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Walking into the Small Council Chambers, Jon Arryn, Hand of the King let out a frustrated sigh at the sight before him. Of the seven men that made up the Small Council, only two currently were currently in attendance. Lord Stannis sat with his back straight, reading over a piece of parchment with a chalice sitting next to him. No doubt a water at the strongest. And the other occupant was Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers. The eunuch was standing next to the open window, staring out over the Blackwater Bay. But besides them, the rest of the of the Small Council was absent.
'Pycelle is no doubt shuffling about, trying to act his age and believing that he has everyone fooled,' Jon thought as he spared a quick nod towards Stannis before making his way around the table to too his seat. 'Baelish no doubt is finding a way to make more coin appear out of nothing to appease the King's appetites. And Renly, Seven only know where that boy is. I warned Robert that his younger brother was not yet ready to take on the mantle of Master of Law. But Robert is not one to change his mind once it is set. One need only look at his ongoing opinion of the Targaryens to know that for a fact. And Barristan is no doubt still with the King.'
"Lord Hand," Varys greeted him cordially as the eunuch turned away from the window and made his way towards his seat.
"Lord Varys," Jon greeted the man back.
Of all the members of the Small Council, Varys was the one that caused the most concern for Jon. Stannis was predictable. Renly was easy to manipulate. Pycelle was easy to anticipate once you saw through his façade. And Baelish cared only for his own self-interests in expanding his coin and influence. But Varys…? Varys was an enigma. The man had not only managed to survive his tenure as a member of the Mad King's Small Council, but he'd managed to seamlessly engrain himself into Robert's Small Council as well. And while he could anticipate and predict the other members of the Council based on their wants and needs, Varys was a complete mystery. He truly seemed to mean what he said when Jon had first talked to the man. 'I serve the realm, Lord Hand. Someone has too.' But the day he truly believed that would be the same day that he ate his own shoe.
If Jon had had his way, Varys would have been excused from the Council the moment Robert had been crowned. But the problem was that they needed him. They needed his spy network. He'd been trying for years, ever since his appointment as Hand, to try and subtly find another that could potentially take over Varys's position, but for over ten years he failed with every attempt. So now, he had no choice but to accept the eunuch out of necessity.
Within moments of Varys taking his seat, the doors to the Small Council chambers opened once more as Baelish and Renly came walking in, the two determinedly not looking at one another with a slowly lumbering Pycelle directly behind them.
"Forgive the tardiness…Lord Hand," Pycelle muttered as he stumbled to his seat, his act growing rather thin on Jon but not enough for him to call him out on it.
"I ask forgiveness as well, Lord Hand," Baelish smiled, bowing slightly as he took his seat and pulling out his ledger. "But there were a few discrepancies that I felt the need to deal with before we begin today. And I believe that now that we are all—"
"We are not all here," Jon cut in quickly. "We will wait for Robert before beginning."
Looks of doubt crossed the face of each member of the Small Council, even Stannis looked curious. And why wouldn't they? It was well known that Robert despised these meetings. 'Counting coppers,' he always called them. But Jon knew his former ward and now King. He knew exactly what to say to make the boy do what he wanted him to do. And, sure enough, he only had to wait a few moments longer before the doors to the Small Council chambers were thrown open again.
"Your grace," rising to his feet with the rest of the council, Jon inclined his head as King Robert, cup of wine in hand, entered the council chambers with Ser Selmy and the King's squire Lancel right behind him.
"Ah, save that shit, Jon, and sit your ass down. All of you." Robert grumbled as he made his way to his seat and flopping down in it while holding out his cup for Lancel to refill. "So, I'm here. You said there was news from the North. What is it?"
Jon could see Stannis's jaw tighten as recognition flashed in his eyes on just how Jon had managed to get the king to attend the meeting. "In time," Jon stated, taking his seat as did the rest of the council. "First, though, we have several issues we should discuss that concern the realm. Varys let us start with you. What news from the realm?"
Jon could see Robert visibly deflate. He cared and loved the man as if he were his own son, to be sure. But after years of dealing with the errant man, Jon found he'd simply given up on caring about Robert's whims. Varys, taking the opening, began to speak. "Songs have reached my ears that Oberyn Martell has been making his way through the Free Cities of Essos with his paramour Ellaria Sand."
"No doubt looking to sire a few more bastards on a few Essos women," Renly quipped, chuckling slightly at his own joke.
