Chapter 106: The Small Council

Lynd felt as if he had returned to the Tournament upon arriving in King's Landing once more. Outside the castle, camps sprawled in every direction, with banners of local lords and nobles fluttering in the wind. Soldiers clad in various armaments moved through the encampments, their presence a visual declaration of the realm's divided loyalties.

"House Estermont of Greenstone, House Selmy of Harvest Hall, House Wylde of Rain House..." Daisy scanned the banners rippling in the breeze, her tone revealing her growing awareness. "They're all lords of the Stormlands. None of the closer Crownlands have sent anyone. What are they up to?"

"I don't think they didn't want send anyone. I think they just couldn't," Jon remarked, standing nearby as his gaze drifted over the camps.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "Rumors spread during the cold calamity, and King Robert couldn't catch the rumor-mongers. All he could do was shift the blame onto the Crownlands nobles—the most loyal supporters of the Targaryens in the past. Now, those lords have been so weakened they're no better than ordinary nobles. How could they possibly send troops in response to the king's call?"

Hearing their exchange, Lynd turned sharply, his stern voice cutting through the air. "Shut up, all of you! Don't discuss these irrelevant matters. We're here to fight a war, not gossip."

Daisy and Jon immediately shrank back, silenced by the rebuke. They exchanged uneasy glances but said no more.

The silence of Lynd's army was its hallmark. Unlike the troops in other camps, who filled their marches and evenings with constant chatter, Lynd's soldiers rarely spoke, immersing themselves entirely in their duties. This pervasive silence lent an almost tangible aura of power to the force, an unseen weight that instilled an inexplicable fear in those who encountered them.

Before reaching King's Landing, this disciplined army of thousands had already drawn widespread attention. As they approached, curious onlookers struggled to identify the swallowtail banners carried by the horsemen, the unfamiliar sword emblem a mystery to most. Yet, the sight of two towering battlehorses clad in full leather armor and the massive Shadowcat beast walking alongside them soon dispelled any doubt about the identity of the approaching force.

Since that tournament, Lynd's fame had only grown. The revival of Tumbleton, the opening of the Mander River shipping route, the miraculous victory at Oldtown against overwhelming odds, and his status as the Warrior Chosen by the Gods—all had become staples of conversation in the streets and alleys of King's Landing.

In the city's taverns, the popular song The Bear Hunter had been reimagined as The Song of the Chosen, with as many as thirty different versions of the lyrics circulating. For any bard, an inability to perform this song marked them as unskilled, certain to earn their dismissal from even the rowdiest establishments.

Lynd's towering reputation preceded him as his army approached the Lion Gate of King's Landing. Their arrival brought the road to a standstill, obstructed by throngs of onlookers and curious soldiers from other lords' forces.

At this time, a group of Gold Cloaks rushed out from behind the crowd, their movements swift and purposeful. They wielded whips to drive away the gathered onlookers, clearing a path to approach Lynd's army. Their presence created an air of authority and urgency, forcing the crowd to scatter.

Lynd dismounted from his horse with deliberate calm, walking to the front of his procession. With measured courtesy, he bowed towards the figure leading the Gold Cloaks. "Ser Jaime, it's been a long time."

The man in question was indeed Jaime Lannister. His golden hair glinted in the sunlight, but his expression carried a weight of complexity as his sharp gaze lingered on Lynd and his imposing soldiers. He sighed, his tone tinged with nostalgia. "Yes, it really has been a long time. When I first saw you, you weren't even a knight, and now you…" Jaime paused, leaving the thought unfinished. His eyes swept over the scene around him before he added, "This isn't the place to talk. His Grace has prepared a campsite for you and Lady Nymeria. It's by the Dragon Gate. Follow me."

Without further delay, Jaime turned and issued sharp commands to the Gold Cloaks, who began dispersing the onlookers with practiced efficiency. Once the way was clear, he led Lynd's group along the path outside the castle walls, weaving around the throngs to the expansive open space between the Dragon Gate and the Old Gate.

Lynd, commanding as always, gave precise orders to his men to begin setting up camp in the designated area. Tents rose swiftly under the practiced hands of his soldiers, the silence of their work as striking as ever. Meanwhile, Jaime approached Lynd and Lady Nymeria. His tone was cordial but carried a hint of urgency. "You and Lady Nymeria, my lord, will now come with me to see His Grace the King. He's been eager to meet you ever since he heard of your arrival."

Lynd and Nymeria exchanged a glance, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Without a word, they gathered their belongings and prepared to follow Jaime into the city.

