Chapter 36: Petyr’s Silver Tongue

Red Keep, Hand's Tower, Second Floor Study

Jon Arryn held many titles: Duke of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, Protector of the Vale, and Hand of King Robert Baratheon.

In his youth, Jon had possessed sandy-gold hair, sharp blue eyes, and a hawk-like nose—a handsome, noble visage.

Now, in the year 297 AC, age had taken its toll. At seventy-two, his once-thick hair had thinned and grayed, his face a map of deep lines, his back bowed beneath the weight of years and illness. Most of his teeth were long gone.

Yet now and then, a flash of sharpness gleamed within his clouded eyes—a reminder that the grip he held over the Red Keep remained firm.

Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, held up an already-opened letter with casual interest. "Lord Jon, this appears to be a letter from the Crabb family. Sent from Gulltown."

A native of the Vale himself, Petyr had long enjoyed Jon Arryn's trust and favor. His rise had begun with Lady Lysa Tully, whose affection for Petyr led her to convince her husband to appoint him as Gulltown's tax collector.

Petyr, innately gifted in matters of coin and trade, increased the revenues tenfold. Since then, Jon Arryn had elevated him step by step until he became the realm's Master of Coin.

Jon lifted his head from a stack of documents. "That letter? I've not yet read it."

"They say many have died in Gulltown," Petyr said, tone vague yet pointed.

The mention of death made Jon Arryn pause. He set his quill aside.

Petyr handed him the letter with deference.

Jon squinted and read. "Crabb... a noble of the Crabclaw Peninsula?"

After a moment's thought, he set the letter down. "Brash and reckless. It's likely Baron Crabb was behind this. Over twenty dead in one night? That half-wild noble treats life like chaff in the wind."

"But with respect, my lord," said Petyr smoothly, "as the letter notes, we have no direct proof. A local song from the Crabclaw can hardly serve as evidence before Lord Renly Baratheon, the Master of Laws."

Jon's aged features tightened in irritation. "Any fool with eyes can see what he's doing—aping the old lion of Lannister! Send a raven to the Crabclaw. He is to come to the Red Keep at once. If he still has a shred of noble honor, he will not refuse."

Petyr bowed, a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. "My lord, Baron Green of House Crabb is already in King's Landing."

Jon's gaze sharpened. "Oh? How very convenient."

"He came by way of the Queen. He now serves as her steward. It is said Queen Cersei holds him in high favor."

Jon frowned. "Favor?"

Petyr had achieved his aim. With little more than shadows and suggestion, he had already sown distaste in Jon Arryn's heart.

He shook his head mildly. "One could say she esteems him. And earning Queen Cersei's admiration... is no easy feat."

Cersei with a new blade in hand — Green. Petyr looked forward to the storm that would brew between Queen and Hand.

Jon glanced out the window. Dusk had fallen over the city.

"See to it he comes tomorrow morning. I wish to meet this guest from the peninsula."

"At once, my lord. I shall handle it personally."

King's Landing, The Hook – Night

Returning home from a long day, Green discovered eight bulging pouches in his manor—each embroidered with the golden lion of House Lannister.

Eight hundred gold dragons, delivered by attendants of Queen Cersei herself.

Was Her Grace pleased with him?

For the once-impoverished Lord Green, such a reward lifted his spirits.

A curious thought crossed his mind—he suddenly felt no urge to strive further.

He imagined the life of a man kept by a wealthy lady and chuckled, shaking his head.

"No... not my style. I'll keep fighting."

After changing his clothes, Green stepped into the manor's backyard.

There he found Tyrion Lannister and Lancel, drinking with gusto.

Tyrion nodded at Green and turned to Lancel. "So, you'll support me? Once I inherit Casterly Rock, my first decree will be to reinstate the lord's droit du seigneur—heh!"

Lancel, already tipsy, giggled. "Oh, noble cousin, I adore you, but I'll support you only in secret. The mob will hound you from the Rock, and I'd rather not be caught in the fallout."

Green joined them, pouring himself a cup. "You'll all miss him. Lord Tyrion, ever sacrificing himself for the greater good."

Tyrion laughed heartily. "Ah, the hearts of men! I only say aloud what others dare not whisper."

Lancel raised his cup. "Baron Green, at last! Today's been dreadful—listen to me, I swear I've never had worse luck."

Drunk, Lancel rambled, but Green pieced the story together.

Raising his cup, Green saluted Tyrion. "A toast to you, mighty Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion drank deep, prying Lancel's clingy hand from his shoulder and sliding his chair closer to Green. "You're not worried about me at all?"

Green sipped and arched a brow. "You're a Lannister. And no prince without a claim to the throne can touch you."

Tyrion smiled wryly, then sighed. "I truly wish I could teach Joffrey better. The boy's hard to love, but I never saw him as a stranger."

He lowered his voice. "Once, when Joffrey was small, he killed a pregnant cat. Want to know why? He was curious. Wanted to see what unborn kittens looked like. So he cut her open with a dagger."

"He has no reverence for life. Treats the lives of others like insects. If we don't change him... he will be another Mad King."

Green glanced at Lancel, still muttering to himself. "You'd best urge him to become a royal squire early."

Tyrion nodded. "Lancel made himself look weak. And the weaker you seem, the more Joffrey will torment you. But if he senses steel, he'll keep his distance. That's my sweet nephew for you — heir to the Iron Throne."

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