"Lord Stark, the crown currently owes more than six million golden dragons," Littlefinger said slowly. "House Lannister is our largest creditor. We already owe Lord Tywin three million golden dragons. But we have also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and several Tyroshi merchant houses. Lately I have even had to seek new sources of income. I have begun turning my attention toward the Faith. The High Septon bargains so fiercely that even a fishmonger from Dorne could not match him."
The number stunned Eddard.
Six million golden dragons.
He had known something of the crown's difficulties, but he had never imagined the sum could be so terrifying.
The North had always been harsh and poor. Even a Great Lord there would never dare spend so recklessly. Only a king could squander wealth on such a scale. Robert's authority over the realm was matched only by his freedom to indulge himself.
"Aerys left behind mountains of gold and silver," Eddard said sharply. "How did you allow it to fall to this?"
"The Master of Coin's duty is only to find the money," Littlefinger replied calmly. "It is the King and the Hand who spend it."
Eddard said nothing.
He could not blame Lord Arryn. Not only because the old man was gone, but because Robert had always respected his foster father without ever listening to his careful advice.
"My royal brother enjoys tournaments and fine food," Renly said with a smile. "What he hates most is counting copper coins."
"Then tell me," Littlefinger said lightly, "how much will this tournament in the Hand's name cost?"
"The champion will receive fifty thousand golden dragons. The runner up thirty thousand. The winner of the melee will also receive thirty thousand, and the archery champion twenty thousand."
"Altogether, one hundred and thirty thousand golden dragons," Littlefinger said with a sigh. "His Grace is even more generous than in previous tournaments. No doubt Lord Eddard's arrival has inspired his generosity."
He smiled faintly.
"And of course there are other expenses. Robert will certainly hold great feasts. That means cooks, carpenters, serving girls, singers, actors, mummers, and jugglers."
"Jesters we already have plenty of," Renly said. "My brother specifically instructed that warriors must be chosen from the tournament before the war."
And there is war as well.
Eddard felt even heavier at the thought. A cursed war. If the Twin Cities Alliance truly came to blows with the Iron Throne, golden dragons would pour out like water.
"But the cost is considerable," Littlefinger added with a small smile.
Eddard had no interest in arguing with them. The expenses would easily exceed one hundred and fifty thousand golden dragons. In earlier days, a full suit of the finest plate armor cost no more than five golden dragons. The waste was staggering.
And winter was coming. A cursed winter that could arrive at any moment.
Did no one consider the lives of the common people?
"I will speak with His Grace," Eddard said with a weary sigh. "The realm cannot afford such extravagance."
For the first time he truly felt how alone he was.
Among these chameleons and fools of King's Landing, he could not tell who, if anyone, was truly his ally.
"Speaking with him would be best," Great Lord Renly said, "but we should begin drafting our plans in the meantime."
"I have never approved of the king's extravagance either," added Maester Pycelle, who had seemed half asleep until now. "But before a great war, if we must face the 'traitors' His Grace speaks of and the Mad King's wretched offspring, then spending a few golden dragons may be necessary."
Eddard glanced at the old maester.
So the fox's tail had finally shown.
Among the five men present, no one had closer ties to the Lannisters than Grand Maester Pycelle. And when King's Landing had fallen years ago, it was Pycelle who advised the king to open the gates and invite the lions inside, a decision that led to the Sack of King's Landing.
If the Targaryens ever showed the slightest chance of returning, the old maester would surely be the most frightened of all.
A shadow hung over them, Eddard thought. The shadow of the Targaryens, and the shadow of the king's bastard.
That young antlered giant seemed to have come alive again, yet now he held the hands of three fire-breathing dragons and pointed his sword at men like them. But now the king was no longer young, and King's Landing itself was so unstable. Could they truly win?
Eddard did not know.
For now, he only wanted to deal with the danger right in front of him: the tightening Lannister encirclement.
"We'll discuss it another day," Eddard said, mentally drained.
He noticed the looks in the others' eyes. Perhaps he had been a little too harsh.
This is no longer Winterfell, he thought.
Here, he was not the lord of a castle whose word alone could decide everything. At most, he was merely the foremost among the realm's great officers. Hand of the King was an impressive title, but its power still depended on the state of the kingdom. Right now, he had no ability to control the situation. He felt more like a wolf that had blundered in from the wild.
"My lords, forgive me. I am truly exhausted. Let us end here for today. We can continue when I am in better spirits."
His tone softened. Without waiting for anyone's leave, he rose abruptly, nodded to each of the assembled councilors, and walked out.
When Eddard stepped outside, carriages and mounted knights were still streaming in through the castle gates. The yard was in chaos, thick with mud, horse stink, and the constant din of shouting voices. Someone told him the king was still on the road.
Still on the road?
A feeling of helplessness rose in him. He was alone here, with no one to rely on.
At last Eddard understood why he felt so powerless in King's Landing. The king had become a hands-off ruler, and it was precisely Robert's absurd neglect that gave everyone below him room to scheme. Money, force of arms, taxes. While the king stayed far away from such things, others had been quietly making preparations.
Renly. The Lannisters. And that loathsome Littlefinger.
Perhaps a hundred soldiers are nowhere near enough, Eddard thought. At best, they could secure one or two city gates.
He crossed the outer yard, passed through the portcullis, and entered the inner ward. He was heading toward what he remembered as the Tower of the Hand when Littlefinger suddenly appeared in front of him.
"Stark, you're going the wrong way. Come with me."
