Chapter 4: Ledgers and Ashes
POV: Mira – Clerk of Winterfell
The ink froze if left too long. Mira learned that quickly. But this morning, there was no ledger before her — only a trencher of bread and soft-cooked eggs, and a half-full cup of water resting by her hand.
She sat near the hearth in Winterfell's great hall, breaking her fast while the fire warmed her back and the dawn's chill still clung to the high rafters.
The hall was quieter today. Fewer men shouting orders, fewer boots clattering through the corridors. Just the slow, steady sound of rebuilding — hammers on wood, ropes groaning, and wind curling beneath the walls.
Two years ago, she'd never dreamed of sitting in Winterfell's hall, ledger before her, ink staining her fingers like blood.
Her father had taught her numbers in a cramped house along the Red Fork, south of Riverrun. A merchant, modest but proud. He never bowed too low — and in the end, that was what killed him.
Mira had fled north with only a small coin purse, a mother's ring, and the last letter her father ever wrote.
Wintertown was cold, but it had work. Lord Nhilux had found her — or rather, found her numbers.
She remembered how he looked when they first spoke. Cloaked in foreign black, calm as still water, eyes that weighed everything. And always, that slight smile — strange, serene — the kind that calmed even the most flustered steward. It was the smile of a man who knew something you didn't, and might even make a joke about it.
He had handed her a sealed letter and told her to deliver it to Lord Benjen Stark. Unsure of where to go, she had approached two guards at the outer courtyard, who brought her to Ser Rodrik Cassel.
The old knight gave her a long look, asked her a few questions, then personally escorted her to the solar where Lord Benjen was working. By sundown, she was employed under the steward's office.
Not long after, she was writing letters for Benjen himself.
It had been almost a fortnight since Lord Eddard Stark returned from the war. Mira had met the new lord nearly every day since.
In the past year and a half, she had risen to become head of the steward's office — the one responsible for managing all paperwork and internal reports. Three clerks now worked under her, handling the routine matters of Winterfell's daily life, while she delivered updates directly to Lord Stark and relayed his instructions to the rest of the household staff.
It had taken almost a full week for Lord Stark to familiarize himself with all the new work his station demanded. Mira remembered the long talks Lord Benjen had with him during those early days — conversations that often stretched late into the evening.
She had to sit in on many of them. Why? Because she knew more about the daily workings of Winterfell than anyone. Whenever Lord Benjen could not explain a detail or a change that had occurred during his stewardship, it was Mira who spoke.
She had become, without meaning to, one of the voices Lord Stark had come to rely on.
This morning, though, she wasn't thinking about reports or appointments. Her mind was on her food — and on Ari.
Ari was the youngest of the three assistants under her, sharp with numbers and quicker with her tongue. She had joined the steward's office only a few months ago, but already made herself known in every corridor and corner of Winterfell.
Mira smiled faintly as she picked at her bread. Ari always found something to comment on — the color of a new guard's cloak, the way one of the cooks sneezed like a barking dog, or the fact that Lord Nhilux never seemed to get mud on his boots no matter the weather. They often shared quiet laughs over those little observations, tucked away behind stacks of parchment and fire-warmed inkpots.
Ari always had strange ideas about Lord Nhilux — half teasing, half serious. She swore his shoes changed every day, though no one ever saw him polishing or replacing them. The man never had a spot of dirt or snow on him, even when coming in from the yard.
Once, she claimed Nhilux didn't eat at all, just sat quietly in the great hall during meals, sipping something dark from a silver cup. Another time, she suggested he never slept, and simply stood at his window until dawn like a shadow pretending to be a man.
Mira had rolled her eyes at most of it, but part of her always wondered if Ari wasn't entirely wrong. Lord Nhilux moved like someone untouched by the usual burdens of Winterfell. And when he looked at you — really looked — it felt as though he already knew the answer to whatever question you were about to ask.
She missed having Ari at the table this morning. The girl was likely chasing down a missing order of salted pork from the outer storage rooms — or more likely, convincing someone else to do it for her.
Soon, Mira finished her food just as most of the others were slowly rising and leaving the hall. The morning bustle was beginning.\
Scene change
In Lord Stark's Solar
Lord Eddard Stark stood by the window, the early light catching the edge of his fur-lined cloak. Mira stood near the desk, hands clasped, waiting for him to finish reading the short report she had handed over moments ago.