Jon, however, did not find it amusing. While the younger Martell brother was known to be a wanderer, his current whereabouts were of concern. "Has he made contact with the exiled Targaryens?"
Robert sat up straight instantly, his eyes gaining that same fire as what always entered them whenever the dragons were brought into the conversation. Mercifully, Varys shook his head. If there was one point of contention between Jon and Robert, it was in the fates of the remaining Targaryen children. The idea of killing them both still made Jon uneasy. Although he did admit that it would solve many problems, it would also create many others. No. The best bet would be to capture the two of them and bring them back to Westeros. Viserys, of course, would have to be sent to the Wall. But at least there, once he'd sworn his oaths, he would be unable to legally try and claim the crown. But the girl, Daenerys, she had potential. If she were set to marry the crown Prince Joffrey, then Robert's reign and the Baratheons' continued hold on the throne would be without question. But Robert didn't agree. He only wanted the two dead.
"No, he has not," Varys said with a sigh. "I fear that after the death of Ser Willem Darry that two remaining Targaryens have disappeared. The two are quite adept at hiding from my little birds."
"I want them both found, Varys!" Robert all but shouted, rising from his seat slightly. "I want them found and dead!"
"My little birds are trying their best, your grace," Varys nodded. "But I believe that they are playing on the few families that are still loyal to the Targaryens in Essos or making promises to others in exchange for protection."
"The Targaryens and their fate can be discussed at a later date," Jon cut in, ending the discussion with a pointed look at Robert. "If Oberyn Martell has not traveled to Essos to seek out the Targaryen exiles, then have your little birds managed to learn why he is there?"
"I have, Lord Hand. Prince Oberyn has not been discreet during his travels," Varys nodded. "Apparently, he is asking anyone and everyone for information about a certain man. A blind man with Valyrian features."
It didn't take the wisest man in the realm to understand what Varys was alluding too. "The Northern Sorcerer," Stannis stated. "Why would Dorne be interested in the man? He is sworn to House Stark."
"But he has said no oaths, neither to House Stark nor to the crown." Pycelle cut in, suddenly energetic as his façade slipped, as it always did when the topic of the sorcerer was brought up. "If Dorne is interested in the man, then perhaps he truly is a Targaryen loyalist who is merely preparing the land for his master's return."
Jon could see that same fire return to Roberts eye, and he knew that he needed to cut off that line of thought. He had no idea just why Pycelle seemed to despise the man so much, but the Grand Maester would take every opportunity presented to paint the sorcerer in a poor light. But he was saved from having to say anything this time as Stannis spoke up.
"That is unlikely," Stannis stated, fixing the Grand Maester with a glare that shut the old man up. "Since his arrival in Westeros, the sorcerer has only proven to be a benefit. He almost singlehandedly brought down the Greyjoys and brought peace back to the realm. And with his work in the North in the creation of glass, the printing press, his gifts of new foods to the North as well as his countless other contributions that have brought more wealth and stability to the realm than we have seen in years. If he truly is trying to upset the balance of the land to make it easier for a Targaryen resurgence, then he is doing a poor job of it. In fact, I would dare say that the sorcerer has been responsible for more technological and societal advancements in the past few years than the Maesters of the Citadel have in the past few centuries."
Stannis wasn't lying. The advancements coming from the North, of all places, far outpaced any advancements that the Maesters had ever achieved in well over a century. The printing press that was in Winterfell was able to turn out books as fast as they were able to supply them with paper. And while the effects were still relatively minor, it didn't take an archmaester to know what was to come. Literacy in Westeros was common only amongst the nobility, and even then, competent literacy was usually reserved only to those amongst the noble families. And that was primarily because of the scarcity of books due to the time and effort it took to make them. But now, with a single machine, that argument was now null and void. Literature could be made efficiently and cheaply. Soon, many of the smallfolk all over Westeros would be reading, which in turn would likely force their lords to step up their own lessons in retaliation.
The blast furnace was also a technological marvel. A giant bloomery capable of smelting tons of iron ore at once into high-grade steel far better than anything they had before. And, again, it could be done at a rate almost unheard of. It wouldn't surprise Jon that if in a few years, the North managed to surpass the Westerlands as the most well equipped and armed martial force.