Littlefinger wore a trace of a smile, but Eddard remembered too much of the past. Who could say whether hatred lay behind that smile?
Eddard hesitated, then followed him.
Littlefinger led him into a tower, down a winding stair, across a sunken little courtyard, and along a deserted gallery. Suits of armor stood against the walls on either side like silent guards. They were relics left behind by House Targaryen, forged of black steel, their helms worked to resemble dragon scales. Now they were thick with dust, long forgotten by all.
"This is not the way to my chambers," Eddard said.
"Did I say it was?" Littlefinger replied with mocking amusement. "I was planning to lead you down to the dungeons, cut your throat, and seal your corpse up in the wall. Stark, we don't have time for nonsense. Your lady wife is waiting for you."
...
In the map room of the Wolf's Den, Gendry looked at the tapestry map hanging on the wall, the shape of the known world traced out by Myrish craftsmen.
The visitors from Crackclaw Point had already departed, taking with them armor, weapons, and provisions. The Twin Cities Alliance controlled a vast stretch of sea, and Morosh's skilled black ship task force was enough to ensure nothing went wrong.
Standing beneath the tapestry, Gendry studied the Crownlands.
Its shape was somewhat like the crook between a man's thumb and forefinger, curving in a broad arc.
The Crownlands were not extensive. They consisted mainly of the coasts of Blackwater Bay and its islands, stretching north to Crackclaw Point and south to Massey's Hook. King's Landing, the capital, lay almost exactly in the middle of that arc, where the Blackwater Rush emptied into the bay.
"Stark should have reached King's Landing by now and taken up his post as the new Hand," Qyburn said.
Gendry had expected as much. With the death of Great Lord Jon, the gears of fate had begun to turn. The Starks were bound to enter the game in the end.
"Stark's journey south will only make the situation in King's Landing even more chaotic," the Handsome Man said in a low voice. "The Lannisters have been entrenched in the capital for too long. Once the conflict between lion and wolf deepens, King's Landing will fall into disorder."
"Lord Stark may not come to a good end," Jorah said uneasily. "The Old Gods do not protect a Stark who rides south."
No one spoke for a moment.
But other than Stark, who else could the king truly trust?
"The king made a grave mistake in how he arranged things," Gendry said. "If the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and Dragonstone had remained as one, the strength of the royal house would have been unmatched. Instead, they have been split into three."
The Crownlands belonged to the king, the Stormlands to Renly, and Dragonstone to Stannis.
"This is precisely our opportunity," Qyburn said coldly.
"The Crownlands appear to have little in the way of natural defenses. The only real obstacle is the height of King's Landing's walls, and any attack must pass Dragonstone first. Aside from King's Landing, the region is mostly flat land, except for Crackclaw Point, which is swamp and pine forest," Jorah analyzed slowly. "The Stormlands are even worse in terms of terrain. It's one of the smaller regions of the Seven Kingdoms. Inland areas are dominated by rugged mountains, the coast is full of rocky cliffs, and there are vast, dense forests."
"Sea control. As long as we control the sea, our forces can land anywhere at any time," the Myrish Morosh reminded them. "Right now, the biggest obstacle is Stannis's Royal Fleet."
"Do you have a plan?" Gendry asked Morosh.
"Prince, as everyone knows, Dragonstone was once the Targaryen family's stronghold, and most of the Royal Fleet is stationed there. I suggest that when the moment is right, we launch a sudden strike against Stannis, seize Dragonstone, and use it as our forward landing base. From there, we can completely blockade King's Landing," Morosh proposed.
Gendry looked up at the map above them. There were three possible routes to threaten King's Landing.
The upper route would depart from Crackclaw Point, pass through Maidenpool, and attack from the north.
The central route involved capturing Dragonstone and cutting off King's Landing's access to the sea.
The lower route required seizing Storm's End and advancing north from there.
"Stannis will not be easy to defeat. I've dealt with him before. The man is as hard as iron," Jorah said with a frown. "And if we blockade the coast, Braavos and other Free Cities might suffer losses. That would only bring us more enemies."
"Great Lord Tywin's army would have to march through the Riverlands, and the Riverlands support the Starks. He'll face resistance," the Handsome Man said slowly. "But near the Crownlands, aside from Stannis, I think Great Lord Renly is the more terrifying force. Stannis lacks popularity, and his lands are sparsely populated."
"If he gains the full support of the Reach, he will command immense gold and countless soldiers."
"No matter which direction we choose, as long as we establish a stable foothold, our advantage will grow rapidly. Wherever our banners fly, supporters will gather to us. Maidenpool, Darry, Crackclaw Point," Qyburn said. "Many nobles in the Crownlands and the Riverlands were loyal to the old king. And in the Stormlands, given Your Grace's bloodline, there shouldn't be too much trouble."
"You're all right," Gendry said after a moment's thought. "But that assumes I can defeat both Renly and Stannis."
He paused.
"How do we win a war clever enough to deal with both Renly and Stannis at the same time?"
On paper, everyone agreed that Renly posed the greater threat.
Gold was formidable. But magic was far more terrifying, Gendry thought.
Gold and manpower were things one could see. But the magic of the red priestesses defied reason.
Yet the red comet had not appeared yet. The Red Woman's magic should not be nearly as overwhelming as it would later become. If that were the case, Gendry suspected Renly might not die so easily.
And if Renly lived, the entire course of the war could change.
"Has the woman I asked you to investigate appeared on Dragonstone?" Gendry asked.
"Not yet," Qyburn replied. "But I will continue watching."