"This account here," he said at last, tapping the page, "the one regarding the extra timber requested from the Wolfswood — you're certain it was approved last moon? This is for House Manderly, correct? The repair work on the docks and the construction of two new trade ships?"
"Yes, my lord," Mira said. "The order was confirmed by the Woodward and noted by maester Luwin. I can retrieve the confirmation if needed."
Ned gave a brief nod. "That won't be necessary. I trust your recordkeeping."
There was a pause. He set the report aside.
"Is there anything else I should know?"
Mira hesitated for only a moment.
Mira took a quiet breath. "Yes, my lord. Lady Stark has requested something be considered," she said, her voice measured though she felt the pinch of nerves rising in her chest.
It wasn't a difficult message to deliver, but anything that involved Lady Stark constant requests — and especially the Faith — always seemed to carry weight.
"She's asked that a sept be constructed within the grounds. Nothing large," Mira continued, eyes flicking briefly to the window before returning to Ned, "just a small place for prayer.""
Ned's brow furrowed slightly, though not with anger. He folded his hands behind his back and turned his gaze out the window.
"I see," he said quietly. "I'll speak with Catelyn about it."
Mira inclined her head. "Of course, my lord."
The matter was left at that.
Scene Change
Stewards' Office, Late Morning
The steward's office smelled of parchment, warm ink, and the faintest trace of lavender oil — something Ari had insisted on adding to the room last month. The stone walls were plain, the windows narrow, but the heavy tables were well-kept and the shelves packed with ledgers stacked in tidy rows.
Mira pushed open the door and stepped inside, her boots clicking softly on the stone floor. The sound of casual chatter cut off just slightly when the others noticed her arrival.
"Morning, Mira," Ari said with a grin, perched on the corner of her desk with a half-eaten apple in one hand. Beside her, Tomas was fiddling with a broken clasp on one of the storage logs, and old Halder was in his usual seat near the ledger window, sipping tea and grumbling to himself.
"Morning," Mira replied, shrugging off her cloak. She let her eyes settle briefly on each of them. "Hope you all enjoyed the quiet, because now it's time to get back to it."
Tomas groaned playfully. "She returns from speaking with the lord, and already we're under siege."
Mira raised a brow, lips twitching. "And here I thought you liked numbers, Tomas. Or is it only Ari's storytelling that keeps you here?"
Ari snorted. "He stays for my charm and your scolding."
Mira moved to the side table and picked up a stack of parchment already sorted into bundles. She passed the first to Halder.
"The northern grain reports — I want them checked against the caravan logs from White Harbor. There were discrepancies last month. And once that's done, compare them with this season's crop report — we'll need to see how much less we'll have to buy from the Reach next time."
Next, she handed two smaller notes to Tomas. "You're chasing down the mason crew's payment sheets and updating the supply orders for stone. The builders keep asking for more than they need."
Finally, she turned to Ari and placed a folded letter in front of her. "I need this copied exactly, then delivered to Ser Rodrik before midday. It's about the timber allocations to House Manderly."
Ari nodded, eyes already scanning the wax seal.
"And if you're lazy about it again," Mira added with a smirk, "I'll have no choice but to take two coppers off your pay come next fortnight."
Ari grinned without looking up. "Only two? You're getting soft, Mira."
Mira tapped her lightly on the arm as she passed, a playful swat more than a scolding. "Careful, or I'll make it three."
Mira placed the rest of the stack on her desk and took her seat. She exhaled softly. It had been a long morning — and the day had only just begun.
Scene Change – Lady Stark's Solar
Later that afternoon, Mira stood just inside the solar where Lady Stark was looking over a selection of garments laid neatly on a cedarwood bench. The southern silks and Riverland embroidery looked almost too fine against the stone walls of Winterfell.
"They're beautiful," Catelyn said softly, touching the fabric of a light green cloak, "but too soft for the wind here. And too... southern."
Mira nodded. "If I may, my lady — there's a wool and fabric guild hall near Wintertown. They've started producing garments that rival anything from the South — warmer, sturdier, and some even dyed with richer colors now."