Then there was the glass, whose strength somehow managed to surpass anything they could currently purchase from Myr. And while to many in the southern kingdoms it meant little, to the North it was a matter of life and death. Now that they could produce glass of their own, they could create glass gardens that could feed most of the North even in the middle of winter. However, that also created a new problem as many of the southern houses depended on the North to buy their crops, even if it chaffed them to admit that they depended on the North for anything.
Then there were the dozens of other little items the North had been creating over the past five years. When they weren't producing glass for the glass gardens, the glassmakers were making wine glasses or decorative pieces of art that were becoming very popular amongst the nobility of Westeros and even amongst the rich of the Free Cities, if Varys's little birds were to be believed. Then there were also the springs that were used to not only create new mattresses, which were far more comfortable and durable than feathered mattresses but were also being used in larger sizes to stabilize carriages while they traveled. Truly, the North was quickly becoming the height of technological advancement in Westeros, which was a fact that many, including Jon, would have thought impossible just a few short years past.
"Aye, the bloody fucking sorcerer has proven his worth," Robert grumbled, waving his hand dismissively at Pycelle's concerns. "And if he does show any allegiance to the fucking dragons, then I'll trust Ned to deal with him. Enough of the snakes, what the fuck is next?"
"Songs from the Reach, your grace," Varys informed the council. "Lord Tarly has sent his eldest son North to gain the approval of the sorcerer. From the time my birds sung of his departure, he should have arrived at Winterfell by now. And Garlan Tyrell has taken the Lord Tarly's second son as his squire."
"Tarly's boy?" Renly questioned. "I remember the boy, vaguely. A chubby boy that couldn't even hold a training sword in his hands without shaking."
"No doubt Lord Tarly hopes that the sorcerer will be able to turn the boy into something resembling a reasonable heir," Baelish sighed dramatically. "I do hope Lord Tarly doesn't take offense to the sorcerer shipping his son back south like he has with dozens of others."
Baelish spoke the truth of the matter. Ever since the Citadel had declared the end to the three-year winter Westeros had just endured, dozens of Lords from across the realm from Bear Island to Storm's End and across to Highgarden had sent their heirs to the North to try and garner the approval of the sorcerer. And each one had been turned around and sent back home by the sorcerer. Some managed to last longer than others, but in the end, it always ended the same. With the sorcerer informing the heir that they could not be taught the ways of magic, and the heir dejectedly leaving the North.
"Perhaps the boy will surprise us then and be the first not to be turned away," Jon commented, ready to leave the subject be. "Are there any other whispers, Varys? No, good. Lord Stannis, you spoke last time of an increase in pirate activity around the Stepstones, have you any—"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Jon!" Robert groaned, knocking back his wine cup in one go before holding it out to be refilled. "Enough with this counting coppers and whispers horseshit. You brought me here because you said you had word from Ned. So, what is it?"
'Barely more than a scant few updates,' Jon sighed while just barely managing to suppress his outward groan of annoyance. Sometimes, he truly wished that Ned had claimed the Iron Throne for himself that day when he walked into the Red Keep only to find the Mad King dead at the hands of the Kingslayer. It would've taken a lot of concessions to get the rest of the realm to agree to a reign headed by the wolves, but at least Ned would've been an attentive King.
"Yes, we have," Jon nodded. "Lord Stark reports that the bandit raids that've been plaguing the trade lines near Winterfell for the past few months have finally be—"
"Bandits? Near Winterfell?" Robert asked, sitting up straight and his eyes suddenly much clearer than they were a moment before. "Why wasn't I informed of this sooner?"
"It was discussed months ago, when Lord Stark sent word to the council informing us of the raids. And was later confirmed by Lord Varys," Stannis informed his brother calmly, although Jon could see the rage lingering behind the man's eyes as he addressed his brother and King. "Lord Stark informed us at the time that he had the situation under control. And that he and the Northern Sorcerer were working on a solution to the problem."
Robert looked confused, but before he could question further Jon pressed on. "In response to the raids, Lord Stark commissioned the creation of a new group of 'rangers', much like the Night's Watch have that patrol north of the Wall. Only this group would patrol the Northern lands. They were specially trained by the sorcerer and by Winterfell's Master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik. In Lord Stark's latest correspondence, he confirms that the newly formed rangers managed to track down and kill the bandits that were plaguing their trade lines."