Though the Iron Islands rebellion had caused severe damage along the Westerlands' coastline, it had not disrupted the stability of King's Landing. The residents of the capital viewed the distant islands as too far removed and too insignificant to pose a real threat. Their confidence in the king's ability to crush the rebellion was unwavering. For them, the pressing question of what they would eat that day outweighed the distant conflict.

As Lynd's entry into Highgarden had caused a stir, so too did his arrival in King's Landing. However, the tales of the Chosen One and the beast that accompanied him had long preceded him here. The people, though awestruck, were more prepared. They gave the group a wide berth, instinctively avoiding any close proximity to the formidable figure and his massive Shadowcat beast. This made the Gold Cloaks' job significantly easier, as the crowd parted willingly before them.

The procession soon reached the towering gates of the Red Keep. After a brief exchange to verify their identities, Jaime led them not through the main hall but along a discreet side road. This path bypassed the main keep, winding toward a courtyard that overlooked the sea, its location secluded and serene.

Upon reaching the courtyard, Lynd commanded his beast, Glory, to remain outside and stepped forward to follow Jaime into the courtyard.

"Haha! Look who's here! Our chosen one!"

As soon as they entered the courtyard, King Robert's hearty laughter rang out. Moments later, he emerged from a gazebo filled with people and strode toward Lynd, arms open wide. Before Lynd could react, he was pulled into a forceful embrace.

Although Lynd couldn't discern the reason for this warmth, it was evident that King Robert held him in high regard. The genuine affection on Robert's face went far beyond the formal respect due to a foreign adviser; it resembled the treatment of a cherished friend.

When Robert finally released him, Lynd took a step back, removed his helmet, and bowed deeply. "Your Grace," he said respectfully.

Nymeria stepped forward then, standing beside Lynd and offering her own bow to the king.

Robert's eyes fell on Nymeria, and he couldn't help but exclaim, "Lady Footly, you're damn tall—taller than that Mountain guy!"

"Your Grace, please watch your language," interjected the white-haired Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, who had just appeared behind Robert.

"I know, I know," Robert replied with a dismissive wave, clearly unbothered. "A king should have kingly manners. I've heard it all before." Then, turning back to Lynd with an eager grin, he said, "A lot has happened to you in the past year or so. The reports I've seen are patchy at best, so I'd much rather hear it all from you, straight from the source."

Observing Robert's enthusiasm, Lynd began to piece together the reason for the king's friendliness. It seemed clear that Robert saw in him an idealized version of himself—not a monarch confined to the Iron Throne but a man free to roam, feast, fight, and explore.

The Hand of the King, standing nearby, frowned and interjected firmly, "Your Grace, the matter at hand is the rebellion in the Iron Islands. It is far more pressing than tales one could overhear in any tavern."

Though Jon Arryn's words were ostensibly addressed to Robert, Lynd couldn't shake the sense that they also carried a veiled hostility toward him. The tone unsettled Lynd, leaving him to rack his brain, searching for any past offense he might have unknowingly committed against this powerful old man.

"I know, I know!" Robert retorted, irritation creeping into his voice. Despite his frustration with Jon Arryn's unrelenting oversight, he also recognized the truth of the man's words. Turning away, he strode back to the gazebo and took a seat. Once settled, he waved a hand toward Lynd and Nymeria.

"You can listen in too! And while you're at it, give me some advice. Everything I've heard over the past two days has been the same stale proposals. I need something different."

"Your Grace, this is the Small Council. You shouldn't—" Jon Arryn began, his tone sharp.

Robert cut him off with an irritated gesture. "I'm the king! Can't I decide who attends my Small Council?"

Faced with Robert's outburst, Jon Arryn relented, choosing not to press the matter further. The air in the gazebo grew tense.

Varys, the Master of Whisperers, spoke up at this point: "Actually, Your Grace is right. The results of our discussions over the past two days have been the same, but we all feel that something is amiss. We just don't know what it is. Perhaps if we let other people join in, we might be able to discover some problems that we haven't noticed."

Upon hearing Varys' words, the others in the pavilion nodded in agreement. Lord Arryn glanced at Varys with a subtly meaningful expression, then shifted his gaze toward Lynd without saying a word.

Though Lord Arryn's look at Varys and Lynd seemed casual and almost concealed, Lynd detected the intent behind it with unsettling clarity. This realization struck him: Jon Arryn's hostility toward him likely stemmed from uncovering Lynd's secret connection with Varys.

