Eddard could stay silent no longer.
He offered a silent prayer to the old gods and the new, begging them to quench this wildfire of madness.
"Your Grace, we are your advisors. It is our duty to serve you faithfully."
Robert's heavy breathing rattled the room. "Then serve me, Ned—stop questioning my every decision! Is that so hard?"
"Your Grace, true service sometimes means speaking hard truths. Hear me… the realm does not have the strength to wage war on Volantis right now."
Robert's breathing grew louder, almost shaking the silence.
"Why not?"
"At least one reason is critical, Your Grace." Eddard spoke each word carefully. "My wife holds Tyrion Lannister prisoner. His brother Jaime has murdered my men. Stark and Lannister stand on the brink of open war. In such a time, we cannot possibly launch a campaign across the Narrow Sea."
"You and your stupid private grudges, Ned—they end today, right now!" Robert slammed his fist on the table as if he had solved every problem at once. He turned to the man behind him. "You—Kingslayer! Tell Lord Stark what you did this morning on my orders!"
"I wrote to my father," Jaime answered curtly, eager to finish the king's command. "His Grace has summoned Lord Tywin to King's Landing at once."
"I also sent ravens to the Vale and to Hoster Tully," Robert continued, clearly pleased with his own arrangements. "Your Catelyn is to release the Imp to his father immediately. When Lord Tywin arrives, you will shake hands and make peace. Ned, your little quarrel ends now."
"Robert, my son Bran—" Eddard began, but the king cut him off.
"Boys fall from towers because they're careless," Robert said, each word like the warhammer that had once shattered enemy skulls. "I've seen that tower myself. Falling from it is more common than a drunk pissing his breeches. Stop chasing shadows and ghosts, Ned. The real threat is right in front of us!"
Eddard finally made his decision. He would break the silence and speak the truth he had buried too long.
"Ghosts and shadows did not attack my wife, nor did they try to murder Bran. His direwolf saved two lives that night. This has nothing to do with Viserys."
"You questioned the assassin, didn't you? What did he confess? Ah, nothing at all… I knew it." Robert struck back without giving his friend a moment to think. "Ned! Use your head. I am your closest friend. We overthrew the Mad King together and kicked the Targaryens off the Iron Throne. How could he not want revenge? The first man he'll come for is you. My children are guarded by dozens of knights day and night, so the bastard naturally goes after the softer target."
In Robert Baratheon's world, every misfortune in the realm could be blamed on House Targaryen.
"Not only the Lannisters must come. I have already ordered Pycelle to send ravens to Riverrun, Oldtown, Sunspear, Highgarden, Old Wyk, and Dragonstone. Every lord and Warden is to come to King's Landing at once. We must discuss the eastern campaign. They will come and swear loyalty to me… or they will taste my wrath." The king's voice rose with feverish excitement, a fire Eddard had not seen in his old friend for years. "Those who once served Aerys will finally pay the price they owe…"
"Speaking of price, Your Grace, you have reminded me of something," Littlefinger suddenly cut in, his light tone restored, the mask of courteous charm back in place. "War costs a fortune, yet the royal treasury is currently empty."
"You say… there's no money?" Robert froze as if he had heard the most absurd nonsense. Eddard could only sigh inwardly; his foster brother had grown so detached from the realm's governance. "How can there be no money?"
"The treasury is nearly exhausted, Your Grace. We can barely service our existing debts. The Iron Bank, House Lannister, House Tyrell—even the High Septon—have all been our creditors." Petyr chose his words with care; he had to defend his own financial decisions. "We simply do not have the resources to fund a war against Volantis. When I think of the Braavosi envoy, I already dread how I will explain this. And you speak of war!"
The king slammed his fist on the table again. This time the cup flew off and landed on the Myrish carpet.
"I say war, Littlefinger, so we will have war! If you cannot scrape together a few coppers, I will find a new Master of Coin. There are plenty of men who want the seat. Perhaps the next one will be more resourceful. Hmm?"
Even if the threat stung, Littlefinger showed nothing. He simply answered with his most humble smile. "Your Grace, how much authority may I wield?"
"Do whatever you must, but the money must appear! Taxes, levies—levy a tax on latrines if you have to. Borrow more if necessary! Littlefinger, Lord Jon always said you had a sharp mind for numbers. Prove the late Lord Arryn was not mistaken."
"I will do everything in my power, Your Grace." Petyr bowed at once. He knew the king's mood too well. After a brief pause he delivered his assessment. "To assemble an army of one hundred thousand and a fleet large enough to cross the Narrow Sea and supply it for six months, our debt must rise by at least ten million gold dragons. We already owe more than six million. And wars—especially against a power like Volantis—never go according to plan. So I estimate that by the time the fighting ends, total debt will not be less than fifteen million…"
"You will make it happen," Robert waved the numbers away as if they were nothing. "Remember, Littlefinger—Volantis lies before us. It holds endless wealth and treasure, enough to repay every blood-sucking creditor."
Eddard took the chance to look around the table, studying every councillor's face, wondering who—if anyone—he could count on for help.
The figure Littlefinger had named left even the usually carefree Renly looking stunned. The others were no different.
Every man in the room understood that this expedition would drown the realm in a debt it could never repay—even if they sacked Volantis.
The Iron Throne itself might be overturned by starving mobs.
Every member of the small council knew it, yet none could sway a king consumed by obsession.
"But in the end, war is not won with gold—it is won with men," the king continued, not even bothering to have the golden-haired cupbearer fetch a new goblet. He was lost in his own vision. "We need a strong army, and we need a fleet… Why the hell does Volantis have to be on the other side of the Narrow Sea?"
"My royal brother," Renly spoke again, swallowing the earlier humiliation. "You are right—we need a fleet. But do we actually have one?"
"Stannis will bring our fleet…"
"Our brother Stannis?" Renly seized the opening like a drowning man. "The man who left King's Landing without explanation, without a single word, not even a letter? Your Grace, if we are truly looking for enemies, they may not be in some distant Free City. Otherwise how do you explain his behavior?"
Even this reasonable argument bounced off the king.
"He is simply angry with me for not naming him Hand. After Jon died he came to me wanting to talk, but I… well… I was busy. This morning I sent for him and he had already vanished. He didn't write, Renly, because I never ordered him to report. But times have changed. It is Stannis's fault the dragon grew fat in the first place—he failed to intercept Aerys's bastards, failed to smash their brains on the black stones of Dragonstone…" The king's voice burned hotter with every word. "But I will summon him back. He must return, and he must bring the fleet on time. It is his duty—to his king, to his brother. Besides, Stannis is not the only man who commands ships. Balon Greyjoy and Paxter Redwyne will bring their fleets when I call…"
"House Greyjoy, Your Grace—we defeated them ourselves," Eddard cut in urgently. "House Redwyne once served Aerys. Can we truly trust them? And even if they answer the call, what guarantee do we have they will not betray you at the critical moment? Viserys can offer Balon a crown and the Redwynes their old privileges…"