Chapter 51: The Iron Throne's Response
King's Landing
The Small Council Chamber, Red Keep
King Robert Baratheon sat slouched at the head of the table, broad shoulders draped in royal velvet. To his right was the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn. The rest of the council occupied their customary seats along either side.
Grand Maester Pycelle rose unsteadily, his white beard trembling along with the parchment in his hand.
"Your Grace, a raven has arrived from the Wall. The letter is from Lord Commander Mormont."
He placed the letter on the table.
Robert grunted impatiently. "And what does it say? More coin? More men?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Before anyone else could reach for it, Renly Baratheon snatched up the letter and began reading aloud in a light, mocking tone.
"To His Grace King Robert of House Baratheon, and to the Small Council or the Hand of the King:
The First Ranger Benjen Stark and Qhorin Halfhand have returned from beyond the Wall.
They report encountering the Others in the far north—creatures with eyes blue as ice, clad in crystal armor, wielding blades of frozen steel. They command vast armies of wights and have slaughtered many of our finest rangers…
The dead rise again without thought or feeling. Ordinary steel cannot slay them…
Winter is coming. We urgently request men, supplies, food, weapons, horses, and that the great houses honor their ancient oaths by sending sons to reinforce the Wall…
Without aid, the Wall will fall. The Others will march south and sweep across the Seven Kingdoms…"
Renly finished and tossed the letter back onto the table with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
"The Night's Watch truly are black-clad beggars," he scoffed. "To wring coin and grain from us, they spin ghost stories now. Others? Dead men walking? Perhaps we should send them a hundred chickens and ducks to improve their supper instead."
A faint, amused smile curled on the lips of Petyr Baelish.
"So tell me," he drawled lazily, "how exactly does one kill what is already dead? Is that what 'Winter is Coming' truly means? Perhaps the Grand Maester can enlighten us."
Grand Maester Pycelle straightened in his seat, voice firm and unusually steady.
"According to the records of the Citadel, magic in our world has long been in decline. The Others vanished eight thousand years ago. I suspect Lord Commander Mormont has grown senile—frightened by wildlings and mistaking them for legendary creatures."
There was no tremor in his voice now, no labored breath.
Stannis Stannis Baratheon, still holding the letter, replied coldly, "The report states that Benjen Stark and Qhorin Halfhand encountered them—not Mormont. Both are seasoned warriors in their prime. I trust they can tell the difference between the living and the dead."
Varys, Master of Whisperers, folded his hands into his sleeves, concern flickering across his powdered face.
"If this is true… then it is deeply troubling."
Petyr Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger—smiled faintly. "You are our Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys. If anyone should know the truth, it would be you."
Varys met his gaze calmly. "You misunderstand me, my lord. I gather intelligence within the Seven Kingdoms. The Wall stands apart from them, and its harsh conditions limit even my little birds."
At that moment, an assistant maester entered hurriedly with two sealed letters.
"Your Grace, two additional urgent messages from the Wall—written in the name of the Lord of Winterfell."
"From Ned?" Robert Baratheon said, surprised. He gestured impatiently. "Give them here."
He broke the seals, skimmed both letters, then tossed them onto the table.
"Ned says his son Robb and his ward Saelen led a ranging beyond the Wall and were attacked by Others. Heavy losses. The same tale Mormont tells." His voice darkened. "And now he proposes cooperating with the King-Beyond-the-Wall—Mance Rayder."
Robert slammed his fist onto the table.
"Seven hells! He wants to let a hundred thousand wildlings through the Wall—and asks me to feed the damned savages besides! I've seven kingdoms to rule. I don't have time for forest demons and wildling rabble!"
The council members exchanged uneasy glances, passing the letters among themselves.
Jon Arryn read carefully, his face grave.
"Eddard Stark is a man of honor. He would not fabricate such claims. Something serious must be happening beyond the Wall."
Littlefinger leaned back casually. "So the Others are real, then? The North is fond of superstition. And is there not a Wall—seven hundred feet high? Surely such a mighty fortress can keep out bedtime stories."
Stannis answered sharply, "The letter states that only three castles remain manned. The rest lie abandoned. Even the strongest fortress is useless without defenders."
Though he disliked Eddard Stark—resenting the closeness between Robert and his northern friend—Stannis would not question the man's integrity in matters of state.
Renly smirked. "If you believe the stories so readily, brother, perhaps you should rally your own bannermen and ride north. Though I suspect there aren't many to muster."
Stannis' jaw tightened. "If it proves necessary, I will."
"Oh, how reassuring," Renly replied lightly. "The thieves and rapers of the Night's Watch will tremble when you arrive. I hope you don't execute them all for breaking the king's laws—else Mormont will write again asking for replacements."
A few muted chuckles circled the table. Stannis said nothing, though the tension in his face was unmistakable.
Suddenly Robert slammed the table again, wine sloshing from his cup.
"Enough! I've troubles aplenty without ghosts added to the pile. By the gods—let the Others take the lot of you!"
Silence fell.
After a moment, Jon Arryn spoke carefully. "If the Wall falls, the North will face the threat first. But the North is part of the realm. The Iron Throne cannot ignore this."
Robert rubbed his temples. "How much gold do we have left?"
Littlefinger cleared his throat smoothly. "None, Your Grace. The Crown is deeply in debt—millions of gold dragons. Some revenues have already been collected decades in advance."
Robert spread his hands helplessly. "So we're broke. What would you have me do?"
Jon Arryn hesitated, then answered, "If the Crown lacks coin, we may call upon the great lords of the realm to supply grain and provisions. The Iron Throne can at least dispatch smiths and masons to help restore the abandoned castles along the Wall."
Robert drained his wine and waved a dismissive hand. "Do as you see fit."
With that, he rose unsteadily and staggered from the chamber, leaving the council to grapple with a danger most of them still hoped was nothing more than a northern nightmare.