Lady Stark turned to her, surprised. "Truly? I had no idea such trade had taken root so quickly."
"Lord Nhilux arranged most of it, my lady. Much of the wool is from the flocks east of Last River, but the dyes — and the hands — are northern. And they've recently started making something else too — a kind of skin cream. I don't know how it's made, but it's said to make a lady's skin softer, more radiant. Some of the younger women in the keep say it's like magic, though I've not tried it myself."
Catelyn gave a thoughtful nod. "Have samples brought. Something fitting for a lady. I'd rather dress like a Stark than a Tully if I am to rule here with my lord husband."
"I'll see to it myself," Mira said with a small smile.
Lady Stark gave a nod of thanks, then turned back to the fabrics. "That will be all for now, Mira."
Mira bowed her head slightly, then turned and quietly left the solar, the soft sound of her boots swallowed by the thick carpets underfoot.
Scene Change – Lord Stark's Solar, Midday
The light through the solar windows had grown stronger by midday, pooling across the stone floor and catching the edges of fur-lined cloaks and dark-stained wood. Mira stood again near the large table, quill and parchment in hand. Lord Stark was seated beside it, reviewing a series of older reports, while Lord Benjen stood near the hearth with a mug of warm cider.
They were speaking softly, but intently.
"We only had twenty-four active riders then," Benjen was saying. "And most of the western holds hadn't sent their usual reports. I had to guess which routes were safe and which ones were snowed in."
Ned looked up from the parchment in front of him. "You managed it all?"
Benjen shrugged. "I did what I could. And I leaned heavily on the people who knew what they were doing."
His eyes flicked to Mira for a brief moment, and Ned followed the glance.
"Is that so?" Ned asked. There was no challenge in his tone — only curiosity.
"Aye," Benjen said. "She knows the system better than I ever did. Half the old ravens stopped coming because the routes were never corrected on the old ledgers. Mira fixed that."
Ned nodded. "Good. That's good."
He turned his attention back to the papers, brow furrowed as he sifted through the information. Mira remained silent unless spoken to, hands still at her sides, quill tapping lightly against her thigh.
"What's this line here?" Ned asked after a pause. "On the outer storehouse repairs. It says the second shipment of mortar never arrived?"
"That's correct, my lord," Mira replied quickly. "It was delayed at the bend past Moat Cailin — but not because of frost. It turns out the number needed was underestimated. Less had been ordered than required, so more will have to be sent from the eastern quarry."
"We'll need to reorder from the eastern quarry, then," Ned murmured.
"Already arranged," Mira said. "They should arrive in five days."
Ned gave her a look — not quite surprised, but acknowledging.
"Thank you."
Benjen chuckled. "Told you."
Just then, a knock came at the door.
"Enter," Ned called.
Maester Luwin stepped inside, scrolls in hand, and gave a brief nod.
"Forgive the interruption, my lords. Lord Nhilux has returned."
Ned's brows rose slightly. "Already? He left for White Harbor only a handful of days ago. I was told the journey would take longer."
There was a pause. Ned set down the report he had been holding.
"Very well. I'll speak with him."
He turned to Benjen and gave a brief nod before rising. Mira stepped aside to let him pass.
BIG TIME SKIP
Chapter 4.5 – The Weight of Gold
Time Skip
POV: Jon Arryn, Hand of the King
The Tower of the Hand stood tall against the haze of King's Landing, its stones warm beneath the rising sun. Inside its upper solar, Jon Arryn sat alone at a heavy oak desk, the windows thrown open to let in a faint breeze that failed to lift the stagnant heat. Stacks of parchment crowded the space before him, wax seals half-broken and ribbons curled in disorderly knots. The scent of ink and vellum clung to the air, along with something fainter—sweat, maybe. Or rot.
He dipped his quill again, signed another scroll, then paused. His hand ached.
The royal treasury was bleeding. Again.
Tourneys. Feasts. New armor for the City Watch. Increased bastards given lands and arms across the Crownlands and Riverlands, with no thought to bloodlines or allegiances. New sigils springing up like weeds. Silken banners were flown for every trivial lordling Robert fancied. And now, another grand melee planned for little Joffrey's second nameday. A tournament to "inspire the realm," Robert had said, half-drunk and fully smiling. Jon did not share in the mirth.
