Petyr X

“Easy does it now.” Petyr redirected his focus to the dockhands and hollered for their attention, “Lads! I need help! Can someone stabilise the gangplank, please!” The workers immediately stiffened up as they recognised him and quickly rushed over and put their weight unto the plank. He held his arms out for Lysa, “There, there. I won’t let go of you. Easy now.” He looked to his right and saw Naerys crossing her arms whilst rolling her eyes. She gave him a brief nod and then gave him a thumbs up. Mentally communicating to Petyr that Lysa was pretending to be scared. Lysa is clingy and persistent, that’s for sure. I’m pretty sure it got worse when I told her that I was betrothed. Petyr continued to guide her down the plank until they reached the ground. He made sure to pat the workers' backs and gave them his thanks before they rushed to carry on with their jobs. It’s going to be a challenge convincing her to forget her love for me. She carries the Tully name and she’ll prove useful in the future. He slid behind Lysa and aggressively shook his head. Bad Petyr! He pinched himself in the arms before composing himself. I love her… As a sister and I need to do it in a way that wouldn’t make her hate me.

The order he sent to Sowyer should’ve reached him by now. Petyr couldn’t help but feel giddy at the thought of pre-radio communication being so exciting. He recalled examining the green bird, genetically modified by the alchemists – Yes! Genetically modified! Can’t you believe it? This medieval society has the biological and scientific expertise to do such a thing. Did this world suffer an apocalypse causing human society to regress? Petyr filed the information away. A question for a different time, perhaps. A very interesting question. This world continues to surprise me. What next? Magic being real? Hah! It may have been way slower than radio, but it definitely wins in style and grace.

“Petyr?” Lysa squeaked shaking Petyr from his thoughts.

“Oh, sorry. I got lost in my thoughts.” He was about to signal for a carriage but realised Whitehall was within walking distance. “I know you’ve done a lot of walking, but please bear with me. My workplace is just a couple of minutes away.” Both started to head off prompting the heavily armoured redcoats to follow them until Petyr spotted someone familiar with her ensemble of guards also following her. Though he spotted someone wearing a heavy grey cloak. It concealed their face, but Petyr wasn’t fooled as he remembered his spies’ reports about a certain disgraced maester.

The Lady curtsied causing Lysa to jolt, as she remembered her lessons, and curtsied back. Whereas Petyr gave a simple nod. “I see Gulltown isn’t burning down to the ground.”

She huffed at that whilst puffing her chest, “Well of course. Lord Grafton was wise enough to see my worth despite me being a woman. How about you and you’re Two-Week War?” She bitterly said.

“Ah. Jealous now, aren’t we?” Petyr flared his arms which further irritated her but he forgot something as he looked at Lysa’s head darting from her to him. “It seems we have forgotten our manners.”

“I curtsied, what more do you want from me?”

Petyr ignored that and beckoned for Lysa to come closer. “This is my long-lost sister, Lisanna.” He pointed at the blonde-haired woman, “Lisa, this is my betrothed. Maribelle Vantery.”

Lysa bit her lips and started to curl her red hair but managed to reach her arms out. “P-Pleasure to meet my brother’s beloved, at last.” Petyr was proud of that. After only an hour of practising and rehearsing their roles, she handled the meeting with Maribelle quite well.

“Nice to meet you, Lisanna.” Maribelle serenely smiled and hugged the girl. “Petyr told me so much about you! You must’ve been so frightened being lost in the woods like that. But you’re safe now. Petyr and I will protect you. I promise you that.”

As if the entire world cracked around Petyr, he gave Maribelle a scorching look and was annoyed when it was rebuffed. She knows. Damn it, she knows. There were several layers of security to tighten the flow of information. Firstly, all of the spies in the Marketing Department were loyal to him. Secondly, the exams were meant to be impossible for Maribelle’s spies to pass. After all, most of them worked as pampered maids and manservants that probably haven’t lifted a log for a very long time. Thirdly, his secret was leaked in Naerys’ Ship, ‘The Silver Widow’. Questions ran through Petyr’s mind ranging from – How Maribelle got one of her spies to pass the exam? Who it was? Why was Naerys so lax in vetting her crew? Some of the questions made him unnecessarily paranoid and so he chose to ignore them entirely.

