The Small Council meeting that day proceeded as usual, without the King or the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
The King had too many matters to attend to, and the Lord Commander was undoubtedly with him, escorting him through the streets—a busy job.
The meeting was chaired by Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, as was customary. He had white hair and a beard, but was in good health and spirits.
"How are the preparations for the Crown Prince's tourney coming along?" The Crown Prince's tourney was the most important matter in the Seven Kingdoms at the moment. Reluctant as the old Hand might be, he still had to address the issue.
Once the announcements went out, knights from all over the country would come to the capital. And with each knight came free riders, along with a large number of craftsmen, soldiers, businessmen, prostitutes, and thieves, who would certainly not miss such an opportunity. King's Landing was already densely populated, and its defenses were barely sufficient. Now, with so many more people...
Since a few days ago, there had been a constant stream of fights, murders, bar brawls, knife fights, robberies, and rapes within King's Landing.
The King only had to say a word to add honor to the Crown Prince's Name Day. The entire capital and the ministers had to worry and work hard for it, becoming extremely busy.
"The funds have been fully prepared," Petyr Baelish, the short-statured Master of Coin, stared at the old Hand, his gray-green eyes showing a hint of helplessness, answering with a touch of self-deprecating humor, "The Lannisters of the Westerlands and the Tyrells of the Reach are very happy to help with the grand event in the capital. After this grand event, maybe we can even keep a few copper coins in the treasury."
The aged Maester Pycelle looked up from his bench at the end of the long table, his eyes still heavy with sleep. He continued, as if picking up on Petyr Baelish's jest, "Lord Tywin and Lord Tyrell are indeed generous."
Petyr Baelish replied, "Yes, they would be even more generous if they lowered the interest rates a bit."
"My Lord Hand," Stannis Baratheon, the stern Master of Ships, cut off the jocular conversation at the council table. His face was tight, and his eyes, beneath thick brows, resembled two wounds, a deep blue like a black ocean. He began, "I have, as agreed, allocated twenty men from my guard to reinforce the City Watch and maintain order in the city. Everything is in order at sea."
Duke Renly Baratheon picked up on his brother's words. "I say, if Lord Stannis were to become the commander of the City Watch, maintaining order in the city wouldn't require so many men."
Renly was dressed in a green robe, tall and handsome, with black hair neatly combed to his shoulders. He knew how to dress and was considered remarkably similar to King Robert in his youth. He knew King Robert would think of his own younger self when he saw him, so his attire leaned towards pleasing the King. This undoubtedly made him more favored by the King than his serious elder brother.
Stannis glared at his frivolous younger brother, angered by the implication. "You should learn to respect your elder brother, Renly."
"Apologies, Lord Stannis, my brother," Renly said with a mocking smile. "This mouth of mine. I shouldn't compare you to the butcher's son."
"Renly," the old Hand's voice sounded, "How are matters on your side?"
"My Lord Hand, the twenty men I assigned have also taken up their posts. Furthermore, we've been filling the prisons with people every day these past few days," Renly said, the King's Master of Laws.
"Then everything's in order," the old Hand said, ignoring the eunuch Varys, who sat silently in the corner, and moved on with a commanding tone. "My lords, then this matter is considered prepared. I hope you all will do your best to avoid any major problems."
After the Small Council meeting, the old Hand went to the throne room to sit on the Iron Throne. There was no other choice; the King did not care for state affairs, so the Hand needed to handle them in the King's stead.
Since ancient times, there had been a tradition in Westeros where disputes among nobles, and even trivial matters of the commoners, needed to be decided by the Iron Throne.
The King loathed these things, calling financial matters "counting coppers" and the affairs that required him to sit on the Iron Throne "petty trifles."
It was already afternoon when the old Hand returned to the Tower of the Hand after dealing with the usual inquiries at the Iron Throne.
"My lord, Duke Stannis is waiting for you," the guard Hugh informed him.
Hearing this, the old Hand's spirit, weary from the complex affairs, perked up slightly. He instructed, "Don't let anyone disturb us."
The old Hand of the King ascended the stairs to the tower. When he reached the large wooden door of the small hall in the tower, he could hear a commotion from within.
The guard, Hugh, who had followed him, opened the door with a knowing look.
Behind the large wooden door was a tall, narrow room with a vaulted ceiling. A group of women were gathered around a corner of the long bench table, which could seat two hundred people.
In the center of the crowd sat the Hand's wife, Lady Lysa Tully, who was holding her child, Robert Arryn, and berating a young maidservant.