Even now, news had arrived that Walder Frey was dead—murdered, they whispered, his body hacked to pieces and delivered to his heirs in a sack marked only with the letter "N". House Frey teetered on the edge of civil war, with each bastard-born son and distant cousin scrambling to claim control of the Twins. Chaos was spreading like mold beneath the painted mask of pageantry.
He reached for the ledger beside him, flipping pages until he found the line scratched in a sharper hand than his own.
"To be delivered: 1,000,000 gold dragons. Northern Fund. Delayed by Royal Decree."
He exhaled, rubbing his temple. That fund had been agreed on three years past—a promise to Lord Stark for roads, mills, harbor repairs. The North had held to its part. They'd expanded their granaries, and rerouted their inland trade through new bridges, and diverted more trade through the Riverlands. All under the guidance of that strange Essosi, Nhilux. And now, once more, the South failed its word.
He still remembered the storm of letters Ned Stark had sent—barbed with cold Northern fury beneath the polite phrasing. The last one had not come with ink alone. It came with Eddard Stark himself, riding hard from Winterfell to King's Landing to demand answers. For a week, the halls of the Red Keep echoed with sharp words behind closed doors.
Jon could still hear the voice raised in his solar:
"We made a pact, Jon. I kept my end, and now you're hiding behind coin and council delays."
"I am not the King, Ned," Jon had replied with measured calm. "You know that better than most."
"But you are the Hand," Ned had hissed. "And when the King's promises break, the Hand is all that remains."
Jon had tried to offer explanations, even apologies. But Eddard Stark was not a man soothed by soft words. One night, the tension boiled over. Jon had returned late from the small council to find Ned seated in the solar with a decanter of summerwine already half-drained.
"You told me to be patient," Ned had said, not looking up, "But what good is trust if the Crown drags its heels at every turn?"
Jon had sat across from him, weary. "You think me complicit."
Ned had finally looked up then. "I think you're tired. And I think this realm is eating its best men alive."
For a moment, they had simply sat in silence, the fire crackling.
In the end, Ned had left without ceremony, taking the next ship north, his face stone-cold.
Now, Jon stared at the ledger and felt the weight of that week return—every word, every look. The North had not forgotten. And the man who had once called him father by foster blood now watched from far away, measuring the realm by deeds, not words.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," he called.
The door creaked open and Petyr Baelish stepped inside, silk-cloaked and smiling. His eyes, sharp as fishhooks, gleamed with their usual blend of amusement and calculation.
"Ah, Lord Arryn," Lord Baelish said with a shallow bow. "I hope I'm not disturbing."
"You are. But come in anyway."
Petyr laughed softly, already crossing to the desk and settling opposite Jon with the grace of a cat. "You asked to see me before the council?"
"The North still awaits their gold," Jon said, without preamble. "It has been two months since we promised shipment. The treasury has scraped together the first installment—one hundred thousand dragons, not a copper more. And even that awaits escort from White Harbor."
His voice was steady, but his eyes told another tale. The weight of the realm pressed heavy on his shoulders, and the lines etched beneath them seemed deeper with each passing moon."
"A slight delay, my lord."
"A costly one," Jon snapped. "The Starks have long memories. And Lord Stark—Eddard—made his displeasure clear. He sent no fewer than five ravens over the past fortnight."
Petyr leaned back, folding his hands together, the smile he always wore never leaving his face. "The North remains patient, does it not? Winter teaches them that much."
Jon said nothing. In truth, he remembered the barbed words in Stark's last letter: Promises should not be frost-bitten, Lord Arryn. Gold can warm a hearth only if it reaches it before the snows.
"We cannot have them believe the Crown's word means nothing," Jon continued. "The escort must leave with the next tide. Even if it only a small shipment"
Baelish gave a small shrug. "Then it shall."
Jon watched him carefully. Petyr had a way of yielding that never quite sounded like surrender. "And what of the deficit?"
"Growing," Petyr admitted, without a trace of shame. "But we may ease it. I've been reviewing our tariffs."
Jon arched a brow.