Maribelle’s challenge caused a full minute of the two silently staring at each other. Daring each other to attack. It would’ve lasted much longer but Derrick interrupted the two. “My lord, my lady.” He said to both as he bowed. “We’ve been in the sea for a few days. Pardon me for asking but can we enter Whitehall now.” The redcoat pointed at Lysa wobbling as she struggled to maintain balance.

“Of course!” Petyr pulled Lysa to his shoulder. “We’ve got a guest room for you, Lisanna. It’s on the ground floor so you shouldn’t struggle climbing up the stairs,” Maribelle groaned at that. “And it’s away from the bureaucracy and matters of state. So, it shouldn’t be too loud and busy.”

“Can’t I just sleep with you?” Lysa said not realising the implications of her request.

Maribelle shook her head before turning in her heels. “I’m afraid, your brother is a bit of a workaholic. He doesn’t even have his own house nor bedroom. He just sleeps in his solar all day.”

Lysa burst into fits of giggles when hearing that, to her that sounded exactly like Petyr when he was in Riverrun. “That makes sense. He has a habit of sleeping in the library sometimes. To the annoyance of Maester Vyman.”

“I don’t recall Baelish Keep having a maester?” Maribelle bit in causing Lysa to fumble.

Before Lysa could turn into a blubbering mess, Petyr stepped in and grabbed her by her shoulders and gently dragged her to Whitehall. “Welcome to Whitehall. It’s just as I remembered it. I’m glad you didn’t let your vanity go out of control and messing the decorations.” Petyr said whilst casting a lazy glare at Maribelle.

“I’ll have you know that this building has too much white! Sometimes I can’t see straight when it’s a sunny day.”

“Perhaps we could add a more beige colour to the paint. Maybe more engravings in the walls,” he mumbled then realised there was a growing crowd at the entrance waiting to enter. “We should’ve entered through the back door. Anywho,” he pointed at a cleaner, “Sanya, please be a dear and escort my sister to her room. Oh, and prepare a palanquin for her. The dining room is on the third floor.”

Petyr then clicked his tongue and gestured for Maribelle to come and follow him. They climbed eight flights of stairs and he was amazed at how his betrothed's vitality improved. She wasn’t heaving nor panting. They remained in deathly silence as they walked to Petyr’s solar. The tension they exuded caused the clerks, accountants and bureaucrats to step out of their way.

“Home sweet home!” Petyr exclaimed as he eagerly sat down on his seat and tried to spin it only to scrape the Myrish carpets. I keep forgetting that this chair doesn’t spin! I’ve been too busy doing everything else to bother inventing a spinning chair!

“So, you’ve not been faithful to me?” Maribelle took her sit not bothering to ask for permission.

Petyr hummed. “Technically that was over a year ago when Lysa and I did the ‘thing’. We weren’t even promised to each other back then.” He leaned into the table and clasped his hands together. “I was a disgraced noble, drinking himself to an early grave to a Keep that is probably under the sea by now.” He pointed at her, “And you were married to Buefort Arryn. A lovely man with a propensity to go to whorehouses. Shame he went to an unreputable establishment. He wouldn’t have died of the pox otherwise. I wonder who got him drunk enough to encourage him to choose poorly” Petyr smiled at her.

“Are you accusing me of killing my husband?”

“No. That’s just you and your crazy imagination. But whispers will spread about this when my secret gets… Leaked.” Maribelle was about to retort but Petyr interrupted her by placing his finger on her lips. “I know I don’t have evidence. In fact, I tried actively searching for foul play and you’re either innocent or covered your tracks really well. Yet whispers will spread, nonetheless. People here tend to look down on spymistresses, after all.”

