On the very morning that the Dragon Queen launched her attack on Dragonstone, icy rain fell upon King's Landing, casting a cruel grey veil over the capital already overflowing with refugees and filth.
Red Keep, Council Chamber.
The fireplace blazed warmly, and the chamber—its floor covered with a finely woven Myrish carpet—was snug and cozy.
Under a chandelier crowded with lit candles stood a table carved of purpleheart.
At its head sat the plump young king, his eyes hazy and unfocused. On his left was the virgin queen, Margaery Tyrell, in a pale yellow gown, her hair fluffed high and crowned with a delicate golden circlet.
Opposite the Little Rose sat Grand Maester Pycelle. Beside him were Master of Coin Ser Harys Swyft and Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard.
Three aged, decrepit men.
Including the king and queen, there were only five attendees—arguably the most meager small council in history.
In truth, Ser Boros was brought in purely to make up the numbers.
He was neither Lord Commander of the Kingsguard nor did he possess the renown of Barristan Selmy. By right, he didn't qualify to attend the council.
However, the position of Master of Laws—one of the seven major offices—had remained vacant, and the City Watch fell directly under the jurisdiction of that office. The council needed someone to liaise with the Gold Cloaks.
So, loyal-to-the-Lannisters Boros came, assuming part of the duties of Master of Laws.
Well—he merely acted as a messenger between the Gold Cloaks and the council. He didn't actually command the City Watch.
Now, this white knight, whose sagging cheeks resembled a shriveled eggplant, was dryly reporting the news received from the Watch that morning:
"Just last night alone, over two hundred froze to death. The Sparrows carried the bodies in a circle through Steel Street before hauling them out through the Lion Gate."
Ser Harys scratched at the small, ridiculous tuft of hair atop his bald head, yawned, and said listlessly,"What for? King's Landing's running short on food—why didn't the Sparrows haul that meat to Flea Bottom? Might've made today's brown stew even tastier!"
"Ha ha ha—" As if the bald old man had delivered a brilliant joke, the few gentlemen in the room burst into laughter.
Even the kind-hearted virgin queen covered her mouth, her beautiful eyes curling into crescent moons with amusement.
"Is brown stew that tasty? Can I have some for lunch? I'm a bit hungry," said the pudgy King Tommen, licking his lips in a daze and gazing longingly at his wife.
"Gawk—" The laughter abruptly died. The queen and the lords wore awkward expressions, and the atmosphere grew tense.
Tommen looked even more confused.
"Ahem. The Sparrows eat brown stew, yes, but not sparrows. All those who froze to death were refugees from the Riverlands—Sparrows, all of them.
The Sparrows prayed over the dead, then carried them outside the city for burial," Ser Boros said, rubbing his flattened nose, breaking the silence.
"Seems the High Sparrow's gotten hold of a good number of gold dragons from Braavos," a gleam flickered in Pycelle's eyes. "He has money, food, and a countless army of beggars. Perhaps we should invite him to join the small council."
Ser Harys looked as if he'd just heard the most absurd thing in the world. He shook his head repeatedly:"Have you not heard what people outside are saying? 'The uncrowned king'—the High Sparrow!
Everyone's calling him the true ruler of King's Landing.Invite him into the small council, and the next moment, mobs of beggars wielding axes will storm the Red Keep to lift him onto the Iron Throne.
Just like how they forced the High Septon's election—blades at our throats, demanding we kneel and crown the High Sparrow.
Then all of us nobles would end up like poor High Septon Raynald, scrubbing Red Keep floors with soap every day, all for a chunk of black bread harder than stone and rougher than sand."
"The Red Keep isn't the Great Sept of Baelor. We have elite knights in armor—no beggar army can break in.If the High Sparrow joins the small council, he'll definitely clash with that sorceress.
Let the beggar army face the dragon witch, and the dragon fire will burn the Sparrows."
At this point, Pycelle chuckled smugly,"She already torched the Citadel, which had selflessly served the realm for centuries, and violated guest right. If she repeats her ancestors' mistakes and burns the Faith's militant…"
Cluck cluck cluck—Pycelle let out a hen-like laugh.
Ser Harys's eyes lit up with excitement:"Burning the Citadel—Aerys the Mad reborn. Violating guest right—Walde Frey reborn. Slaughtering septons—Maegor the Cruel reborn.
Mad King + Walder Frey + Maegor the Cruel = what exactly?"
"Hiss—!" The Little Rose gasped sharply."A trifecta of Westeros's worst—how terrifying!"
"So scary…" Tommen's doughy face turned pale.
Ser Boros's sagging face flashed with a trace of helplessness as he shattered the gentlemen's wicked fantasy:"You may not know this, but the High Sparrow isn't as hostile toward the Dragon Queen as you think.
In fact, ever since news of her arrival reached us, his attitude toward the Queen Mother has become…"
"Mama… sniff sniff…" Hearing someone mention his mother, Tommen burst into tears."Please bring Mama back soon. Qyburn says she doesn't even get enough food at the Sept."
"That bastard Qyburn—" a flicker of anger passed over Pycelle's aged face.
He quickly composed himself and gently consoled the king:"Your Grace, rest assured, the Queen Mother is not suffering. She's merely undergoing a fast with the High Sparrow's guidance.
Little food, little drink, straw bed and rough robe, fervent prayer—right now, she's entering a divine state of clarity… mm, just like Saint Baelor once did. She can even hear the voices of the Seven."
"Really?" Tommen stopped crying and looked at his big wife with red eyes.
"Truly," she said. "Did you forget? I once fasted too. I've never felt so close to the Seven—my heart was filled with joy, bliss, and contentment.
