The Crownlands. King's Landing. 297 AC.
Evening. The Throne Room. Three days after the Starks' arrival.
The Great Hall is the echoing heart of the Red Keep. In nearly three hundred years, these walls have witnessed the rise and fall of dynasties, guarding secrets that may never be spoken aloud. It was here that the history of the Seven Kingdoms was forged in dragonfire, and though the dragons are gone, the hall still bears the weight of its storied past.
The entrance is flanked by two towering doors of heavy oak banded with black iron, scarred by the passage of ti. Underfoot, the floor is laid with cold grey stone, usually strewn with pale rushes to catch the mud and wine of the King's frequent feasts. Enormous columns of dark stone soar upward, supporting a ceiling lost in shadow. To the right, a gallery stretches toward the Royal Apartnts and the safety of Maegor's Holdfast, while to the left, high windows cut in the shape of the seven-pointed star cast colorful, dusty beams of light across the floor. At the far end, rising like a mountain of jagged needles, sits the Iron Throne, its cold presence dominating the silence of the room.
The sun had long since set, and hundreds of candles had been lit throughout the hall to keep the darkness at bay. All of it for the sake of a single man, still bent over his work in service to the realm. The Master of Coin had long since made a habit of arriving before the others and leaving long after. Better still, he liked to work before the Iron Throne. He could not quite explain it himself, why that graceless heap of iron helped put him in the right fra of mind.
Perhaps Aegon the Conqueror had poured so aning into the throne when he forged it, but from king to king, from man to man, that aning had shifted and changed. For so it was a reminder of the cost of power. For others, a symbol of strength. For others still, little more than a trophy. There were as many opinions as there were n. For Baelish, it was a reminder of his Goal. Littlefinger had chosen to play a dangerous ga with the slimst of odds, and he intended to see it through to the end.
"The Iron Throne," said the Spider, appearing as silently as ever, "lted in the fires of Balerion the Black Dread from a thousand swords of fallen enemies." Even the guardsn posted at the hall's entrance had not noticed him.
"There aren't a thousand swords here," Baelish replied, not lifting his gaze. "Barely three hundred, if that. I've counted."
"And yet most of the world believes the tale." Varys drew up a chair beside him and settled into it. "What do you feel when you look upon that throne?"
"Possibility," said Baelish, with only a touch of dishonesty. "And what do you see?"
"Hundreds of thousands of souls destroyed in the na of one man's ambition." The flood of hypocrisy made Petyr's jaw tighten, though he did not show it.
"A curious thing," Baelish mused. "Aegon the Conqueror killed far more people than Aerys the Mad, and yet one is celebrated in every corner of the realm while the other has beco the new asure of madness."
"Our Hand once made an interesting observation," Varys replied. "'Kill one man and you are a murderer. Kill thousands and you are a king. Kill a million with a higher purpose, and you are a ssiah. Kill everyone, and you beco a god.' The Conqueror killed thousands, but toward a 'great purpose.' The Mad King simply burned people. Though I confess, that last part of his observation unnerved . Even I cannot always tell what goes on inside his head."
"Yes, Lord Arryn can be rather... eccentric at tis." Axel's severity was no secret to anyone with ears, but that was nothing compared to what he had done in Essos.
"In my lifeti I have known many rulers, and of all the kings and Hands I have observed, only Lord Tywin could truly stand alongside Lord Axel. Both possess all the qualities needed to be the backbone of a realm. They are not without their flaws, of course, but then who is?"
"I would take care not to say that within the Hand's hearing," Baelish cautioned. "He is a sensitive soul, and such comparisons tend to displease him." Axel never showed it, but any comparison to another man irritated him, Tywin Lannister most of all.
"The Hand shall never know, for we are friends, and friends keep one another's secrets." Varys spoke in a tone of quiet confidence. "Though I could very well share with him certain irregularities involving gold, or the movents of your friend Lady Lysa and several lords of the Vale. I suspect he would find that most illuminating."
"That would indeed be unfortunate," Baelish replied smoothly, "but fortunately we are friends." As they say, knowledge is power, and Littlefinger had no shortage of knowledge. "For if we were not friends, then Lord Axel might co to hear of your distinguished friend from across the sea. You still have allies there, I am told, but I shudder to think what would beco of you if even a single word reached the right ears. What frightens more, however, is the thought of soone learning about the Golden Company. Given the company's rather colorful reputation, I imagine any man of sense would draw the proper conclusions." He paused, allowing himself a glance at Varys's face. To the Spider's credit, he recovered his composure very quickly.
"Your reach of knowledge never ceases to impress ," Varys admitted, electing to concede the ground. "And yet how fortunate we are, as friends, to be able to speak of such things openly and spare ourselves these... uncomfortable monts."
"Yes," said Baelish. "It would be a sha if we couldn't."
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