"With the aid of Lord Stark's baseborn son, these new rangers managed to track the bandits back to their hiding place and they wiped them all out. Save for two who they brought back to Winterfell for questioning." Jon continued. "While being questioned by the sorcerer, it came to light that these bandits were no mere Westerosi men looking to make a quick amount coin. No. These were in fact Essosi sellswords, sent to the North specifically to disrupt the trade shipments of Northern glass. And while they did not reveal who hired them, as their hiring was done through a proxy and therefore unknown to the two men questioned, it is obvious who stands to gain the most from the disruption to the new Northern export."
"Myr," Baelish supplied seamlessly. "Curious. I was not aware that the Northern glass trade had had such an impact as to attract the attention of the only other glass distributor. Perhaps I need to recheck the Northern records to make sure they are paying the crown its true due."
"Careful, Baelish," Robert growled. "You're coming dangerously close to talking ill of my Warden of the North and one of, if not the, most honorable men in the realm."
"Of course, your grace," Baelish smiled politely. "I am sure that a man of Lord Stark's caliber would never forgo the crown its due."
Robert spared one last glare towards Baelish before coming back to Jon. "Alright, so Ned had some problems with bandits, who turned out not to be bandits but sellswords from Myr. Varys, why haven't your little birds sung that fucking song to you?"
Varys didn't seem the least bit perturbed by the King's ire. And why would he? This was one of the only men who managed to survive his tenure in the Mad King's Small Council. "My little birds in Essos are spread thin, your grace. Songs take time to travel. And I have but a few birds in Myr, and none in such a spot to overhear such plans as the ones that were used against the North."
"Get someone in position then," Robert growled. "What's to be our response to this then? Myr dares to attack Westeros. We cannot let such a thing go."
This time, Jon couldn't help but groan. If there was one thing that Robert longed for, it was war. A good fight. The Greyjoy Rebellion had done a fine job of tempering the King's hot blood. But that was years past now, and Robert was once again itching for another fight. If it was a simple uprising in Westeros, perhaps Jon would've entertained the idea, if only to calm Robert's blood once more. But this attack wasn't originating from Westeros. It was from Essos. And even then, they couldn't prove it fully. And if they were to launch and attack against one of the Free Cities, then the Iron Bank could suddenly start taking an interest in recollecting their due. Which was not something the crown could necessarily shoulder at the moment.
"There is nothing we can do," Stannis supplied, no doubt his thoughts on the matter akin to Jon's. "Perhaps if we had more evidence to prove their involvement, we could demand reconciliation through the Iron Back. But as it stands now, we have no cause to go to war with Myr. And if we launched a seemingly random attack against one of the Free Cities, the other nations of Essos would turn their attention to us. And that would be even if we managed to convince the Lords of the Realm to set sail in the first place, your grace."
Leaning back, Robert scratched at his beard. "Ah, fine. But, Varys, get some of your fucking birds in some fucking corner in Myr so they can actually hear something interesting."
"Of course, your grace," Varys nodded. "But I believe that the end of the bandit raids was not all that Lord Stark had to say."
Jon nearly cursed the eunuch. Jon had wanted to approach the matter delicately, but now that option was taken from him. "Indeed," Jon nodded, shooting the eunuch a withering glare. "During the skirmish with the sellswords, young Jon Snow used magic to kill two of the sellswords in front of the other rangers by blowing the men away and breaking their bodies against several nearby trees."
The implication of his words took a moment to sink in, and when they did the reaction around the table was about what Jon had expected. Stannis and Robert were not surprised by the fact that the boy had magic. Nor was Varys. Pycelle seemed on the verge of having a fit and Renly looked completely blindsided. And Lord Commander Selmy seemed curious. All which Jon expected. But what he hadn't expected was Baelish's seeming indifference to the news. Almost as if he already knew.
"Ah, we knew it would only be a matter of time before this news came to light." Robert shrugged, not caring or not realizing the full implications of what was at stake.
"Your grace!" Pycelle gasped, turning to the King. "You…Is it that you…a-already knew of the bastard boy's usage of this accursed magic?"
"Aye, I fucking knew," Robert shrugged before waving to Jon and Stannis. "As did Jon and Stannis here. And it isn't just Ned's bastard that has magic. His trueborn son, Robb, can use that fucking magic well. The sorcerer has been training both the boys since the end of the Greyjoy spat. Glad to see that the fucking sorcerer is keeping to his word."
