Petyr Baelish, ever shrewd, now realized that both he and Grand Maester Pycelle had underestimated the unyielding will of Lord Stannis Baratheon.
At this moment, Lord Jon Arryn lay still, eyes closed, his breathing shallow.
If Pycelle were present, he might have taken grim satisfaction were Lord Jon to perish from the shock.
But not Petyr. He had no such desire. What he wanted was for Lord Jon to remain bedridden—incapacitated but alive—so that Petyr could continue consolidating power in the Hand's absence. Death would be far too final.
...
Petyr stepped forward. The customary elegant smile that adorned his face had long since faded. His eyes locked onto Stannis's with cold clarity.
"Lord Stannis," he said flatly, "as you can see, I believe this discussion should end here."
Stannis let out a derisive snort. "Petyr, are you suggesting I've spoken out of turn?"
Petyr gave a mild shake of the head. "My lord, I am but the Master of Coin. I pass no judgment."
He had no wish to argue rights or wrongs with Stannis Baratheon. All he wanted now was to be rid of him. Lord Jon needed rest, and the fewer witnesses to this exchange, the better.
...
Stannis rose. Whether it was due to his formidable height or his sheer presence, Petyr—slighter in build—felt the pressure mount as though a storm were gathering overhead.
"The realm is in the hands of fools like you," Stannis said, voice like iron.
His gaze swept to Lord Jon, slumped and frail in his seat. His eyes grew colder.
"Weakness does not excuse contempt for the law. If you will not hear me, at least think of the realm."
With that, Lord Stannis offered a stiff bow to Lord Jon, cast Petyr one final, withering look, and turned to leave the solar without another word.
...
Outside the Tower of the Hand, Lord Stannis halted and cast a sharp glance in the direction of the Iron Throne.
He thought of the Small Council—King Robert's chosen advisors—and for a brief moment, helplessness flickered in his eyes.
But it passed.
He was still here. Stannis Baratheon was still here.
He resumed walking, his steps resolute and unhurried. His will, like Valyrian steel, bent for no man.
...
Not long after Stannis's departure, Lord Jon slowly opened his eyes.
He appeared composed, but Petyr—who knew the man well—could see that Jon's calm was a mask stretched thin.
A faint smile touched Petyr's lips. Stannis had shaken Lord Jon just enough. Precisely enough.
...
Lord Jon let out a long sigh. His voice, hoarse and weary, rasped through the quiet chamber. "Stannis… still the same. As rigid and bitter as ever."
Petyr tilted his head with concern. "My lord, how are you feeling?"
Jon exhaled again, pale and drawn. "Looks like I'll have to hold court from my bed once more."
Petyr turned as if to leave. "I'll fetch Grand Maester Pycelle—"
But Jon raised a feeble hand, halting him.
"Wait until nightfall, when fewer are about. Then summon Pycelle."
Petyr paused, then gave a quiet nod.
"Petyr… pay no mind to Stannis's words. He…"
Jon hesitated, then added, "He's grating, yes—but strangely hard to despise."
Another sigh.
"He clings too tightly to law. His men can barely endure him."
After a moment, Jon looked to Petyr.
"Many say His Grace favors his younger brother far too much—he gave Storm's End to Renly, and left Stannis unrewarded, despite all he had done for the crown…"
"There was reason for it. Had Stannis ruled the Stormlands, his stern rule would've driven House Baratheon's bannermen into rebellion. The realm needed calm then, not iron."
"Robert once told me the best place for Stannis was Dragonstone—surrounded by sea, where he could rage at the waves and trouble no one."
"But Robert never soothed that wound. His temperament wasn't made for reconciliation. And so, the Baratheon brothers were set on diverging paths."
"Petyr… I tell you this because I want your eyes to see beyond the surface."
Petyr bowed his head, hand over heart. "Yes, my lord. I shall remember your counsel."
...
A grim incident had unfolded among the Goldcloaks—specifically involving a guardsman named Steffon.
At the edge of the camp, Ser Gawen stood over the mutilated corpse, brow furrowed.
His first act was to impose silence.
Though Steffon's death appeared accidental, a corpse was a corpse. Rumors would only breed unrest.
"He went off drunk?" Gawen asked sharply.
"Aye, ser," one of the Goldcloaks answered. "Steffon was strong, and a fine swordsman. He'd drink hard, but we never worried—he always came back."
"Right. He could hold his wine. Usually just wandered until he sobered."
"We never thought he'd go so deep into the woods alone."
...
Gawen's eyes narrowed. "Who found him? Was he still alive when you did?"
A Lannister soldier in crimson cloak stepped forward. "Ser, our patrol found him. We were covering the area you ordered."
Gawen gave a curt nod. "Tell me what you saw."
"We heard something—grunting, thrashing. When we arrived, he was already dead. Blood everywhere. Looked like a wild boar got him—gored through the belly. Gods… you could hardly recognize the man."
...
Gawen nodded again and studied the body, twisted and torn.
He'd spoken with Steffon a handful of times. Broad-shouldered, capable—just as the others had said.
He had little doubt now: Steffon had gone into the woods drunk and met his end by a boar's tusk.
A shame.
He had been young and already rising in the ranks of the Watch. He might have climbed higher.
Never drink and wander the wilds. Even if you're...
In Gawen's mind, a name flashed.
King Robert.
...
"Your Grace!"
"Your Grace!"
"Your Grace!"
The shouts jolted Gawen from his thoughts.
Queen Cersei was approaching, escorted by Ser Jaime.
Tch. Off on another forest stroll, were they?
The men bowed low. Gawen stepped forward to relay the report.
But the Queen brushed it aside. "Let the Watch handle it."
Then she turned her gaze on Gawen. "Was Steffon strong?"
Gawen's mind stirred. "I met him once or twice. Built like a bull, Your Grace."
Cersei's eyes lingered on the body—unmoving, expression unreadable. Yet in her gaze, a flicker of light glinted coldly.
She said nothing more.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: www.patreon.com/DrManhattanEN👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.