This seemed to be the final straw for Maribelle as she got up and pulled at Petyr’s collar. To his amusement, he didn’t even budge which further irritated her. “Listen, here Petyr. You don’t scare me.”

“I wasn’t trying to scare you. Just persuade you to keep your mouth shut. Is all.”

“Well… To make you feel better, I didn’t kill Buefort. I hated him. Hated how he shamed me yet I didn’t kill him. I married him so my family can finally get the respect they deserve without being belittled like smallfolk.” Petyr could believe that. He had his spies vet her but nothing came up. “The question is, Petyr. Are you going to shame me with that Tully girl?”

Petyr jolted upright as he felt his skin tingle in disgust, “Absolutely not! I was… Not in my right mind when I had sex with her. I was full of the milk of poppy and recovering from this,” he pulled his tunic and vest open revealing a nasty looking scar. This immediately calmed her and she got back in her seat.

“But don’t you know the gravity of this situation! You’ll attract the attention of the Hand of the King! The fact that you haven’t even sent a raven confirming her location is telling! What if he sends his men into Gulltown and discovers that you’ve kidnapped his wife?!”

“Because soon, he’ll be dead.”

Maribelle widened her eyes and shuddered in complete disbelief. She sat soundlessly for a couple of minutes looking at the ground, then at the ceiling, then at Petyr. He toothlessly grinned which caused her to grip her seat. “W-What do you m-mean?”

“I’ve ordered our best agent to do the job. He was a former privateer of Lord Marq’s fleet. You know him as Sowyer.”

She swallowed and gulped noisily. “H-he works for me, right?”

“He’s part of your department. Yes.”

“So, if he gets caught… I’ll be right next to the hangman’s noose.”

“You would be. Yes.”

“I see. I see. Yes. Yes.” She mumbled and kept repeating herself like a broken marionette. “Why in the seven hells did you do this?”

“Because I wanted Lysa to be happy.”

Maribelle squinted her eyes and tensed her jaw. “How honourable. Petyr the Honourable, everyone knows you as. Protecting your love interest by killing her husband. How very honourable.” She slammed her palms to the desk causing it to redden but she didn’t mind the pain. “Now, what. You’re going to kill me and marry her, instead? From there leverage and manipulate Gerold to crown you the Lord Protector of the Vale? Your Tully foster family would happily assert your claim.”

Petyr tilted his head and laughed. “No. I’m not a monster.” He paused then sighed. “I was planning to marry her off to Robar. Since he would be the next in line to inherit the Eyrie after Jon Arryn dies.” Petyr then recalled his memories from Riverrun. How he played and taught the Tully sisters. Getting beaten to the ground by ‘Blackfish’ Brynden. “It was a shame they didn’t bother writing to me. The Tullys that is. Even Brynden who always goes behind his brother’s back never even deigned to write a letter to me. I won’t get their support. They probably won’t even support Lysa and Robar’s claim as the entire realm would be soon in flames.”

“Because of you.”

“Because of me.” Petyr got up and opened his balcony doors to breathe fresh air.

“You know how tempting it is for me to push you off.”

“Eh. I can survive four storeys.”

“Want to test that?” Maribelle cheekily replied.

“Says the one that couldn’t even make me budge.”

She settled on lightly punching his arm instead. “Now tell me. What’s your reason for killing him? You even admit that this would cause disorder, mayhem and chaos in the realm. This goes against your principles of spreading prosperity and ‘civilisation.’”

“You don’t get it, Maribelle. Where there is chaos, there’s an opportunity. One thing would lead to another, just like tipping a Yi-tish domino and the rest will fall.”

“How so?”

