Varys wore his usual obsequious smile as he said,
"Lord Stark, you are the Hand of the King. To serve you is our duty."
With that, he and the other councillors of the Small Council settled into their accustomed seats.
Because King Robert had once said that every member of his council was cunning and treacherous, Lord Eddard, weary in body though he was, did not allow himself to relax his guard.
His eyes swept across the chamber and he frowned.
"Why are there only five of us at this council?"
Varys cast a glance at Renly and replied smoothly,
"Lord Hand, Lord Stannis has returned to Dragonstone, and Ser Barristan is attending His Grace."
Grand Maester Pycelle, who had been sitting quietly with head bowed, lifted his chin and said in a slow, wheezing voice,
"Lord Hand, today's meeting concerns the tourney—a celebration for the appointment of the new Hand. It is not necessary to summon the entire council."
Petyr Baelish curled his lips.
"I cannot recall the last time all seven seats were ever filled."
Ned shot him a look, then turned back to the old maester.
"Maester Pycelle, you seem still hale enough of body. My thanks for your counsel."
Pycelle clutched at his chest with trembling hand.
"Lord Stark, I am an old man. Fatigue comes easily. I nearly drifted to sleep just now."
Ned's brow furrowed, almost imperceptibly. Listening to these men talk was exhausting.
"Very well, my lords. Let us speak of this tourney."
After listening for a time, Ned nearly cursed aloud.
The Iron Throne's debts exceeded six million gold dragons?!
Had not the Targaryens left mountains of treasure behind? How had the realm fallen so low?
And this tourney was to be held in his name? How far would Robert's folly go? Did the king think such waste an honor to him?
More importantly, the kingdom's coffers bled dry. This extravagance would ruin them.
Ned drew a long breath, striving to keep his tone even.
"I will speak to His Grace. The realm cannot afford such wasteful pageantry."
Renly laughed heartily.
"Ned, by the time you find my brother, the tourney will already be half done. Knights are already gathering in King's Landing, and more are on the road. It is too late to cancel."
Varys added in silken tones,
"Our dear Robert has weightier matters on his mind. He would not return for such a trifle."
Renly shrugged.
"When it comes to matters of coin, harvests, or laws, my brother's head aches. He left us here to bear those burdens in his stead."
"…Seven hells."
Ned swore under his breath, then turned to the Master of Coin.
"Lord Baelish, how do you propose to pay for this folly?"
Petyr's mouth curved in a mocking smile.
"My lord Hand, I have already arranged for the gold."
Ned's look of doubt only made his tone more sardonic.
"The realm's coffers have been empty for years. Whenever we need coin, we borrow it. What matter another loan? We already owe the Lannisters over three million dragons. A few hundred thousand more for a tourney is no great thing."
Ned's eyes narrowed. Over three million? Why were the Lannisters so generous?
Petyr's eyes gleamed, as if he had read Ned's very thoughts.
"Why, because a Lannister queen sits the Red Keep, my lord. House Lannister is happy to provide."
"Damn this tourney," Ned muttered. "The sooner this mummer's farce is done, the sooner I may have peace."
Pycelle interjected suddenly.
"Lord Stark, this noon the commander of the Gold Cloaks reported on the state of the city. He expressed grave concern over the peace of King's Landing."
"Speak," Ned said, leaning back.
"The knights arriving for the tourney are many. For each comes two freeriders, three craftsmen, six men-at-arms, a dozen merchants, two dozen camp-followers. As for thieves, I dare not guess their number.
"Last night alone we had a drowning, a tavern riot, three brawls with knives, one rape, two fires, and countless robberies. A drunken horse even bolted down Septa Street."
Varys shuddered delicately.
"This very morning a woman's head was found floating in the Rainbow Pool of the Great Sept. No one knows whose head, or whence it came. Terrifying."
Renly scowled.
"If Janos cannot keep order, perhaps the Gold Cloaks require a more capable commander."
Pycelle inclined his head.
"That, too, is a solution, Lord Renly."
Ned asked, "Has he proposed any remedy?"
"Janos Seaworth requests authority to take on more men."
Pycelle's reply earned only a scoff from Littlefinger.
More men? Ned thought immediately of Crabb's soldiers, but shook his head.
After a pause, he said aloud,
"I will assign him twenty from my own guard. He may hire fifty more besides. As for the cost…"
His eyes turned to Petyr.
"Lord Baelish will see to it."
Petyr blinked. "Me?"
"You heard me. If you can conjure dragons enough for this tourney, a few coppers to keep order should be no trouble."
Petyr's face showed both weariness and wry amusement. He spread his hands.
"As you wish, Lord Stark. Always happy to serve."
"The rest may wait for another day…"
Ned realized his tone had grown harsh. This was not Winterfell, he reminded himself.
Softening, he said,
"My lords, I am weary. Let us adjourn. We shall speak again when I am better rested."
He did not wait for replies. Rising, he gave each a curt nod and strode from the chamber.
The dining hall of the Tower of the Hand was a long chamber beneath a lofty dome, with benches enough for two hundred men.
The Stark household numbered barely fifty, and the benches seemed half deserted.
Arya saw her father enter after the first course had been cleared, and she could tell he was troubled.
Ned waved aside those rising to greet him.
