Chương 19

Jon Arryn The council chamber felt larger than usual with so many seats empty. Listening to Petyr Baelish finish his report, Jon Arryn kept his expression neutral and his hands folded on the table before him.

"—which brings the total customs revenue for the past three moons to forty-two thousand gold dragons, my lords. A fourteen percent increase over the same period last year, despite the disruption to trade caused by the war." The boy had done well. Better than well, if the ledgers spread across the council table were to be believed, and Jon had enough experience with numbers and with men to know they were.

Three moons in his new position as the King's Controller, and already Petyr had justified every argument Jon had made on his behalf, with gold flowing into the city's coffers despite a war that had more than emptied the realm's purses. It was the kind of result a Hand of the King rarely received and never tired of hearing. Around the table, the reactions were precisely what he had expected.

Wearing the expression of a man chewing something sour, Lord Garon Estermont had not taken his eyes off the ledgers since Petyr placed them on the table, as though staring hard enough might cause the numbers to rearrange themselves into something more satisfying. Beside him, Grand Maester Pycelle had settled his face into the dignified disapproval he reserved for those he considered beneath his notice. The Braavosi blood, most likely.

Pycelle was older than him, old enough that certain prejudices had likely calcified into reflex, and he no longer bothered concealing them behind anything more than a thin veneer of scholarly disdain. Jon felt a quiet and familiar satisfaction settle in his chest as he watched them both twist themselves into knots trying to find fault in the young man's work. He had not always been so certain about bringing Petyr over from his office in Gulltown.

He even regretted it sometimes, considering how much gold the young man had brought into his own coffers there. But Lysa had insisted. She had been fond of the boy since they were children at Riverrun, and King's Landing had not been easy for her. The noise and the smell of it, the politics, the distance from her uncle Brynden. He had not been able to give her much in the way of comfort. A companion in a city as foreign to her as the Eyrie had been when they were first wed was the least he could manage.

The truth was simpler than sentiment, though. Jon needed men of talent, and talent mattered more than birth when the crown's strained coffers were concerned.

"Are we supposed to believe, then, Lord Baelish," Estermont interrupted, the title delivered with barely concealed contempt, "that the captains are parting with this gold willingly? That the bloody Essosi, as tight-fisted as a penniless whore, have found it in their hearts to fill our purses for nothing in return?"

"Of course not, Lord Estermont." Petyr's mouth curved into a sideways smile.

"If anything, they pay less than ever before." Silence fell across the chamber. Even the scratch of Pycelle's quill stilled. Estermont's face darkened.

"Do you take us for fools? That you can charge less and make more?" He leaned forward, voice dropping into something that wanted to be a growl.

"I will very much have my men see these ledgers of yours. And let me assure you, if there is something to be found in them, they will sniff it out. I will gladly throw you in the darkest pits of the Black Cells, boy." Jon shook his head. Estermont had never wanted Petyr here.

As Master of Laws he had pushed for his own candidate when the position of King's Controller had opened—a distant cousin, Jon believed, though he had never bothered to remember the man's name, but Jon had thrown the weight of the Hand's pin behind Petyr, and that had been that. It had been a foolish endeavor by Lord Estermont too. With old Penrose begging off his position as Master of Coin due to failing health, Estermont had lost his only ally in the council, and the man's bluster had become only that.

When he next tried to gainsay him, Garon Estermont had learned quickly enough that being grandfather to the king only went so far when the king himself barely knew him, and considered Jon Arryn almost a father. A fact Jon was quite proud of. As a man who had never been able to sire his own living children, Robert was as close as he would ever have to a son. Him and Eddard Stark both. And he was not so foolish as to refrain from using that bond to maintain his grip on King's Landing.

Still, the game required constant attention. Queen Cersei would be whispering in her father's more than eager ears, pushing to fill the position left by old Penrose with a Lannister man. Not an unreasonable request on its face. Jon had allowed Tywin Lannister little enough opening to spread his influence in the capital, but he hoped the sacking of Lannisport would see the old lion occupied for long enough that Jon could make his own move.

"It's all a matter of taking the knife to the fat, my lord," Petyr said, undisturbed by Estermont's threats.