"Northern exports," Baelish said, smoothly. "Particularly steel, wool, and certain types of dyed textile. And that drink they call coco—famous up north, though it mostly ends up in the Vale and Riverlands. Quality goods, flooding southern markets. Our own crafters suffer. A modest levy might both ease their burden and refill the Crown's coffers."
He gave a slight chuckle. "That coco—strange stuff. Bitter and thick. I've tried it thrice and still don't know if I like it. But it sells."
Jon stared at him. "You propose taxing the North. After delaying their payment."
"A slight tax," Petyr clarified. "Framed as a market stable measure. It won't cause much alarm, and those goods would still flow. But now, at a profit."
Jon felt the familiar weight behind his ribs—tension like a stone pressed slowly into his lungs.
"Lord Stark will see it for what it is."
"Of course," Petyr said, smile never faltering. "But what can he do? The levy will be cast as broad policy. It won't name the North specifically."
Jon rose slowly, pacing to the window. The sound of the city reached faintly from below—carts on cobbles, the distant call of bells.
"He will know," Jon murmured. "They always do. This will need to be discussed further at the council meeting."
"Be careful, Lord Baelish," Jon said at last. "If the realm splits, it will not be over dragons or coin. It will be over trust. And the North trusts little enough already."
"There are other matters," Jon said, returning to his seat with a tired sigh. "Stormlands, Riverlands, Reach..."
Baelish nodded. "The Stormlands have seen an uptick in Essosi merchant ships docking at Weeping Town and Storm's End. My agents count at least two dozen new Essosi banners flying—mostly Myrish and Lyseni vessels. They're bringing in wine, spices, even sell-swords, though not under that name. The Stormlords are welcoming the trade, but I wonder how long before those ships bring more than goods."
Jon frowned. "Robert won't care. He'll see it as proof the realm thrives. But coin and knives often share the same pouch. Keep an eye on it."
Baelish inclined his head.
"The Reach, meanwhile, continues its grumbling," Jon said. "The Tyrells are angry. They claim the Riverlands and even the North are deliberately buying less of their grain. Highgarden demands intervention, accusing them of trying to weaken the southern markets."
"Will you give it?"
"No," Jon said flatly. "Let them feel a pinch. The Reach bent knee late and held feast while dragonfire burned. A little hunger sharpens loyalty."
Petyr said nothing.
Jon continued, "The Riverlands... are bleeding."
Baelish raised a brow.
"House Vance of Atranta has fallen. The lesser branch. The castle was raided and burned while Lord Vance rode for a wedding near Maidenpool. On the road back, he was set upon—rumors say by a hundred masked men, silent and trained. His escort was slaughtered. He reached the Twins half-dead, and lived just long enough to whisper of dark riders and strange blades. Then he died."
Petyr blinked. "And then Frey..."
Jon nodded. "A few days later, Walder Frey himself was found in pieces. It may be coincidence. But too much coincidence tastes like design."
Petyr's smile faded just a little.
"The Riverlands are unraveling. And if they do, the rest won't be far behind."
"And who profits?" Petyr asked softly.
Jon didn't answer.
Jon glanced once more at the man sitting across from him—the smile never left Petyr Baelish's face. It was carved there like some mocking sigil. And yet, for all his cunning, he had managed what many noblemen could not: he had made the Vale richer, and through it, his own house stronger. The gold flowed in with trade reforms, and Jon had allowed it. Encouraged it, even. A part of him wondered if this man, this smirking bird, should have always been Master of Coin. He stopped himself before the thought soured.
"This new tariff," Jon said slowly, returning to the matter at hand, "how much would it profit the Crown, truly?"
Petyr leaned in, elbows on the desk, hands steepled just below his ever-smiling mouth. "Plenty," he said with unblinking confidence. "We could raise a thousand dragons a week. More, if the markets hold steady. The merchants grumble, yes—but they will pay. Especially if we allow just enough smuggling to flourish in the margins."
Jon's lips tightened. "You propose encouraging lawlessness."
"I propose appearing strict," Petyr replied, "and being clever."
Jon closed the ledger. "We will speak more of this in the council chamber."
"With the others, of course."
Jon gave him a long look. "His Grace will be joining us this time."
That drew a flicker of real surprise from Petyr. Then a short, amused breath. "Ah. I'd heard this would be the second time His Grace attends a council meeting. How historic."
