Red Keep, Throne Room, Small Council meeting.
The throne room was lavishly adorned. Myrish carpets covered the floor, and in one corner stood a carved wooden screen from the Summer Islands, decorated with vivid birds and beasts in dazzling colors. The walls were draped with fine tapestries from Norvos, Qohor, and Lys. Flanking the doors stood a pair of Valyrian sphinxes, their ruby eyes gleaming on polished black marble faces.
The king's chair—tall-backed and carved with a crowned stag in gold—sat empty at the head of the table.
Duke Jon Arryn sat to its right, the position of the King's Hand—his right hand. The rest of the Small Council were gathered around the long table: Lord Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws; Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin; Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; Grand Maester Pycelle; and Lord Varys, Master of Whisperers.
Aside from the king's empty seat, the chair reserved for Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships, was also vacant.
Recent travels had left Jon Arryn thinner than ever. His eyes were sunken, face pale, and his skin nearly devoid of color.
The Hand sighed and asked, "So it's just the six of us again. Stannis still hasn't come?"
A brief silence fell around the table at his words.
Petyr, dressed properly like a septon, eyes glinting gray-green, glanced around before speaking. "My lord Hand, you know Lord Stannis well. His fleet affairs keep him too busy to easily leave."
Renly chuckled. "Lord Baelish, your words are so convincing, I'm starting to suspect the ever-righteous Stannis has bribed you."
Petyr smiled and shook his head. "That would be an honor I'd never forget."
Laughter broke the tension in the room.
Jon looked at Renly with mixed emotions. Dressed in dark green velvet embroidered with twelve golden stags, with a cloak clasped at one shoulder by an emerald brooch, Renly looked striking. He was the spitting image of his older brother Robert in his youth, bringing Jon back to memories of the triumphant warrior returning from the Trident.
Jon tore himself away from those thoughts. Today's council had been called for a crucial matter.
The matter of royal blood. Though his investigation was only halfway complete, Jon was nearly certain—Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were not Robert's children.
Once he gathered enough evidence, he would tell Robert himself.
He could already foresee the chaos this revelation would bring. A furious king, a shaken kingdom.
But it could not be concealed—and should not be.
As the King's Hand, if Jon delayed informing Robert even a moment once the truth was certain, it would be a dereliction of duty.
It was, quite simply, too important.
When the time came, Jon hoped to persuade Robert not to hold a public trial, but to quietly deal with Cersei Lannister and her bastards—perhaps by claiming they had all succumbed to illness.
Robert was still young, full of vigor. He could take a new queen and sire trueborn heirs.
This was the best outcome Jon could imagine. It might allow the realm to weather the coming storm.
But Jon knew Robert's temperament too well. It was only a hope. He had little confidence the king would act with restraint. Still, he had to try—for the kingdom's sake.
Now Jon's priority was to prepare for the worst.
He needed a cover reason to seal off King's Landing, subtly isolating the Lannisters without raising suspicion.
He scanned the council and began, "Lords, I'm sure you've all heard of the incident in the Hand's solar. Ha, I daresay some of you know things even I've forgotten…"
Grand Maester Pycelle spoke up from the far end of the table. "Lord Arryn, the secret passages beneath the Hand's Tower have been there since the old dragons. They're the legacy—and liability—of House Targaryen. This only proves that their remnants still stir."
Pycelle had a kindly face, with a few white strands falling beside his bald pate, and a snowy beard down to his chest. Around his neck hung his chain of office, forged from twenty-four metals.
[He had served kings Aegon V, Jaehaerys II, Aerys II (the Mad King), and now Robert I.]
Petyr masked his disdain. Everyone could tell Jon was only expressing frustration, yet Pycelle rushed to defend him.
But the incident didn't need defending. Everyone knew it was a leftover from the Targaryens. Robert had simply failed to address it, as any usurper might.
In truth, Robert himself bore more responsibility—he was the Red Keep's lord.
Now Pycelle's "support" sounded more like assigning blame to Jon.
Petyr's eyes narrowed. Was Pycelle just senile—or playing his own game?
His gaze met Varys's briefly. Both looked away.
Petyr smiled and said, "Grand Maester, did you say the remnants of the old dragons are still active? It almost sounds like… you're suggesting Lord Jon and Lord Varys have both failed in their duties."
