Kevan told me everything. As it turned out, events had unfolded almost exactly as I had expected. After visiting Braavos, Stannis was unable to obtain the funds he needed. The Iron Bank agreed to support him, but only reluctantly, and provided him with a very modest sum. This led many of his bannermen to abandon him—and not without reason. According to our information, Stannis is forced to spend roughly thirty thousand gold dragons each month on ship freight, wages, and provisions for his army.
With those who remained loyal, he landed at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, marched along the Wall, and crushed the wildlings in a single battle. Afterward, he settled his men in Castle Black, Mole's Town, and Oakenshield, which had stood abandoned for many years.
The Night's Watch elected a new Lord Commander. It was Jon Snow.
And then a small but troubling question arose. The Small Council consisted of intelligent people who tried to look at matters soberly. Why had Stannis landed in the North? The answer was simple: before his death, Ned Stark had intended to support him as the rightful claimant to the throne, and Stannis, in turn, expected that the North would come to his aid..
"Most likely, Your Majesty, he intends to install a Stark in Winterfell, unite the northerners under his banner, and begin a new campaign from there," Kevan concluded.
"The northerners are stubborn to the point of idiocy," Tyrion interjected.
"They won't just follow him. It seems Lord Stannis has frozen what little remains of his brain in the North."
All of us—Cersei included—smiled despite ourselves.
"And what of Lord Roose Bolton?" I turned to Tywin.
"The North is now his responsibility," the Hand replied calmly. "He will want it—and must hold it. Otherwise, what value does such an ally have for us?"
"His legitimized bastard is a sick son of a bitch," I said, noticing a fleeting smirk cross Tyrion's face. But the matter genuinely troubled me, and I continued.
"What if he does something stupid and ruins everything?"
"Not our concern," Tywin shook his head. "And what, precisely, could we do about it?"
Indeed, interfering in the relationship between father and son was no simple task. All that remained was to wait. If the elder Bolton survived, that was good. If Ramsay killed him, that was bad, of course—but it would also open up some new opportunities.
We moved on to the next important matter.
"Lord Reaper Balon Greyjoy is dead," Kevan informed me. I saw no surprise on the faces of the other councilors—they already knew. "All the Ironborn and all captains are now gathering at Pyke. In a little while, when they are assembled, they will choose a new Lord Reaper."
"It seems trouble is brewing," I said, glancing around the council table.
"Oh, gods," Grand Maester Pycelle groaned with a touch of theatricality. "We stand on the brink of yet another war."
Not long ago, I had finally made up my mind regarding the Grand Maester. Two days before leaving for Riverrun, I found the time to speak with him privately. Pycelle was presented with a simple arrangement: if he did not play behind my back, did not put spokes in the wheels, and did not sabotage this or that royal decisions, then I would continue to treat him with loyalty—turning a blind eye to his minor indulgences and even allowing him to grumble quietly about current politics.
The old man—even though not nearly as frail as he liked to appear—didn't really ask much of life: a good meal, a sweet sleep, a tumble once a week with some pretty wench, and to live out his days in that calm routine. That was all. And unless Pycelle himself started acting strangely, he would have it.
Of course, our conversation was no panacea against potential betrayal. But now, when faced with a "tempting" offer, he would at least think twice—whether it was worth trading a secure, comfortable, and abundant life for vague and ephemeral promises.
"That is correct, Your Majesty," Mathis Rowan agreed with my assessment.
"And what can we do?"
As it turned out, everyone clearly understood the danger posed by the Ironborn. Moreover, history had taught us that they behaved in a remarkably predictable manner—after the election of a new Lord Reaper, they invariably launched a war and began their raids.
We decided to send letters to Oldtown, the Arbor, and Highgarden—addressed to young Willas Tyrell—warning the lords to fortify their coasts, hide their coin and valuables where possible, and generally remain vigilant.
I was pleased that Daven Lannister had been overseeing such preparations for several weeks already, and I hoped the Westerlands would be ready should a sudden raid occur.
The financial situation also appeared far less dire than it had just a few months earlier. Despite the war, money was once again flowing into the treasury. Several factors seemed responsible for this—chief among them Tyrion's replacement of Littlefinger as Master of Coin, and the simple fact that the days of Robert Baratheon, with his reckless extravagance and utterly unnecessary expenses, were finally over.
It was encouraging, even if the enormous royal debt had not disappeared.
"We can safely expect the Crown to receive thirty—perhaps even forty—thousand gold dragons in income this month," Tyrion concluded.
I did not ask about Petyr Baelish. My uncle had already signaled that this was a matter to be discussed in private.
The situation with Daenerys had not changed in any noticeable way—at least, not to our knowledge. We still had no spy within her camp.
Kevan was placing his hopes in the efforts of Harald Orm and his Crown Guard. By now, everyone who needed to know was aware that the king had established a new structure. The reaction had been largely calm.
The most important concern for Tywin and Cersei was whether I intended to bring Harald Orm onto the Small Council. When I firmly assured them that I had no such intention, they relaxed—Cersei, at least.
(End of Chapter)
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