"Ah?"
It took several calls from Jon Arryn to bring Grand Maester Pycelle back from his stupor.
Blinking in confusion, the elderly Maester looked around at his colleagues' faces as if he had forgotten where he was.
"Apologies, my lords." Pycelle's voice was thick with age. "It seems my years weigh heavily upon me. I'm afraid I must have dozed off. My apologies."
Jon Arryn sighed, choosing not to reprimand the old man. Pycelle had been serving the Iron Throne for nearly fifty years, through the reigns of four different kings—a tenure unmatched by any present.
But while Jon held back, the "Spider," Varys, couldn't resist a sly smile. A "little bird" had once whispered to him that this seemingly frail Grand Maester, who now looked ready for his grave, showed no such fatigue when "examining" the maids in his bedchamber.
"Grand Maester Pycelle, we're discussing the conflict between the Reach and Dorne. What are your thoughts?" Jon Arryn asked again, patiently.
"Ah… the Reach and Dorne…" Pycelle stroked his snow-white beard, appearing to search his memory, before finally saying slowly:
"They've been at each other's throats for thousands of years! Such a terrible shame, truly. As bannermen to the Iron Throne, what could they possibly not settle through civil discourse? Instead, they waste soldiers' and peasants' lives fighting each other. Back when Aegon V was on the throne, he tried to marry the two houses together to ease tensions, but alas, it didn't work. And later, when Jaehaerys II…"
Pycelle rambled on about the history of kings long dead, his words going nowhere, while the other council members began to shift with impatience.
Finally, Stannis Baratheon could endure it no longer. "I believe the Iron Throne should send an envoy south to put an end to this dispute."
At last, someone had offered a course of action.
Pycelle fell silent immediately, his eyelids drooping as though he might slip back into sleep.
Jon Arryn glanced at the Master of Ships, the Lord of Dragonstone, who sat to his right like a slab of granite. Though Stannis's manner was harsh and unforgiving, it made him seem almost refreshing compared to the slipperiness of some of the others.
"I agree," Jon said, not wishing to waste further time on this matter.
"So do I," said Varys.
"Agreed," chimed in Petyr.
One by one, each of the council members gave their assent.
"Good," Jon nodded with satisfaction. "Now, whom should we send as an envoy? Who among us is suited for the task?"
A hush fell over the council as each member waited for someone else to volunteer.
Finally, it was Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish who broke the silence: "To bring the Reach and Dorne to the table peacefully, our envoy must command great respect. Ideally, His Grace would go himself…"
The others suppressed their sighs.
The king had become something of a stranger to council meetings, and no one thought he would lift a finger to mediate a dispute so far from his own concerns.
Jon cleared his throat, his face reddening slightly as he said, "The king is busy with… other matters…"
He trailed off, then forced himself to continue. "It would be best to send someone else."
Petyr shrugged and suggested, "If the king himself cannot go, then perhaps a member of the royal family?"
At this, Stannis Baratheon, the Lord of Dragonstone, offered curtly, "I can go."
Jon paused, studying the solemn, hard-faced Stannis, then replied carefully, "Lord Stannis, I appreciate your willingness. However, you are needed to oversee the kingdom's naval affairs. It may not be wise for you to leave."
At this, Stannis stood abruptly and said, "Very well. Then I'll attend to my 'naval affairs' while the rest of you discuss this further."
Without another word, he turned and left the chamber.
The others stared after him, unsure how to react.
Jon Arryn sighed, recognizing that his excuse had indeed been flimsy. The truth was, Stannis's grim temperament would hardly lend itself to soothing relations between two rival factions. During Robert's Rebellion, Reach forces had besieged Storm's End for over a year, nearly starving Stannis to death. Sending him south might only stir old grudges rather than calm them.
"Well, does anyone else have suggestions for who might go?" Jon's head had begun to throb again, and he rubbed his brow with a weary hand.
Petyr flashed a small smile and spoke again. "What about Lord Renly? He's on holiday by the Sunset Sea already; it wouldn't be far for him to travel."