Jon stood. His bones ached as he did so, a deep weariness clinging to him like old armor. "Come, Lord Baelish. Let's not keep the rest of the realm waiting."
Petyr rose as well, still smiling.
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The council chamber rang with discontent. Jon Arryn took his seat, surveying the faces arrayed around the great table—Pycelle already murmuring, Renly lounging with easy disdain, and Stannis seated stiff-backed, eyes shadowed with silent judgment. Baelish slid into his chair with his usual feline ease, hands folded, that eternal smile in place. Varys lingered in the corner, as always, a quiet presence cloaked in lavender silk.
Jon cleared his throat. "Let us begin. First, the matter of House Vance of Atranta."
A hush fell over the room. "The house is no more," Jon continued. "Its lands lie burned. Its lord dead."
"And what," Stannis said, voice iron-flat, "has our Master of Laws done in response?"
Renly shrugged. "The matter is under review. Banditry along the Trident is not uncommon."
"This was no banditry," Stannis said, tone sharpening. "Masked men. A hundred, if reports are to be believed. Assassins."
Petyr Baelish interjected smoothly, his voice calm as ever. "Still, these are just rumors, my lords. Nothing substantiated. No clear proof. We must tread carefully before we begin assigning blame."
Renly leaned back. "Sounds like a bard's tale. Are we to marshal the armies for ghosts on horseback?"
"Do your job properly, Renly," Stannis snapped.
"And here I thought scowling was yours," Renly replied with a grin.
Stannis's face turned red, lips tight. Only the scrape of Jon's chair as he stood broke the tension.
"Enough," Jon said. "Lord Vance died at the Twins, barely breathing, after his entire escort was butchered. The Freys lost their lord days later. These are not coincidences."
"Then who?" Pycelle asked, blinking.
All eyes turned to Varys.
The Master of Whisperers raised his hands slowly. "My little birds sing, my lords. Softly. There are whispers of sellswords, masked ones. Brought in through Duskendale. But nothing solid. No names. No masters. Only rumers."
Jon sighed. "That is not enough."
"It rarely is," Varys said, bowing his head.
A moment passed.
Jon looked around. "His Grace is not here."
Renly smirked. "He told me to begin the 'copper-counting' without him. Said he'd join us when the wine ran out."
A few chuckles scattered through the chamber. Baelish, always serene, offered, "We may proceed."
Jon nodded reluctantly, but in his bones, the weight returned. The King was absent. The realm was bleeding. And the wolves were closing in.
He cleared his throat again. "There remains the matter of the proposed tariff on northern exports."
The room, which had grown quiet for a moment, began to murmur again.
"Taxing the North now?" Renly raised an eyebrow. "After we've stalled their payment and sent them half their promised gold? Clever."
"It's not only the North," Baelish said smoothly. "The levy would affect a range of exports—steel, wool, dyed textiles, and coco. A broader application, framed as a trade policy, not a punishment."
"It will still look like one," Stannis said bluntly. "We weaken the realm when we provoke our strongest provinces."
"We strengthen the Crown," Pycelle interjected, adjusting his robes. "Revenue is necessary for order. Without coin, even your ships, Lord Stannis, will be left rotting in port."
"And what does the Citadel know of ships or war?" Stannis muttered.
"It's not war—it's accounting," Baelish offered with a placid smile. "And it may solve more problems than it creates."
"May," Stannis repeated. "That is not enough."
"Our coffers are barely a third of what they were during the time of the dragons," Pycelle reminded. "This would ease the burden."
"I doubt the burden falls on your shoulders, Grand Maester," Stannis said.
Varys spoke next, voice calm. "The North is proud, yes—but pragmatic. If the tax is subtle, and if we couple it with favorable shipping terms, they may accept it with little noise."
"And if they don't?" Jon asked quietly.
"Then they grumble, but grumbling is cheaper than rebellion," Baelish said. "And much quieter."
Jon studied the room. Half the council looked unconvinced. The others—Pycelle, Varys, and Petyr—formed a quiet front of persuasion. But Jon saw the danger still, lying beneath their composed faces.
"This will be discussed further," he said at last. "And not decided until His Grace is present."