"Like a butcher trimming a fine piece of meat. I've let eleven men go since I was entrusted as head of customs. Eleven who I heavily suspected of demanding bribes from foreign ships." From somewhere inside his coat, Petyr produced a small stack of papers and laid them beside the ledgers with the unhurried ease of a man who had prepared for exactly this moment.

"Sworn statements from more than three dozen merchants and captains, mostly from Braavos, Pentos, and Tyrosh, attesting to the fact that they were being charged more than was truly owed the crown. Along with the new arrangements I have signed with them, arrangements that will benefit both ourselves and them." Estermont snatched up the papers first, his movements sharp with irritation. Eyes narrowing behind heavy brows, he scanned the documents, though he said nothing.

Pycelle took his turn next, chains clinking softly as he bent over the parchment. Jon accepted his own copy last, though of course he had already been shown and approved these deals Petyr had brokered. Truly, the boy had a talent for finding gold like no other. Now it was all about the presentation. Minutes passed. The only sound was the rustle of parchment and Estermont's labored breathing as he searched for holes in the arrangements and failed to find one.

"Come now, my lord," Jon said, setting his papers down and raising an eyebrow.

"Are we to fault a man for his competence?" Estermont huffed and sat back. Jon turned to Petyr.

"That is quite the feat, Lord Baelish. Truly, I am impressed. But to ease the minds of this council, do tell us how you managed to convince traders from as far away as Qarth to sign these." This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Petyr's eyes caught the light.

"Well, my lord, if you must know, I simply treat these captains, the important ones, of course, as a man treats a woman he's trying to woo."

"Oh?"

"Indeed. Nice conversation. Some wine. An expensive dinner. Only instead of seeing the deed done myself, I employ a few talented women who are much more capable than I." Across the table, Grand Maester Pycelle's face colored.

"Preposterous," he babbled, chains rattling as he shifted forward.

"To use such base methods as the King's Controller—why, I have never heard—" The door to the council chamber opened with a groan that cut through Pycelle's objection. Jon turned, grateful for the interruption. He did not need to hear moral indignation from a man who partook in the same trade himself despite his vows to the Citadel. It was an open secret, really, if one had enough eyes in the castle.

Despite his own misgivings about Petyr's less than honorable enterprises—and how that association might reflect poorly on Lysa—Jon could not deny the man's results. The boy had done the same in Gulltown, purchasing a brothel and befriending every merchant who came into the city. It was crude, perhaps, but effective. The last member of the council still in the city walked into the room, his footsteps more hurried than usual.

With Stannis and Ser Barristan off with Robert to the Iron Islands, their meetings were truly living up to the council's name.

"Lord Varys," Jon said, keeping his tone mild.

"Your presence was dearly missed this morning." When the Spider had failed to appear at the appointed hour, Jon had waited nearly half an hour before beginning. Despite the necessities of his craft, it was quite uncommon for the Master of Whispers to miss or be delayed for any meeting. Varys tittered as he approached the table, soft hands disappearing into his billowing sleeves.

"A thousand pardons, my lord Hand, but one of my little birds was quite insistent that his song be heard. I am a man of duty above all, despite what my detractors may say." A small laugh, his face disappearing briefly behind his raised sleeve.

"Out with it then, Spider," Estermont said.

"What news do your birds bring us?" Tilting his head, Varys glanced at the only man in the room who was not a member of the Small Council.

"Rather important news, my lord. Matters our esteemed Lord Baelish here need not hear." Jon caught the brief flicker of disappointment on Petyr's face before the young man schooled his features back to pleasant neutrality. He almost smiled at that. The boy was too curious for his own good, but one could hardly fault a hound for lifting his nose when he caught the scent of blood.

"Lord Baelish, you are dismissed. And well done today." Petyr rose, gathered his ledgers with practiced efficiency, and departed with a bow. The door closed behind him with a soft thud.

"It gladdens me to say the rebellion is over, my lords." The eunuch's voice carried a note of satisfaction.

"Our good King Robert's host of Stormlanders, along with Jon Umber's northmen and Lord Tywin's Westermen, took Pyke after a swift siege. Lord Stannis has subdued the island of Great Wyk, and our own Ser Barristan saw success at Old Wyk as well." Estermont's fist came down on the table.