Jon frowned, clearly even less enthusiastic about the idea of Renly. "Let's not trouble Lord Renly; he's on holiday."
Petyr, undeterred, tried again: "Then perhaps Prince Joffrey?"
Jon shook his head at once. "The prince is still too young."
Petyr raised his hands, shrugging. "Then that leaves Her Grace the Queen."
"I second the Queen!" Grand Maester Pycelle mumbled, rousing from his daze.
But this suggestion was met with silence rather than support.
Just the mention of the queen's name deepened Jon's headache. This troublesome woman already kept the Red Keep in constant disarray. To expect her to negotiate peace in a border dispute?
Seven hells.
In a moment of rare despondence, Jon Arryn reflected grimly that he couldn't find a single suitable candidate within the royal family for such a crucial task.
But even beyond the royal family, were there any trustworthy candidates on the council itself?
Varys knew too much but did too little.
Pycelle pretended to be feeble while currying favor with House Lannister.
Ser Barristan Selmy was upright and honorable but inflexible, uninterested in anything beyond his vows as a knight.
And as for Petyr Baelish—
Though Jon himself had promoted Petyr, making him both a vassal and a royal advisor, there was something in those green-gray eyes that kept Jon from giving him his complete trust.
A sense of helplessness gripped Jon, tightening around his heart and adding to the exhaustion he already felt from his burdensome duties.
Sometimes, he considered leaving it all behind, taking his wife and child back to the Eyrie for a peaceful retirement.
But each time, he scorned such weakness.
'As High as Honor'.
The words of House Arryn were etch in his bones.
When he had raised his banners alongside his two wards, Robert had sought vengeance for his betrothed, Eddard Stark for his murdered family. But Jon Arryn had joined the cause to bring Westeros a ruler who was neither mad nor cruel.
Yet while Robert Baratheon was not cruel, he was far from wise.
Thus, it was left to Jon to shoulder the burden.
No matter how heavy it grew, he would not set it down.
If it demanded his life, so be it.
"Enough. I'll go myself," Jon announced at last, feeling the tension in his skull ease as he spoke. "As Hand of the King, it's my duty to act in the king's stead. While I'm away, I leave King's Landing to your capable hands."
The others inclined their heads, murmuring assent.
Petyr Baelish's head was lowered especially deeply, as if to hide the expression on his face.
…
After the council adjourned, Petyr stepped outside, finding the sunlight unusually bright and pleasant.
"Lord Baelish," came the honeyed tones of Varys, calling to him from behind.
Petyr wiped the smile from his face as he turned, saying, "What is it, Lord Varys?"
Catching up, Varys walked in silence for a few steps before murmuring, "It seems you were quite eager for Jon to make this journey himself."
"What an odd notion," Petyr replied. "The Hand is aging and in ill health. Such a journey is cause for concern. And we both know how the kingdom depends on him. In his absence, the council may struggle. Just thinking of it is enough to give me a headache."
Varys chuckled, seeing through the charade. "Please, don't pretend, my dear Lord Baelish. You deliberately ruled out every unsuitable candidate until he had no choice but to go."
Feigning wounded innocence, Petyr sighed. "Varys, you do me a disservice. My intentions are pure. I simply seek peace in the realm."
Varys's grin grew sharper as he leaned in. "Then perhaps one of my little birds misheard when they saw you in Braavos two months ago. What were you doing across the Narrow Sea, my lord?"
Petyr raised an eyebrow. "Your little birds must be not only stupid but blind. They mistook me. But while we're on the subject of the Narrow Sea, I hear you're rather close to a certain Magister Illyrio…"
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the two exchanged a thousand silent thoughts.
Then Varys put a hand to his mouth and let out a sugary laugh.
"We do give our all for this realm, don't we?"
"Indeed," replied Petyr, flashing his trademark sly smile. "Loyal servants like us are hard to come by."
Varys's laugh echoed down the hallway. "Lord Baelish, you speak as prettily as one of my mockingbirds."
"And Lord Varys, your perfume rivals any lady of the finest pleasure house"
(End of Chapter)