"That may be a while," Renly said under his breath. "He's probably lost in his whores again."
Jon didn't smile. "Then we will wait. But we will prepare."
Jon took a moment, then cleared his throat once more. "Another matter—House Frey. Or what remains of it."
The room stilled again.
"I have received a petition," Jon continued, "from Ser Stevron Frey. He was Lord Walder's named heir and claims his rightful place as Lord of the Crossing. He requests the Crown's support in this matter."
"Reasonable enough," Pycelle offered. "Ser Stevron was always intended to inherit."
"He was injured during the aftermath," Jon said. "He survived the slaughter that followed Lord Walder's death—but not untouched. His leg is crippled, and he has yet to leave his sickbed. Some reports suggest he may not survive at all—fever, infection, and worse."
"A lord need not ride to rule," Varys said smoothly. "Only command."
"Perhaps," Jon replied. "But Lord Hoster Tully has also sent a letter. He offers support for another claimant—Wywen Frey."
Renly frowned. "Another Frey? How many are there?"
"Too many," muttered Stannis.
"Wywen is said to be more loyal to House Tully," Jon said. "A riverlord through and through. Hoster likely sees him as the more reliable vassal."
"Or more pliable," Petyr said with a flick of his fingers.
The debate resumed quickly. Pycelle leaned in to speak on Stevron's long-standing role at the Twins. Varys noted Wywen's closer ties to Riverrun. Renly joked that the Freys bred faster than rabbits and ruled with less grace. That earned another glare from Stannis.
"We should not endorse weakness," Stannis said at last, voice firmer than before. "But neither should we turn away from rightful inheritance. If Ser Stevron recovers, the Crossing is his by law and by blood. Until then, I offer no support to Wywen or any other upstart. Let us not compound chaos with injustice."
He paused, clearly unhappy. "It should go to the rightful heir—Stevron—but the situation is... difficult."
"Or sympathy," Pycelle countered.
"Sympathy does not hold bridges," Stannis snapped.
Jon raised a hand. "We must tread carefully. The Freys are unstable. Choosing one over the other may tear the house further apart."
Renly smirked. "Well, that'll make old Hoster happy. It's no secret the Freys have always dragged their feet when it comes to duty, even if they are one of the stronger bannermen. Honestly, it's a fucking wonder Hoster hasn't moved against them before now."
Baelish, still smiling, said, "Then perhaps it is not the Crown's place to choose at all. Let them bleed each other for it. The strongest will rise, and we will call him lord after the dust settles."
Jon did not agree with Baelish, but he said nothing. The council, divided though it was, leaned in favor of Wywen Frey for the moment. It was a temporary support, they all knew—but a necessary one. Stannis was clearly displeased, but after a long pause, he finally said, "If Stevron recovers, he should rule. Until then, I will not lend my support to anyone else. The law is clear. The bloodline is clear. These times are dangerous, yes, but chaos must not become excuse for injustice."
Jon in his mind, he saw the Crossing burning. And knew it already had begun.
A few moments later, the doors groaned open. Robert Baratheon entered like a storm with no wind, slouched and swaggering, his regal cloak dragging half off his shoulder. His tunic was stained with wine. He looked more the tavern brute than a king—but no one spoke of it. Not aloud.
He dropped into his chair with a grunt. "Gods, what is it now? I've had sweeter dreams on a battlefield."
Jon rose from his seat. "Your Grace, we were awaiting your judgment on the matter of the new trade tariff."
"Bah," Robert muttered. "Trade. Tariffs. Counting copper coins like a bunch of bloody bankers."
"It is vital to the health of the realm," Jon said carefully.
Before Robert could wave it off, Petyr Baelish leaned forward with that same ever-placid tone. "Only a modest measure, Your Grace. A tax on select goods—wool, steel, the northern coco. Minimal burden. Maximum return."
"Coco?" Robert blinked, then chuckled. "Is that what they drink up there instead of wine?"
"It sells, Your Grace," Baelish said. "And we need coin."
Robert grumbled something under his breath, but waved a hand. "Fine. Gods, do what you must. Just don't bore me with ledgers. If it makes gold, take it."