Captain Jory Cassel resumed his seat and said,
"My lord, all the city speaks of the tourney. They say knights from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms will come—to fight in your honor, and to celebrate the new Hand."
Sansa's eyes shone.
"It will be the grandest tourney ever held! Father, may we go?"
Arya saw her father's face darken, and quickly said to her sister,
"Sansa, you don't even like swords. You'll only cry. Better stay with your embroidery."
Sansa tossed her head.
"You're the one who sneaks out when Father tells us to stay in our chambers. You're the traitor!"
"I am not a traitor—you're the one who tattles!"
"I hate you!"
"I never liked you either!"
"Enough!"
Lord Stark thundered.
"I have had my fill of your bickering. You are sisters—act like it. Love each other, as you should. Do you hear me?"
Sansa bit her lip and nodded. Arya only stared down sullenly at her trencher. The hall filled with the scrape of knives and forks.
Ned sighed.
"I will see to seats for you both at the lists."
He rose, weariness plain upon him.
"Forgive me. I have no appetite tonight. Eat your fill."
This was Robert's foolishness, not his, yet he was left to arrange it, and to feign delight besides. Ned Stark loathed it.
Once he had gone, Arya saw her sister lean close to whisper excitedly with others. Laughter soon filled the hall.
At Winterfell, they had often eaten in the great hall. Father would say a lord must dine with his men if he wished to keep their loyalty, and he must know them as they must know him, for no man would die for a stranger.
He always kept one seat open at his table, inviting a different man each night to speak and be heard. Arya had loved listening.
She shot a glare at her "false" sister, then slipped out unnoticed into the night.
Maegor's Holdfast.
Gawen Crabb dined with Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime. The fare was pumpkin soup and roast ribs.
The ambitious Crabb was busy: dining with Baratheons and Starks at midday, with Lannisters by night.
He sipped from his cup.
"Ser Jaime, were you pleased with my gift?"
Unable to think of better, he had given Jaime a cloak embroidered with the words Warden of the East.
Jaime coughed and, glancing sidelong at Cersei, changed the subject at once.
"Have you made ready your armor?"
Cersei had seen the gift and seemed to like it well enough. Jaime, fearing she might bid him wear it, wanted the matter buried.
Gawen smiled.
"All arranged. There will be no problem."
Soon after, Queen Cersei set down her knife and fork and gestured the servants away.
She swirled her wine.
"Lord Crabb, what did you think of the girl?"
She meant Sansa Stark. Cersei had permitted Gawen to greet the Stark household, and she had not ceased to weigh the matter of Joffrey's betrothal.
Gawen set down his cup and answered gravely.
"Lady Sansa Stark bears the red hair and blue eyes of House Tully. A fair young maiden. Her family guards her well—she is innocent, and unworldly."
Cersei's lips curved.
"Amusing, is it not?"
Jaime smiled faintly.
"You seem pleased, Your Grace?"
Cersei sipped her summerwine, eyes glinting.
"Joffrey needs a girl who is biddable and obedient."
Gawen blinked. For a moment, it felt uncomfortably like a council of villains. Surely just his imagination.
"My queen."
He recounted briefly his encounter with Margaery Tyrell.
"The Golden Rose plays her little games without cease. I cannot help but feel they scheme in secret."
Jaime frowned.
"Do they mean to wed Highgarden to Winterfell? Robb Stark is near Margaery's age."
Cersei shot him a cold look.
"Jaime, those Reachmen think too highly of themselves to stoop for northern peasants."
No, they must be after Robert, the drunken fool. Cersei knew such ploys well.
She thought of the witch's prophecy and gave a sharp laugh.
"Whatever they plot, the Golden Rose will fail."
Gawen's gaze flickered.
"Your Grace, we cannot know their moves. They have many men here in King's Landing. I fear for your safety. Perhaps, to be safe…"
He lowered his voice.
"Shall I summon more men from Whispers Hall? Ser Jaime is now Warden of the East—under his name, we could lawfully move forces into the city."
Cersei seemed tempted.
But Jaime broke her thoughts.
"Cersei… my queen. Everyone's eyes are upon the capital. To move troops now would rouse suspicion—some might even claim we meant to seize King's Landing."
Gawen nodded readily.
"True enough, Ser Jaime. Ill-wishers might indeed twist it so."
He shrugged, feigning helplessness.
Cersei's green eyes glittered. Slowly, she caressed her cup.
"How many men could you bring, Lord Crabb?"
"Two to three thousand on short notice, Your Grace. Given two or three months, no fewer than ten thousand."
The new Warden of the East studied him, eyes complex. He knew Crabb spoke true—House Crabb's strength had become no small force in the Crownlands.
He recalled past boasts and hints. Gawen had long been parading his power.
The game they played was perilous. Casterly Rock lay far away. Yet Cersei's safety, at least, seemed firmer, and Jaime felt some relief. Still, he feared most of all what mischief she and Crabb might hatch together.
Cersei inclined her head.
"Your loyalty pleases me, Lord Crabb. Await my word."
Her gaze lingered on him. He answered with a nod.
Jaime let out a silent breath. At least she understood they could not make too bold a stir.
Smiling, he said,
"Crabb, this must be your first tourney. Prepare well—you might even win a fair maiden's heart."
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