Lynd recalled his ongoing correspondence with the Master of Whisperers. Ever since his journey to King's Landing to retrieve his armor and sword, he and Varys had exchanged letters almost monthly.

The content of these letters often revolved around updates on the forging of Valyrian steel armor and bits of intelligence from across the realm.

Occasionally, Varys had sought Lynd's help with discreet matters, such as ensuring safe passage for merchant caravans traveling along the Roseroad. These caravans, originating from Essos, carried shipments of weapons to an uncertain recipient somewhere within the Crownlands.

Though their correspondence was frequent, Lynd had gone to great lengths to maintain secrecy. Varys' little birds would leave messages with trusted intermediaries, ensuring that no direct trail led to him. Lynd had never written back to Varys directly, a precaution he believed sufficient to evade detection.

Yet now, it seemed that something had gone awry. If Jon Arryn had indeed discovered this link, then somewhere along the line, a mistake had been made. Lynd resolved not to dwell on the specifics of the misstep. Instead, he focused his thoughts on potential countermeasures, carefully constructing contingencies in his mind.

Despite the whirlwind of thoughts, Lynd maintained a calm demeanor. When Robert beckoned him forward, he entered the gazebo alongside Nymeria, positioning himself unobtrusively near Barristan the Bold and the other Kingsguard. As instructed, he acted the part of an attentive observer.

The Small Council resumed its discussion. In addition to Varys, the group included Grand Maester Pycelle, Master of Coin Daemon Estermont, Master of Laws Howard Tully, and Master of Ships Stannis Baratheon.

The primary topic was the deployment of naval support to quell the rebellion in the Iron Islands. Discussion centered on whether Stannis's Dragonstone fleet could realistically contribute. Stannis, as the commander of House Baratheon's fleet, sat with a stoic expression, though the circumstances rendered his fleet virtually useless for the situation at hand.

Dragonstone's position on the southern coast of Westeros made deploying its ships to the Iron Islands a logistical nightmare. It would take months for the fleet to sail around the mainland's coastline to reach the Iron Islands.

For this reason, the council debated the alternative of dispatching fleets from the Arbor and Oldtown, which could offer more immediate naval support for the Iron Throne.

However, some council members raised concerns that the fleets from the Arbor and Oldtown might not suffice to decisively defeat the Iron Islands' fleet. They argued that deploying the royal fleet from Dragonstone would not only strengthen the effort but also demonstrate the might of the crown to lords across the realm.

The discussion quickly devolved into a heated debate, with each advisor steadfastly defending their position. For half the day, no resolution emerged. Lynd and Nymeria, who stood silently observing, struggled to keep their focus as the prolonged deliberation made their eyelids heavy.

Then, as if sensing Lynd's relaxed posture—or perhaps for some other reason—Robert suddenly turned to him and said, "Bear Hunter, do you think the royal fleet should be sent to quell the rebellion?"

Lynd, startled from his drowsy state, quickly regained his composure. Feeling the weight of the council's focused gazes, he reviewed the situation in his mind. Eschewing any diplomatic pretense, he answered bluntly, "I don't think there is any need to discuss this topic at all. Discussing it is simply nonsense."

His candid words drew varied reactions. Most in the room appeared surprised or even shocked, while others, like Varys, seemed amused, watching the unfolding scene with quiet intrigue.

"Why?" Robert's curiosity was piqued. He straightened in his chair, his expression full of interest.

Lynd spoke without hesitation. "The Lord Tyrell has already dispatched the fleets from the Arbor and Oldtown to provide support. Those fleets are more than capable of dealing with the Iron Islands' forces. Even if they aren't enough to decisively defeat them, they can at least hold them back. Sending the royal fleet from Dragonstone all the way to the West Coast would be a waste of time and resources."

"If it's a matter of showcasing the power of the royal fleet, that can be achieved by having them make an appearance in Blackwater Bay when the lords gather. There's no need for this unnecessary maneuver."

After hearing Lynd's explanation, the council members exchanged inscrutable looks. None openly voiced approval or disagreement, their expressions carefully guarded.

Jon Arryn broke the silence. "So, what do you think is the most important thing right now? Is it supporting the Westerlands?"

Lynd shook his head. "I don't think supporting the Westerlands is the priority either. After the attack, the Westerlands have already been fully mobilized. With Lord Tywin's strategic prowess, it's inconceivable that the Iron Islands could continue to raid the Westerlands unchecked. Supporting the Westerlands is not where our focus should be."

He didn't wait for further questioning, continuing with conviction. "The place that most urgently needs support—and must be reinforced as soon as possible—is Seagard."