Jon finally spoke, his voice low and firm. "Eddard Stark will see this for what it is. We delay his gold, then tax his goods? This risks more than coin, your grace"
Robert waved him off with a dismissive snort, slouching further. "Ned will understand. He always does. It's copper counting, Jon. Let the lords fret about coppers. Ned is no fool—he knows what it takes to keep a realm standing."
Jon said nothing, his face unreadable.
"Good," Robert finished. "Now someone bring me wine. If I'm going to rule a kingdom, I might as well be drunk while doing it."
A servant moved quickly from the side of the hall, goblet already in hand, and refilled the king's cup with practiced speed. Robert snatched it with a grunt, draining half of it in one swallow.
Before the tension could settle, Jon spoke again. "There's another matter. Reports from the western coasts—ships with no banners, attacking vessels from the Westerlands and the Reach. Some reports come from as far south as Blackcrown, near Oldtown."
He paused, then added, "By all accounts, the ships are believed to be Ironborn."
Robert sat up a little straighter. "Ironborn? Already?"
"Not in open war," Jon said. "But more active. There are fresh attacks along the western shores, some even reaching the southern edges of the Reach, and—believe it or not—even Dorne."
Stannis's jaw tensed. "Dorne won't take kindly to that."
Robert slammed a fist lightly against the armrest. "Those drowned bastards—gods, I'll have them skinned if they start a rebellion."
Jon lifted a hand. "A letter came from Pyke. They claim the attacks are 'rogue captains'. They deny all official involvement."
"Of course they do," Renly said. "They always do."
Jon turned his gaze to Varys. "Keep your ears on the Iron Islands. Quietly."
Varys bowed with a soft smile. "My little birds already perch near the sea, my lord. And they sing... so sweetly."
Jon pressed on. "Dorne remains silent. Too silent. We've had no word from Sunspear in months. No ravens, no envoys, not even a courtesy reply to royal correspondence."
Robert groaned, tipping his goblet. "Those sand-bastards never say anything unless they want to hiss. Let them brood in their deserts."
"Your Grace—"
"They'll come around," Robert said, cutting him off. "Always do when they want something. Wine, gold, or a pardon. Or wives. Gods help us. Dorne's full of venom, and I've had enough of their sour faces for a lifetime."
No one spoke. Even Renly found no jest in that.
Jon shifted the subject with practiced calm. "There's one last message. A raven from Casterly Rock. Lord Tywin writes that he intends to come to the capital—in three moons' time."
Robert, who had been swirling the last of his wine, froze mid-motion. He let out a long, low groan. "Seven hells. Tywin marching east means he wants something."
"It may be ceremonial," Pycelle offered. "Or personal."
Robert snorted. "Nothing's personal with Tywin Lannister unless it builds his gods-damned legacy." He took another gulp of wine and muttered, "Gods, this city has more blond cunts every year. Tywin's probably already picked out which marble statue gets his smug face."
Petyr Baelish interjected with a soft chuckle. "Still, a visit from the Lord of Casterly Rock could be spun into opportunity."
Robert's eyes lit with a thought. "A tourney," he said, grinning. "Yes. If Tywin wants to play courtly games, we'll give him a field of knights and banners."
Jon rubbed his brow. "Your Grace, the expense—"
"Bah! We'll call it celebration. Peace and prosperity. Let the realm see its lords smiling again. Let Tywin see that we're strong and rich."
Jon said nothing, though the ache behind his eyes worsened.
Robert waved again for more wine. "Three moons, then. Plenty of time. Let's make it something worth remembering."
With that, Robert pushed back his chair and rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Enough of this bloody talk. I've done my kingly duty. Now I'll have some pleasure. Someone find me a few whores—and none of that common rabble from brothels. I want women who know how to flatter a king."
He grinned as he turned, already half out the door before anyone could respond. The echo of his laughter trailed behind him, leaving the council in heavy silence once more.
Jon did not lift his gaze from the table.
Petyr Baelish remained seated a moment longer, fingertips resting lightly on the wood. "Well then," he said, rising with calm satisfaction. "I shall begin drafting the terms for the new tariff—focused on northern goods sold in the South, of course."
Chapter End-----
Author Thoughts--
I am still new to writing so if you find a mistake in the chapter pls do comment and tell me.
also pls tell me what you think of my story.