Chapter 20: The Power Bestowed by Blood

Fifty household guards and retainers, thirty warhorses, three healers, three stablehands, one barber, and three handmaidens — such was the retinue accompanying Green on his journey to the Red Keep.

The person charged with overseeing the entourage was none other than Housekeeper Surana.

The merchant ship hired for the voyage demanded a fare of fifty-two gold dragons. Steward Herschel, ever shrewd, had arranged to pay the amount in furs of equal value.

Not having to part with actual coin brought Green a small sense of relief. Still, it only reminded him: a man with strength and foresight should begin preparing a seafaring vessel of his own.

Mermaid's Port, once barren and still, now welcomed one or two merchant ships each day. It was far from bustling, but at least it had begun to resemble a true harbor.

Green had done all he could. The rest would depend on time and patient growth.

"My lord," Surana said, "Steward Herschel spoke with several merchants and confirmed the matter. In Astapor, the price for a single Unsullied is one hundred gold dragons — and that does not yet include the cost of transport."

Unsullied?

Green recalled instructing Herschel to make quiet inquiries regarding the price of those famed eunuch soldiers, should the opportunity arise.

But now, his interest in the Unsullied had cooled.

In truth, the Clayboe household had integrated the mountain clansmen far more easily than he'd ever expected.

Green found himself more than satisfied with these wild men acquired at no cost — fierce, broad-shouldered, and quick to take to the sword.

Feed them, clothe them, and they grew loyal.

With discipline and training, they became fine soldiers.

One hundred gold dragons per Unsullied — a thousand for ten, ten thousand for a hundred...

And Daenerys Targaryen had claimed eight thousand of them with little more than a ruse.

Eight hundred thousand dragons' worth of elite warriors — gods!

And she had taken them with scarcely any cost, along with the treasuries of several Free Cities. Gods have mercy.

The thought left Green seething with envy — and just a touch of bitter jealousy.

Had not House Clayboe shed blood for the Targaryens?

Once, they were paragons of loyalty to House Targaryen.

But after Robert's Rebellion, they had known nothing but hardship, punished for their allegiance by the Red Keep for over a decade.

Perhaps, when the time was ripe, Green could find a way to "relieve" the Dragon Queen of a portion of her gold — enough to soothe his wounded pride.

"Very well. I understand," said Green. "How is Lyanna these days?"

"After the news from Gulltown reached us, Lady Lyanna locked herself away for an entire day," Surana replied. "But since then, she's been well. I believe she feels safe here. She places great trust in you, my lord."

"Keep a closer watch on her," Green said. "You're more attentive than I am. And pay heed to matters of the heart — she's young."

Surana lowered her head slightly, lashes trembling. "Yes, my lord. I will find the right person and report back to you in time."

At her words, Green raised a brow and turned from the sea to regard her.

"Thank you, Surana. I appreciate that you understand my burdens. House Clayboe is down to just myself and my cousin Lyanna.

She is too kind for her own good — a rare virtue, but one that invites exploitation. Especially where love is concerned."

His gaze drifted once more toward the open sea. He sighed softly.

"You've watched Lyanna grow since she was a girl. I know you care for her deeply. You need not worry so much. I am her lord — and as such, her protection is my duty. I will do all in my power to ensure she lives a safe and happy life."

Surana lifted her eyes, pressing her lips together.

"My lord… you should have Lady Lyanna sign a document renouncing her claim to House Clayboe's inheritance. It would safeguard her more than any sword ever could. I meant to speak of this before, but… with no heir yet, I hesitated.

People say I am too logical, but truth be told, I doubt myself too often."

Green's right thumb brushed against his forefinger as he replied,

"Lady Surana, in my heart, you are as kin to me.

You may always speak freely in my presence. Leave the decisions to me — you need not carry that burden.

As for Lyanna's claim… more than power or title, I hope she finds true love."

"At your command, my lord."

  ...

  ...

King's Landing. The Red Keep. The Tower of the Hand.

Petyr Baelish stood leaning against the railing of the balcony, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, eyes dark with thought.

The "Goatshit Count." A half-wild nobleman... Both were subjects of ridicule — and yet... heh.

Through proper channels via the Citadel's ravens, word of Baron Green Clayboe had spread swiftly across the long-peaceful realm of Westeros. As a fresh curiosity, a wealth of information regarding him had made its way to Petyr's desk.

Blessed by the legacy of his forebears, the Clayboe heir had returned with strength to the lands of his house, and though many years had passed, he reclaimed them with ease — as if the people themselves willed it so.

How enviable — the deep-rooted authority born of noble blood.

How detestable — that power should lie in lineage.

Even the wildlings, untamed and free, were not immune to the hold of blood and name. Such is the tenacity of tradition, where nobility of birth is revered above all else.

And in contrast, true ability is reduced to a mere accessory.

That is why only chaos is the ladder.

Petyr Baelish's gaze grew darker still.

"Lord Petyr — how rare," came a soft voice. "From you, I seem to smell… anger."

Bald, completely hairless, dressed in a loose-fitting robe of reddish-brown silk, Varys stood with both hands clasped before him.

Petyr withdrew his gaze with practiced calm. His pale green-gray eyes met the eunuch's. Varys smiled politely and offered a slight bow.

Lord Baelish curled his lips into a graceful smirk. "Ah, Lord Master of Whisperers, ever curious by the demands of your office. But I must inform you — your nose has failed you this time."

Varys's smile did not falter. "Lord Petyr, ever since I met you, I've seen nothing but calm elegance and unmatched wit. Even the subtlest change in you is like a thunderclap to me."

Graceful as ever, Petyr admitted inwardly how he increasingly loathed this Eight-Legged Spider.

He reminded himself to stay cautious. The little birds were always watching.

But no matter what he thought, Petyr Baelish kept his courteous smile.

"Truly, yours is the sweetest tongue in all of King's Landing. Every conversation with you is such a delight to the senses."

Varys inclined his head once more. "It is only your own sweetness that scents the air, my lord. I merely bask in it."

Petyr spread his hands, uninterested in prolonging this battle of tongues. His pale eyes flickered with subtle intent as he changed the subject.

"I hear our gracious queen has found herself in sudden good spirits. Usually, she sulks for days."

Varys stepped closer to Petyr and looked out across the city. "Her Grace retains the heart of a young maiden. When gifted with something she loves, she forgets her sorrows — if only for a while."

Petyr's voice, low and rasping, was rich with meaning. "Something she loves, you say? Lord Varys, there's meaning behind your words."

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