"Be that as it may, we will have to prepare for the backlash from word of this development reaching the masses," Jon stated. "A foreign man who can use magic was…acceptable. If reluctantly to the people and most especially to the Faith. But now word will reach of an heir to a Great House being able to use the same abilities, it will cause a stir."
"Eh, let the fat Septon bitch and moan all he wants. The Starks are descendants from the First Men and do not follow the Faith of the Seven," Robert shot back, waving off Jon's concerns. "So, Ned's bastard was managed to kill a couple of sellswords, eh? Not bad for a boy of…what is he now? Twelve name-days? Good age for a boy to start bloodying themselves. If only my own fucking son showed such initiative… What else did Ned have to say?"
The next bit was a subject that Jon didn't really want to broach with Robert, but he knew that he had too. If he held this back and word got back to Robert, it wouldn't be pleasant. "Lord Stark has made an official request that, in light of his actions, his bastard son be legitimized as a true son of House Stark."
Again, the reactions were predictable. Pycelle was furious. Stannis contemplative. Renly unsure. And Selmy stoic as ever. But again, Baelish proved to be the odd man out as he didn't show any reaction at all. 'Does he have eyes and ears in Winterfell? He seems to know a lot more about what is happening in the North than he's letting on. …Wait. Lysa has mentioned receiving letters from her sister in the North for some time but… I just assumed that they were harmless. And the three did grow up together…and then there are the rumors that Baelish claims to have claimed both Tully sister maidenhoods. Hmm. Could Lysa be informing Baelish of news from the North? Or worse, could Catelyn be sending the missives directly to Baelish? Either way, I need to keep a better eye on the man in the future.'
"Eh, why not?" Robert shrugged. "Pycelle, write up the decree and I'll sign it and sen—"
"One moment, your grace," Jon interrupted quickly. "Perhaps we should not be so quick to grant this request. Raising and legitimizing a bastard is not something that can or should be done on a whim. We don't want to set the precedence that all a bastard needs to do is kill a few bandits in order to be legitimized. The problems it would cause with the line of succession within many noble families would be chaotic at least. Bloody, at worst."
In truth, Jon wasn't exactly against the idea of legitimizing Ned's baseborn son. If anything, it could reaffirm the boy's allegiance to the Baratheon monarchy. But if the boy were to be legitimized, then Lord Stark would be forced to do one of two things in order to keep the line of succession in Winterfell clear. Either he would have to give the boy a keep of his own, which would then result in the Lords of the realm throwing their daughters at him to try and gain the favor of the Starks to breed magic into their House's line. Or he would have to send the boy to the Night's Watch to ensure he didn't pose a threat to his siblings. Neither of which coincided with the part Jon needed the boy to play in stabilizing the realm.
'It seems I have run out of time,' Jon thought sorely. 'I'll have to start spreading the rumors of the boy's parentage through the realm and Dorne especially. I need word to reach the Martells, and Arianne especially, about the boy's capabilities and parentage.'
"The Lord Hand speaks true," Renly, surprisingly, spoke up. "The laws regarding legitimization are…muddy, at best. But, still, we can't make it easy for bastards to try and claim legitimization."
Robert didn't seem pleased. But, thank the Seven, he didn't seem to have any allies regarding legitimizing the boy on the Small Council. "Eh, fuck. Fine." Robert grumbled. "The boy won't be legitimized, yet. But I swear, the moment the boy does anything even remotely noteworthy or if Ned asks again, I'll send the fucking papers on the first raven myself."
"Very well, your grace." Not ideal, but Jon could work with the situation. At least he still had time to put certain pieces into play. "There is one last request from the Warden of the North. Due to his exemplarily service, not only to the North but to the realm as a whole, Lord Stark requests that the Northern Sorcerer be given a title amongst the nobility and be recognized as the Realm's 'Master of the Arcane'."
"Preposterous!" the Grand Maester all but shouted, nearly rising from his chair before catching himself and stumbling back down into his seat. "Your grace, you cannot allow this! To—To give the man such a t-title would be to ap-appoint him to the Small Council! Lord Stark might t-trust him. But he is Valyrian, your grace! C-Can we really trust one with s-such ancestry to t-the council given what h-happened with the T-Targaryens?"
"I must agree with the Grand Maester, your grace," Baelish chimed in. "The man has done some good, to be sure. But his loyalty is still uncertain, as is his past and even his homeland, if the stories are to be believed. And that is not to mention what the Faith would do upon his appointment to such a position."