If I hadn't missed you (and your Iron Throne), I wouldn't have returned to the Red Keep! (Would've fled straight back to Highgarden!)"
The Little Rose forced a smile, like squeezing pus from a boil.
Not wanting Tommen to ask more about Cersei, Pycelle subtly shot a glance at Ser Boros.
So the feeble Kingsguard continued,"For some reason, the High Sparrow seems to hold some hope for that sorceress. At the very least, he's still weighing his options—he hasn't rushed to take sides.
Unless we offer greater benefits, or the sorceress commits blasphemy against the Seven, he won't align with the Iron Throne.
After all, he's not stupid—he's already… ahem… helped both the Queen and the Queen Mother fast."
"Can't we trick the High Sparrow into the Red Keep and help him fast for once?" the Little Rose murmured, biting her white teeth.
"I fear the whole of King's Landing would riot," Grand Maester Pycelle said, frowning.
"It's all right," Little Rose said with a gentle smile, like a spring breeze rippling across a serene lake, warming the hearts of every gentleman present.
"Highgarden can send another shipment of grain. I will endure the filth and stench to personally deliver a week's worth of bread and cheese to anyone who might riot. A week from now, who will even remember the High Sparrow?" she said sweetly with a smile.
Just like you did last time?
The people of King's Landing are already calling you "Saint Margaery." That kind of good reputation stands in stark contrast to the Lannisters' plummeting prestige.
Everyone loves Margaery. Everyone curses the incestuous queen mother. No wonder Cersei is trying every trick in the book to drag you down with her.
Grand Maester Pycelle gave the sweet and charming queen a long look before shaking his head and saying, "I've already sent a raven to Ser Kevan, inviting him to come to King's Landing and take charge of the situation.
As for dealing with the High Sparrow, let the new Hand of the King return with the Queen Mother, and then the Small Council can deliberate and decide."
Though he was dissatisfied with Cersei, his loyalty to the Lannisters never wavered. He couldn't stand by and watch the Tyrells surpass the Lannisters in reputation—let alone replace them entirely.
"Actually, you're all missing the point," White Cloak Ser Boros interjected. "The High Sparrow is far more cautious than you think. Since he came to King's Landing, he's hardly left the Great Sept.
And there are always thousands of Sparrows and hundreds of well-armed Warrior's Sons stationed outside the sept. He won't set foot in the Red Keep alone unless his safety is absolutely guaranteed."
At that, he suddenly remembered something.
"Almost forgot. Because the weather's getting colder, the High Sparrow sent word that the Church needs the right to chop firewood in the royal forest.
In fact, he didn't really request it—he just gave Humphrey a heads-up, and at first light, the Sparrows were already out in the woods cutting timber."
"What?!" Pycelle, Queen Margaery, and Ser Harris all turned pale.
The Grand Maester exploded in fury: "The royal forest is the King's private hunting ground. Every deer, every branch belongs to the Crown. Not even the Seven can override that tradition. How dare the Church commit such an audacious act?!"
They were genuinely furious. Detaining the Queen and Queen Mother could be justified—at least in name—under accusations of immoral conduct and violations of the Faith's doctrine. After all, Cersei herself had instigated it by sending her own lover to seduce her daughter-in-law, even disguising him as the daughter-in-law's lover to frame her before the High Septon. (Tommen)
But seizing the King's property was a whole different matter. If they could chop down the royal forest in the name of the Seven today, would they raid the royal treasury tomorrow? (Even though it was so empty it could barely host mice.)
And the day after tomorrow—would they confiscate royal lands? And the next, seize the Red Keep itself?
In truth, the forest, lands, castles, treasury, and subjects all form the foundation of a noble's title. To a lord, these are inviolable rights.
This is the sacred covenant between the Faith of the Seven and the nobility.
Now, the High Sparrow was clearly overstepping.
Well, perhaps not overstepping—he had his justifications.
"Uh… the High Sparrow has a signed authorization from Queen Mother Cersei," Ser Boros mumbled. "She gave her consent."
The gentlemen and the queen fell silent.
Cersei was the Queen Regent. The royal forest belonged to her family. Naturally, she had the right to give away what was hers.
"The High Sparrow has crossed a line," Pycelle said at last, a cold gleam flashing in his aged eyes.
Though this world had no exact counterpart to the tale of holding the emperor hostage to command the lords, they were all seasoned players in the game of thrones. Of course they understood the implications.
Ser Harris tugged at his collar and turned toward the eastern window facing the sea, muttering, "It's almost noon. I wonder how the battle at Dragonstone is going. The waiting is unbearable."
Indeed, the main topic of today's meeting was Dragonstone and the Dragon Queen.
The rest had just been idle chatter to pass the time.
As they spoke, a loud fluttering broke the silence—a large black raven pierced through the rain, swept past the window, and flew toward the rookery tower.
"It's here! Coming from the sea—it must be from Dragonstone!" Pycelle's spirits lifted as he stood and headed for the door, calling out as he went, "Everyone, please wait. I'll fetch the message from the rookery."
Author's Notes (PS):
Pycelle: Grand Maester during Aerys's reign. Loyal to the Lannisters, betrayed Aerys.
Ser Harris: Father-in-law of Kevan Lannister.
Ser Boros: Member of the Kingsguard under Robert, but loyal to Cersei and the Lannisters. Lost his white cloak for handing Tommen over to fake bandits (Tyrion's men in disguise), but Tywin later reinstated him (possibly Tywin's plant in Robert's circle).
Jaime held deep contempt for this sworn brother and insultingly assigned him to be Tommen's food taster—to avoid a repeat of Joffrey's fate, a role usually reserved for servants.
(End of Chapter)
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