It was strange to be moving into the Tower of the Hand, the place where his father had lived for the last twelve years. Little had changed since his last visit: the sa spacious, lavish rooms. To be honest, while he had lived well enough in the company, it had never been excessive, and this... this was sothing else entirely.
He settled in quickly, set aside a few keepsakes of his father's, and sat down with the Book of the Hand. The book had been introduced by Jaehaerys the Conciliator so that those who succeeded their predecessors could be brought up to speed as swiftly as possible. He spent the rest of the evening on it and ca away understanding that the kingdom was slowly but surely heading into the Unknown's backside.
The king and queen's unjustified expenditures. The beginning of borrowing from everyone in sight, the Lannisters above all. Low taxes, since every region that had taken part in the rebellion had seen theirs slashed. Organized cri running rampant, and trade in decline. None of this was stated plainly in the book, but he knew how to read between lines. And now he was going to have to clean up this ss, and preferably before the point of no return was reached.
Thinking through a plan with a clear head was beyond him, so a couple of glasses of his favorite wine were consud first. Deciding that drinking alone was more or less the sa thing as drinking himself to death, he ordered the servants to summon Robar, his right hand, Morgan, his master of questionable affairs, and Desmond, his left hand. Half an hour later, visibly tired and irritable, the three of them arrived. He laid out the situation, shared the wine, and they set to thinking. By midnight, a rough draft of a plan had been sketched out, instructions distributed, and they went their separate ways.
All that remained was to convene a session of the Small Council and take a look at the foremost figures of the realm.
...
He had only visited the Small Council chambers a handful of tis since his fostering in Dorne. He had once thought that history was made there, that the fate of the realm was decided within those walls. Reality had a way of being disappointing.
The chamber was richly appointed. Myrish carpets covered the floor in place of rushes, and in the corner, a folding screen brought from the Sumr Isles was painted in vivid colors with fantastical creatures. The walls were hung with tapestries of Norvoshi, Qohori, and Lyseni craft. A pair of Valyrian sphinxes stood beside the door, their polished garnet eyes blazing against faces of black marble. Everything had been fashioned from the most expensive materials available, the kind ant to impress anyone who entered. The halls of the Magisters were not so pompous.
The mbers of the Small Council were already waiting for him. Varys the Spider addressed him first.
"Lord Arryn, I wish to express once more my deepest condolences. The death of your father has been a heavy blow to us all. We have all visited the sept to pray for the spirit of Lord Arryn." The eunuch had already said this in private and was now performing for the room.
"The gods heard you. As I have been assured, my father passed without pain." He gave the customary reply and moved toward Renly Baratheon. He could not be anyone else, this dark-haired, blue-eyed young man who looked so much like Robert.
"I see you have returned safely to your holand, Lord Arryn," said the king's younger brother, shaking his hand.
"I have not seen you since his Grace's wedding. After so many years, I find myself with the impression that you are Robert made young again."
"A poor copy," Renly said with a shrug. And he was right. Axel had expected sothing different from Robert's younger brother. Renly was clearly no fighter, and he was dressed better than the ladies of the court.
"My lords, I would gladly speak with each of you in more comfortable surroundings, but the business of the realm will not wait."
"Well said, my lord Hand," Varys offered by way of flattery.
"I take it there is no point in waiting for the king, nor for Ser Barristan. In that case, would soone tell where Lord Stannis is at present?"
"Lord Stannis departed for the Royal Fleet's biannual exercises. He is not expected back for at least a fortnight."
"I see." At least soone had a worthy reason for his absence. "Then I see no reason to delay. What is on our agenda today?"
"A few weeks ago, Lord Darklyn and Lord Buckwell clashed over two villages along their shared border. The village headn are also complaining that both lords are collecting taxes from them." Renly began. "Furthermore, Ser Symon Loring killed Ser Titos and two of his squires in an unlawful duel and subjected..."
Why is he bringing this to a council session? That is his work, as Master of Laws.
"Lord Renly, I trust you are capable of handling this matter without calling upon the wisdom of those assembled here." He had to cool the man's head before he shifted any more of his responsibilities onto others.
"But this is a very serious matter requiring..." Baratheon was visibly caught off guard.
"I have every confidence that you possess the skill and experience to resolve this conflict with minimal losses." There it was. The boy was cornered now. Refuse and he was incompetent. Accept and fail and he was equally incompetent. The only way out was to do it properly, following every procedure to the letter.
"I will do everything in my power," Renly said, having read which way the wind was blowing. He was not pleased about it.
"My lord Hand, now that we have dispensed with such an important matter," Baelish took his customary small jab at Renly, "our most gracious sovereign proposes that we hold a great tourney in honor of his Hand's appointnt."
"How much?"
"Twenty thousand gold dragons to the champion. Ten thousand for second place. Another ten for the winner of the lee, and five thousand for the best archer."
"WHAT?! What is the point of so much?! Holding a tourney, that much is sensible. An announcent of my appointnt, sothing to settle the public mood, an occasion to et the realm's most influential figures, and much else besides, but not for a sum like that! Over five years as a sellsword with a profitable business I managed to save a paltry hundred and fifty thousand, and I consider that an excellent result."
"And that says nothing of the other expenses. The king wishes to arrange lavish celebrations with the finest cooks, jugglers, singers, serving girls, and fools..." Baelish had evidently decided to spare him nothing.
"I will speak with his grace about excessive spending." He did not like the looks being directed at him from around the table, so pitying, others quietly gleeful. "Can the treasury afford this?"
"To my deep regret, the treasury emptied itself not so very long ago, and the Iron Throne has been borrowing. We already owe Tywin Lannister five hundred thousand gold dragons. What is another fifty thousand?"
"And my father allowed this?!" He refused to believe his father had managed affairs so badly.
"The role of Master of Coin is to find money. It is Hands and kings who spend it," Littlefinger said, with a careless shrug of his shoulders.
"This is going to be harder than I reckoned."
In the end he pressed for the tourney budget to be halved from the original figure. When Baelish raised the fair question of where the money was to co from if the king left things as they stood, he was forced to promise it from his own purse. The Small Council was dismissed and a new session scheduled for the day after tomorrow.
He went imdiately to find Robert, but the Kingsguard told him the king was occupied. As if to confirm it, the shrieks of girls and the king's laughter rang from sowhere beyond the door. Recognizing that he had chosen a poor mont, he resolved to co back tomorrow.
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