As the old Hand entered, his wife was screaming in a harsh, shrill voice, "I told you, sweet Robin cannot be in the sun at noon, cannot be in the sun at noon, cannot be in the sun at noon! What have you done to him! I was only gone for a moment, and you took him into the courtyard to suffer the scorching sun! Why didn't I see it sooner, that you were so cruel!"
"My lady, I..." The maidservant's voice trembled, and she was on the verge of tears. "How dare you!" Lady Lysa interrupted the maidservant.
"What's going on?" The women blocked his path, and the old Hand had to ask.
Lady Lysa seemed to have just noticed her husband, and she stood up, holding her child and crying, "They can't take care of sweet Robin! Look what happened while I was gone!" She held the child up for the old Hand to see.
Jon Arryn's only son, Robert Arryn, was already six years old, but he was small, pale, and underdeveloped, thin and frail. Fine brown hair clung to his sweaty forehead, and he was slumped in Lysa Tully's arms, drowsy and on the verge of sleep. He didn't say a word. To a normal child, he would have looked sick, but for him, it was just the usual sign of being tired from playing.
But Lysa Tully always had an ulterior motive. Jon Arryn had already guessed the reason. He simply asked, "Did you call for the Maester?"
"Maester, Maester," Lysa Tully said, tears welling up in her eyes. "If the Maesters were of any use, my child wouldn't be like this."
Robert suffered from a disease that caused epileptic seizures at even the slightest provocation. His Maesters often bled him and gave him painkillers.
Jon Arryn sighed. "What do you want me to do?"
"You don't care about him!" Lysa Tully lamented. "You just want to send him away, to have them take him away from me."
"Of course, I care about my child," Jon Arryn said, a little exasperated. "And no one is going to take our child away."
Lysa Tully fell silent, her eyes reddening, and tears flowed uncontrollably.
"Someone," the old Hand called out, "escort the lady back to her chambers."
The maids swarmed around Lady Lysa and led her away, leaving only the maid who had been scolded earlier, looking bewildered.
The old Hand waved a hand at her. "Go find the old nurse, and ask her for another task."
Having dealt with the farce clearly orchestrated by Lady Lysa, the old Hand finally met with Stannis in the private meeting room within the tower.
As soon as the old Hand entered the room, the guards closed the door.
"Lysa, you need to tell me what you saw so I can better advise you on how to stop them from taking sweet Robin away from you."
Petyr Baelish took the risk of meeting the Hand's wife in private, not to listen to her weep. As the Master of Coin, promoted by the Hand himself, Petyr couldn't help but notice that the Master of Ships had been frequently entering the Tower of the Hand for secret meetings with the Hand recently. Moreover, during the Crown Prince's tournament, they each arranged for their retainers to participate in the defense of King's Landing—though this was a justifiable activity, since the City Watch was understaffed. The commander had repeatedly requested personnel from the Small Council, and finally, the Hand, Stannis, and Renly each arranged for their own retainers to fill the ranks.
But old Jon Arryn and Stannis seemed to have other plans. Whatever their purpose, Petyr Baelish felt it was necessary to know what such abnormal behavior foretold and whether he could profit from it.
"I can't get into the meeting room; they're keeping everything from me!" Lady Lysa complained, her resentment palpable. "They know I would never agree to hand sweet Robert over to Stannis. Heavens, I can't even imagine how much my sweet Robert would suffer under someone as stern as Stannis. I absolutely forbid it! Not to mention, his daughter is a hideous monster, and there's no way sweet Robert would marry her!"
"The Hand plans to arrange a marriage with Stannis?" Petyr asked.
Lady Lysa said fiercely, "As long as I live, it will never happen!"
Petyr patiently guided her thoughts. "Why do you think so? It seems to me that even if the Hand admires Stannis, he wouldn't want Robert Arryn to marry Shireen Baratheon."
"That's exactly what they want!" Lady Lysa said. "I know what the lords are thinking. For the sake of alliances, they'll agree to any marriage. He thinks I don't know what he's up to. He wants my sweet Robert to marry Stannis's monstrous daughter, for his plans—you tell me, he wants to persuade the King to hand over my child's Lord of the Eyrie to Stannis!"
"Oh, Lysa, dear." Petyr took her hand. "No matter what happens, I'll stand by you."
Lady Lysa leaned into Petyr's embrace, taking advantage of the moment. "Thank you, dear. I knew you loved me."
....
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