rock, a debt Estermont had already decided the Crown would never pay.
"We have no coin to send a fleet across the Narrow Sea, let alone to the Sunset Sea," Estermont grumbled, his voice like dry parchment. "A naval campaign against the Ironborn would bankrupt us for a generation."
Davos Seaworth, the Hand of the King, felt the three missing fingers on his left hand ache. He knew the ledger as well as the Lord. "We cannot send the fleet alone. My suggestion remains: we must coordinate with Eddard Karstark. If he can move the Manderly fleet from White Harbor to join us, we can crush the krakens together. The North has not forgotten that Robb Stark died by Euron's hand."
"This is absurdity!" Ser Axell Florent shouted, his large, hair-covered ears turning a violent shade of red. As the Master of Laws and a leader of the 'Queen's Men,' he held little love for the common-born Hand. "If we drive pirates from the Reach, the Tyrells should pay every copper of the cost! Why should the Crown bleed for the Rose?"
"Because the Rose is the only thing keeping King's Landing fed," Davos countered calmly. "The Tyrells are under siege. They fear Karstark in the West and Greyjoy at sea. They won't send a grain of wheat if they think we're just another predator waiting for them to weaken."
Davos produced a letter from his sleeve. "Lady Olenna's messengers are clear. If the Royal Fleet reaches the Arbor, Highgarden will provide full supplies and a massive tribute in gold. They are desperate, Your Grace."
Stannis ground his teeth, a sound like a stone mill. "So, to save my city, I must attend a coronation for a Karstark boy? I am the legitimate King of the Seven Kingdoms. Why must I suffer this humiliation?"
"Because there are a hundred thousand people in Flea Bottom who will not survive the first blizzard without Reach grain," Davos said, his eyes meeting the King's. "Getting along with House Karstark is no longer a matter of pride, Your Grace. It is a matter of survival."
Stannis looked at the hearth. He had seen the power of the flames, but he also saw the cold reality of the streets. "Fine. Draft the pardon for the dwarf. If the 'Lord of the West' wants his favorite Lannister back, he shall have him. And I will attend this... coronation. Tell the Karstark he has a month to prepare his throne."
Melisandre, the Red Priestess, stirred in her seat, her crimson silk gown shimmering in the firelight. "And the temple, Your Grace? The Lord of Light requires a home in this nest of shadows. Rhaenys's Hill, the ruins of the Dragonpit would be a fitting place for the fires to burn."
"No money!" Estermont snapped.
"We will use the Tyrell tribute," Stannis declared, silencing his grandfather with a look. "Once the pirates are gone and the grain arrives, we will use the laborers of Flea Bottom to clear the ruins. If your god truly provides shelter, Priestess, let him prove it when the snow falls."
At the Wall, the wind was a physical weight, a howling beast that rattled the shutters of the King's Tower. Black Castle was buried in white, the stewards and Free Folk working side-by-side in the drifts just to keep the paths clear.
Inside the solar, the air was thick with the scent of old mutton and woodsmoke. A fierce argument was raging.
"I will not send my rangers into the Haunted Forest to rescue the very savages who have been raiding our lands for centuries!" Bowen Marsh shouted, his round face flushed with indignation. "It is madness, Jon! It is a death sentence for our brothers!"
Jon Snow, the 998th Lord Commander, looked at his steward with eyes that had seen too much. "There are thousands trapped at Hardhome, Bowen. Women, children, the elderly. If we leave them to the Others, they don't just die, they become soldiers in an army that doesn't sleep or eat."
"They are Free Folk," Othell Yarwyck added, leaning over the map. "Our enemies. We don't have the food or the space. Adding five thousand more mouths will break us before the winter even truly begins."
Tyrion Lannister, sitting on a high stool near the fire, took a sip of mulled wine and let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Oh, you grey rats are so short-sighted. You have thousands of pounds of dragonglass arriving from Dragonstone. Who do you think is going to sharpen the arrowheads? Who is going to fletch the shafts? Children have small, nimble fingers, and women work harder than half the drunkards in this castle. They eat less, they work more. It's a bargain, really."
The Night's Watch officers looked at the dwarf with a mix of suspicion and begrudging respect. Since his arrival, Tyrion had become Jon's most effective advisor, his Lannister mind finding angles the men of the black had never considered.
"And how do we reach them?" Eon Imett, the Master-at-Arms, asked grimly. "The sea is a wall of ice, and the land is a charnel house. The 'Dead Things' are moving, Jon. I saw them at Craster's Keep. They don't just stand in the woods anymore; they wait. They watch."
Jon Snow stood, his hand resting on the pommel of Longclaw. "We go because we have to. If the Wall is to stand, we need every living soul on this side of it. Tyrion is right, we don't just need warriors; we need a kingdom behind us. Prepare the expedition. We leave when the wind lets up."
The argument wasn't over, but the Lord Commander's word was final. As the officers filed out, Jon looked at Tyrion. "My brother-in-law is coming to Harrenhal. Stannis has signed your pardon."
Tyrion paused, his cup halfway to his lips. A strange look, a mix of relief and mourning crossed his mismatched eyes. "So, the Lion is finally allowed back into the light. I suppose I should start practicing my 'Lordly' walk. The snow is a bit too thick for a dignified stroll."
[System Notification: Narrative Divergence: Stannis and Eddard Alliance initiated.]
[Project: 'Temple of R'hllor' (King's Landing) approved.]
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