“The Lords of the land will bicker and fight amongst each other. They will spread discord, error, doubt and despair. Spreading misery to the common folks. They’re not stupid, you know. As much as you hate being relegated to smallfolk, there’s nothing wrong with that.” He placed an arm over her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. “The smallfolk will see the misery heaped on them by the nobility and they will desperately seek an alternative.” Petyr bent his back and whispered near Maribelle’s ears. “Where there is discord, may we bring union. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. Finally - where there is despair, may we bring hope.”

“You’re a Gods damn hypocrite, you know that right?”

“I’m not a hypocrite. I just believe that the ends justify the means.”

“The means which involves half of the realm murdering each other.” Maribelle pleaded.

Robert I

He awoke with a splitting headache as he scanned his surroundings, and was pleasantly surprised when he saw three women with varying degrees of bust size snoring next to him. Robert finally had the freedom to do what he wants without disappointing Jon. Weeks turned to months as his Hand had to multitask between finding his wife, arranging a marriage to that stuck-up Lannister Bitch and negotiating a peace treaty with the Dornish. Even now the marriage proposals with the Lannisters keep getting halted in place by Ned. It got so bad that Ned and he had a second shouting match. This one was tamer and involved less yelling but sadly this just caused him to pack up and return to Winterfell with his bastard son.

Cersei may be a beauty but she couldn’t compare with Lyanna. The She-Wolf was a fighter and had a quick tongue too. The way her raven-black hair fluttered whenever she rode a horse without anyone noticing was mesmerising to Robert. She was also Ned’s sister and despite their recent spat regarding the deaths of dragonspawns, he would see Ned as a brother in all but name. Marrying Lyanna would make Ned and him officially become brothers-in-law. He longed for that day but it never came. Rhaegar the silver-haired cunt stole Lyanna from him and when victory was in sight, Ned came bearing news of her death. He’s been drinking and whoring to soothe the pain, anger and bitterness that the war he fought for was for nothing. Yes – he got the spiky chair that could kill you, but there was no Lyanna, his friendship with Ned Stark was nearly irreparable and he must now apparently hold a court full of vipers and cunts.

There was no way he was going to do any of that. The matters of statecraft can be delegated to Jon and his Small Council. Whereas he would try to forget the death of Lyanna by seeking the wonders and excitement of flesh. Despite his roaring headache, he reached out for the wineglass and gulped it down then released his gas in an unflattering belch that managed to wake the whores up.

They engaged in foreplay but he was rudely interrupted by a sudden cacophony of knocking on his door. He ignored it hoping the one knocking will get the message. But the knocking kept on coming and he was sorely tempted to bring his warhammer right down their heads!

“You cunt! How dare you disturb your king! Come in here! Let’s see who dares disrespects me!”

A middle-aged man wearing a resplendent white armour strode in. His Kingsguard removed his helm and bowed, “It is I. Barristan Selmy, at your service, your grace.”

“Ah! I remember you! You nearly killed me back in the Trident!” He boomed and laughed then waved the women away. He paused before they scurried away from his room. “Now that’s less awkward.” Robert pointed at the knight’s chest, “I hope I didn’t hit you too badly.”

Selmy smiled. “Recovered within a month, your grace. I have a scar to show off to.”

“What a tale! Getting a scar from a king! Scar makes boys, men too.”

The knight chuckled at that as he gestured to himself. “It’s good that I still look like a boy to you, your grace.”

Both laughed at that. But the atmosphere suddenly became tense as the Kingsguard exuded a serious vibe that prompted Robert to sit up. “Speak up, my good knight.” Robert intoned

“Your grace… I’m here to deliver the gravest news. The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, is dead. Murdered by the Dornish. By house Martell.”

Robert couldn’t comprehend what the Kingsguard said as he lamely nodded. “I see.”

“Your grace, we need to move fast. As your Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and as a member of your Small Council, I request you to convene it.”

“Wait… What happened?” Robert responded eyes wide like saucers.

“L-Lord Arryn is dead.”

“How?”

“Killed by house Martell, when negotiating for peace.”