He locked eyes with Pycelle. "Of course, I'm joking. Just a jest."
Pycelle rose, chain clinking. He bowed to Jon. "My lord, I meant no such thing. Lord Petyr misunderstood me. I speak only from loyalty."
Jon waved him down and gave Petyr a brief look. "I never misjudged you, Grand Maester. I trust you."
Pycelle nodded, offering thanks, carefully ignoring Petyr.
Petyr found no cracks in the old man's act. Still, he made a mental note to bribe Pycelle's young attendants and keep tabs on him.
No word at the Small Council was ever without purpose—except for Renly's.
Jon returned to the matter at hand. "This incident has haunted me. I'm old now, but I won't leave this problem to the next Hand."
All eyes turned to him.
"I want King's Landing sealed for up to three months," Jon said. "We must investigate every hidden passage left by the Targaryens. Anyone involved must be arrested."
The room fell silent.
Renly blinked. "Did I hear that right? Seal the capital for three months?"
Petyr, frowning, snapped, "He said up to three months, Lord Renly."
Everyone knew Petyr was Jon's protégé from the Vale—his staunchest ally.
Petyr always made sure others saw him that way, too.
He often spoke on Jon's behalf, even without being told, and no one ever questioned it.
It was one of Petyr's tactics in the game of thrones.
Renly raised his hands in mock surrender. "Lord Jon, isn't this overkill? One wrong move and we risk a riot—there are over fifty thousand people in the city."
Jon's gaze sharpened. "I need your support, all of you."
Varys rose and bowed. "Lord Arryn, you have my full support. It is my duty and honor to serve."
All eyes turned to him with suspicion.
Everyone suspected the Master of Whisperers had known about the secret passageways—Jon included.
But until he had proof, Jon would not unjustly accuse him. That was his code of honor.
Now, Varys's gesture seemed to erase all suspicion and win deeper trust.
Petyr, watching the eunuch's sincere expression, smirked coldly.
As Varys sat, he nodded at Petyr—who returned the gesture with a thin smile that never touched his eyes.
They had both served Jon for over a decade. If anyone knew how to exploit Jon's nature, it was Varys.
Finally, Ser Barristan Selmy, the stoic Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, spoke.
"My lord Hand, sealing the city requires the king's signed order."
Ser Barristan, like all Kingsguard, wore silver armor and a white cloak.
At sixty, he was still tall, blue-eyed, and regal, his white hair framing a noble face.
He was called "Barristan the Bold," eldest son of Lord Lyonel Selmy of Harvest Hall. At ten, he had donned borrowed armor and entered a tourney as the Mystery Knight, challenging Prince Duncan.
He earned his title then, and fame ever since.
In the War of the Ninepenny Kings, he slew the last Blackfyre pretender, Maelys the Monstrous, singlehandedly.
At twenty-three, he gave up his inheritance and was knighted into the Kingsguard by Ser Gerold Hightower.
After the Rebellion, Robert pardoned him despite his loyalty to the Targaryens, and made him Lord Commander.
Though he had misgivings about serving Robert, Ser Barristan remained dutiful and true.
Jon nodded to him. "I will first seek King Robert's consent."
Ser Barristan inclined his head. "When the order comes, I shall do my duty."
Renly smiled wryly. "Just let me know before you seal the gates. Unless Robert commands it, I'm not staying here—I'll be off hunting."
Jon's lips parted but he only nodded.
Petyr spoke again. "My lord Hand, we must consider provisions. There are tens of thousands of mouths in the city."
Jon had anticipated that. "I won't block food shipments. Petyr, you'll oversee this."
Petyr bowed elegantly. "As you wish, my lord."
Pycelle chimed in. "Lord Petyr, that won't be cheap. Can the royal treasury afford it?"
Petyr gave him a mocking grin. "The treasury? Oh, Grand Maester, let's not pretend. You and I both know the royal vaults have been empty for years. Even the rats have left."
Turning to Jon, he added, "The High Septon may be willing to help. I'll reach out to him."
Jon sighed. "We'll need the High Septon's help to keep the city calm."
With that, the plan had passed the council.
All had gone smoothly. Jon allowed himself a rare breath of relief, though weariness overtook him and he leaned against his chair.
Petyr was about to speak when a herald's voice rang out:
"Her Grace the Queen!"
.
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