"Hear, hear!" Jon nodded, allowing himself a moment of relief. Thank the Seven. Beside them, Pycelle murmured his usual platitudes about the wisdom of the crown and the strength of the realm.

"And by all accounts," Varys continued, "Harlaw, Orkmont, Blacktyde, and Saltcliffe are all set to fall soon." Then the spymaster's round face twisted into a mockery of sadness, the lines around his mouth curving.

"I am afraid, however, that the king saw fit to bring a more permanent change to Pyke." Jon's eyes narrowed. Something in that phrasing set his teeth on edge.

"Speak plainly, Lord Varys." Varys's powdered cheeks colored slightly, a trick Jon was quite certain the man could conjure on command.

"Of course, my lord Hand. I am saddened to report that, despite your own sage counsel, Balon Greyjoy is lord of the Iron Islands no longer." A puse.

"King Robert took his head, even after Balon's excuse that he had never sworn any vows to House Baratheon. He attainted his line and stripped the lordship from his only surviving son as well." Jon let out a slow breath. Oh, Robert.

"It seems Lord Tywin's counsel, and the Greatjon's, was not quite so forgiving," Varys finished.

"Bah." Estermont waved a dismissive hand.

"No less than what that bastard deserved. You were too soft in suggesting he keep his seat, my lord. There's only one way to deal with these Ironborn bastards, and soft's not one of them." Leaning back in his chair, the older man crossed his arms.

"Which one of Quellon's spawn will take the seat, then?" Varys tittered again.

"Balon's younger brother, Euron Greyjoy." Closing his eyes, Jon pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. His advice to Robert, of letting Balon Greyjoy keep his seat despite the rebellion, had not come from any sense of mercy for the man. Quite simply, Jon had done his duty. He had made inquiries into who was most likely to rule as regent if Balon were killed and what sort of men these potential regents were.

And what he had found was that keeping Balon Greyjoy alive was not such a terrible alternative after all. For all his foolishness in raising his banners, he was a known quantity. A man who had tried and failed and would likely spend the rest of his days nursing that failure quietly. From everything he had heard, Euron Greyjoy was something else entirely. He would be ten times the headache his older brother had ever been.

And Robert had only gone and made the man Lord of the Iron Islands instead of simply the ruling regent for young Theon Greyjoy Before he could begin to explain any of this to the others, the door opened again. Not with a groan this time but with a bang, the wood striking stone hard with enough force to make Pycelle jump. Jon shot out of his seat.

"What is the meaning of this?" A knight stood in the doorway, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His face was flushed, sweat beading at his temples.

"My lords," he gasped.

"My lords... the bay… ships… Targaryens..." The words made no sense strung together like that, but something in the way the man spoke had Jon's stomach clenching as if he'd taken a punch to the gut. Moving before conscious thought could catch up, he strode toward the balcony. Footsteps followed behind him, several sets. Someone said something, a question perhaps, but the words washed past without meaning. Jon pushed through the doors to the balcony, the noon sun bright enough to make him squint. Then he saw them.

The ships were out in Blackwater Bay, approaching the city in a straight line before curving away from the port. Seven of them. The closest ones already flew full sails, but the farthest vessels still had rowers working their oars as the cloth was slowly unfurled. Red and black sails. A red three-headed dragon breathing fire on a black background. Targaryen sails. The knot in Jon's chest pulled tight, constricting his breath. Beside him someone drew a sharp breath, the Grand Maester, by the sound of it.

A cup struck the marble floor somewhere behind him and shattered, wine spreading dark across the stone. No one spoke. Even Varys, skilled an actor as Jon knew him to be, seemed genuinely surprised at the sight, though one could never truly tell with the Spider. Spreading out across the city below, the bells began. Starting somewhere near the harbor, they moved from tower to tower, each one taking up the call until even the bells of the Red Keep were ringing above them.

Every man and woman in King's Landing would be turning to look. Those standing on any of the city's three hills would be able to see what Jon could see from this balcony, would see the Targaryen ships sailing past the port in defiance or declaration or something worse, and before night fell, the word would spread and all the realm would know. The House of the Dragon was back.