“They broke Guest Rights then. Impossible.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Robert, sufficiently sobered, got up and started to dress himself. He wanted to rage and scream. To wield his warhammer and start demolishing the walls of the Red Keep. To exact vengeance against Dorne for the crime of killing his father in all but name. Jon Arryn was the one that comforted and raised him after he saw his parent’s ship getting battered and destroyed along the coast of Shipbreaker’s Bay. He was the one that taught him the values of chivalry and honour. He was supposed to be alive to help him reign as the King. He still had a life worth living yet… Yet. Yet those dragon sympathisers took Jon away from him. “This means war. Summon my Small Council, Ser Barristan!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Robert sat on his seat in ominous silence as he tapped his fingers on the table. He waited for his counsellors impatiently. His noiseless anger turned into something productive as he brainstormed plans to bring the Martells six feet under. Dozens of strategies ran through his head giving him a headache. He nursed his head as he frowned just in time for a weasely-looking man with slicked-back brown hair to enter the room. Robert regarded his Master of Coin with disdain, Lyman Chelsted was a prominent dragon sympathiser and would’ve gladly fought for Aerys if the madman didn’t burn his son, Qarlton, alive.

“Your grace, you have my condolence for the most unfortunate death of Jon Arryn.” An effeminate voice changed his focus elsewhere to a plump man with no hair. Robert wiggled his nose as the eunuch was stuffed full of lavender perfumes. Again, he had nothing but disdain for him. A Master of Whispers during the time of Aerys the Cunt. He was so tempted to off him there and then but Jon convinced him otherwise. It would’ve ruined his image of being a ‘magnanimous victor’, a useful trait to have to persuade your enemies to surrender instead of pointlessly shedding blood.

“Varys… Take a seat.” Robert growled causing the bald man to hasten his steps and quickly sat down.

The King took time to survey his Small Council and noticed he was missing a Master of Laws. “Lord Commander Selmy, remind me again who the Law-guy is again.”

“It’s your grandfather, your grace. Eldon Estermont. He was summoned to the capital a week ago and should be on his way.”

Then an ageing man with grey rags toddled towards the Grand Maester seat, the clanging of his forged links echoed in an unsettling cadence which turned everyone’s eyes on him. He reached his seat and huffed whilst nursing his hunched back. “I hope I wasn’t late, my lord.” The senile bastard still refuses to address me as a king! Why is my Small Council full of dragon sympathisers! Damn it all!

“You weren’t. Next time, Pycelle, you address me as a king. Do you understand!?” Robert boomed causing the elderly maester to fumble and stammer. “Shut up, you old fart!” He looked across the table and noticed something, “We’re still missing my Master of Ships. Is Stannis back or is he still busy sinking my ships?”

Coincidentally, the door opened and a young man with black hair and blue eyes came in. Robert laughed and stood up and started clapping. “There’s the man of the hour! The man who sank half our fleet and failed to take the remaining dragonspawns! At the very least, Viserys should’ve been taken but you couldn’t even manage!”

“You must know by now that nature and the sea are unpredictable and treacherous when we’ve seen our parents die in Shipbreakers Bay.” The young man bit out and started to audibly grind his teeth.

“You dare talk to a king lie that Stannis! You -.”

“Yes, I dare! Because you don’t act like a king! We’ve carried this realm when you were busy whoring and drinking instead of doing your damn duty!”

“Duty! Duty now, is it?! Is that what this is now?! Take a gods damn seat, I’ve got something to tell all of you.” Robert was proud he managed to reign his temper in, Jon would’ve been proud. Jon… If he’s alive he’ll be proud, for sure. Perhaps he was too tough on Stannis but he was too much of a prick, so he won’t apologise. Giving him Dragonstone instead of Stormlands would give him a lesson not to talk back to a king. “Jon Arryn, my father in all by name, died at the hands of Doran Martell – under Guest Rights.”

Everyone in the room gasped in shock then a period of silence engulfed the room. Interestingly, Varys didn’t show a reaction. That prick must’ve been the one to tell Barristan about Jon’s death. Too much of a coward to do it himself. How typical of cock-less men.

“This is an outrage, your grace!” Lyman Chelsted added.

“We must respond at once! This is an affront to Gods and men! House Martell must be punished!” The Archmaester yelled without a hint of senility.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do, Pycelle. I want you to go to the Ravenry and call for the banners.”

“N-now, my lord.”

“Yes! Now! Get on with it!” He roared causing Pycelle to rush out of the room at a speed not expected of his age and predisposition.

“Now that the old fool is gone, let’s get on -.”

“Who’s going to be your next Hand?” Stannis interrupted him.

“We… We’re really going to talk about this?” Robert quietly seethed until he exploded, “Are we really going to be talking about this?!! Jon’s bones haven’t even returned and now you want to take his place?!!”

His younger brother shook his head and met Robert’s gaze. “You’re going to need someone loyal and capable to govern King’s Landing and the realm whilst you’re gallivanting across the deserts of Dorne.” Stannis drawled sarcastically.

Robert finally had enough as he punched the table causing the oak to crack and bend. “You! You say as if marching through Dorne is a fleet of fancy! I’m going to avenge Jon-.“

“Well, I’m sure you are.”

“Let me finish!” The King reached out and grabbed Stannis’ collar and was surprised when he stubbornly kept sitting. “You think you’re capable enough. Do you think sailing half of the fleet in a storm, screams ‘capable’?” He mirthlessly laughed and ignored the way his younger brother clenched his jaw. “Fine. You’ll have the job. Perhaps, you can prove your worth to be my heir to Storm’s End!” Robert was about to storm out but Varys stopped him.

“My King, there’s more left to discuss. My little birds whisper that the Tyrells are planning to marry Margaery to Viserys. It seems Jon Arryn’s death was no coincidence.”

Stannis grimly nodded and turned to Robert. “I told you they were treacherous. They nearly starved me and Renly, yet you chose to forgive them. Finally, they have revealed their true colours and justice will come swift. Very swift. Order their pacification and I’ll promise you the swords of House Florent and their vassals will come to your aid!”

“Do it.”

Varys I

It was a hectic couple of weeks. Weeks of mustering as men from all over the Crownlands, Riverlands and the North were encamped outside the walls of King’s Landing. His little birds across the Westerlands whisper of Tywin’s vassals mustering as they answer the call of Robert.

It won’t be long till House Tyrell will be replaced by House Florent to be the Lord Paramount of the Reach. And then Dorne will fall.

Interestingly, the Vale hasn’t responded to Robert’s call as they're currently suffering a succession crisis. A crisis that seems to be stabilising due to the sudden emergence of a red-coated army. Whispers say the army was organised by Littlefinger who are loyal to him, others say it was Lord Grafton. Whatever was happening in the Vale, it seems Gulltown is the key to it. He needs to send more of his birds to observe Lord Grafton and Littlefinger.

Littlefinger… He remembers hearing that name when the boy foolishly challenged Brandon Stark – the one he saw strangling himself to save his burning father. Varys shuddered at that.

After years of planning the downfall of house Targaryen to replace it with a more just and more enlightened ruler, went down the latrines as the death of Jon Arryn completely caught him off guard. The chaos he was witnessing due to his death, has thrown off any predictions he had. He served the realm and to see it in shambles was disappointing and immensely shameful.

There was nothing to do except reacting to the changing times. He breathed in and was relieved by the pleasant tingle his lavender perfume emitted.

He was determined to find order through this chaos. He was determined to find out who persuaded Oberyn to kill Jon Arryn. He was determined to find out how the succession crisis would end in the Vale and to observe the mysterious rise of the disgraced Tully-fostered boy. Many questions required answers that he didn’t know of. As the Master of Whispers who controlled information, it wasn’t good enough.