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GOT Chapter 70: Small Council, Smaller Resolve
🕑 Added 2025-08-13 03:47:50 +0000 UTCSeeing the Master of Coin complain and willingly broach the topic, Renly gave only a cold snort.
He said nothing more, merely turning his gaze toward Grand Maester Pycelle.
“Let’s begin, then. Any longer, and the maester may just fall asleep.”
“Lord Renly speaks true. At my age, having a body in this condition is already more than I can ask for,” Pycelle said, rubbing his rounded belly with both hands, his expression one of weary resignation.
“So—let’s make this quick.”
Lifting his bleary eyes to the three councillors before him, the deep lines in his face furrowed further in vexation.
“I believe you’re all aware of the matter of the war. The question is—what do we do next?”
At the mention of the topic, Littlefinger narrowed his eyes at once.
Muttering under his breath, “It seems His Grace has given us no orders.”
Then that half-smile returned to his face as he looked at the others, excluding Pycelle.
“My lords, you know what I can do, as I’ve just said—after all, I’ve already exhausted myself simply making sure the king’s purse isn’t entirely empty.”
“So I hope you can all understand me—after all, it seems I have no strength to offer King Robert beyond what I’m already doing.”
“How I wish I were a strong knight~” Littlefinger sighed, putting on a look of forlorn regret.
That he passed the burden away at the first opportunity came as no surprise to the other three.
Given what Littlefinger oversaw, he truly had little he could do in such a situation.
As for the eunuch Varys, he rested his chin against his chest and, in his cloyingly sweet voice, picked up where Littlefinger had left off.
“But we must answer the king’s call.”
Yes—Varys had just said something perfectly useless.
Still, he seemed to know what he meant, for before any sounds of displeasure could rise, he quickly added, “But before that, I think our duty should be to keep this realm steady.” Varys spread his hands, his expression one of pure innocence.
“After all, we don’t know what exactly will happen in this war, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“So my suggestion is that perhaps, for once, we should play the role of the ones guarding the house—you know what I mean.”
When he finished, his gaze lingered briefly on Grand Maester Pycelle before shifting to Renly Baratheon, a faint smile on his lips.
The Grand Maester did seem truly tired. Slumped in his chair, his head kept nodding, making one wonder whether he had actually fallen asleep.
Which left Renly as the only one in any condition to reply.
This was the Lord of Storm’s End, King Robert’s Master of Laws on the Small Council.
And as the two other councillors had taken their turns to speak, Renly could only frown at his brother’s ministers, cursing inwardly at how none of these old hands had the slightest will to take initiative.
All of them looked as though they wished the matter had nothing to do with them, with more important business on their own plates and no energy left to involve themselves in this war.
The meaning behind Littlefinger’s words hardly needed spelling out—he had barely stepped through the door before complaining about the burden on his shoulders, that all the gold dragons had to be found by him.
On that point, the others could only tacitly accept his inaction.
Varys, for his part, had put on that “keep the house, maintain stability” stance, making it plain he was equally unwilling—or unable—to act.
After all, matters of war had little to do with a spymaster ensconced in King’s Landing.
As for the Grand Maester—there was no need to even mention him.
Renly thus understood perfectly that this Small Council meeting, ostensibly convened to discuss urgent matters, was in truth meant for the three of them to assign the work to him.
Which was why he had spoken so sharply to Varys and Littlefinger the moment he arrived.
Faced with their three expectant gazes, he slapped the table, then looked up to meet the eyes of his fellow councillors, who had turned to him in unison at the sound.
With a voice edged in displeasure, he said, “So you’re telling me that I’m the only one who can offer my brother, the king, any real help?!”
“You are the Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Renly!” Varys’s flattery was perfectly timed.
Renly felt as though he’d swung a fist into a sack of cotton.
All he could do was lower his head and say in resignation, “Fine. I’ll return to Storm’s End at once to summon my bannermen, and then march north to aid my brother, King Robert.”
“As for King’s Landing—”
“You needn’t worry about King’s Landing, Lord Renly.” The Grand Maester spoke up again, smiling benignly at the Lord of Storm’s End.
“This war has little to do with the Crownlands, for the Seven Kingdoms have responded most eagerly to His Grace’s call to arms.”
“They are positively impatient to show King Robert their loyalty!”
“I suspect they’re more eager for gold than for loyalty.” Seeing the old fox suddenly lively again, Renly Baratheon’s voice carried thick displeasure.
“That’s not the way to put it, Lord Renly—you are the king’s brother!”
In the face of Renly’s complaint, Pycelle merely jingled the chain around his neck, then shakily pushed himself to his feet with the table for support.
“But aside from you, I think we must also send His Grace the protection of his Kingsguard.”
“After all, as everyone knows, His Majesty’s bastard slew three of them, and now he’s left with scarcely any at his side!”
...
In the North, after more than half a month of war preparations, Winterfell was now a world apart from what it had been before.
Within the castle, things remained orderly enough, but from any high vantage point looking outward, one could see the hills beyond teeming with people and dotted with dozens of banners in every imaginable color.
Each color marked a different house.
Every one of those banners represented a family that had answered the Northern lord’s call to arms. Their men were assembled, and though their equipment varied widely in quality and style, there was not the slightest lack in their vigor and spirit.
With so many people pouring in over such a short time, the winter town beyond the castle walls had filled to capacity even before the cold season arrived.
The streets bustled, thronged with people, alive with noise and commotion.
Men, horses, and supplies piled high everywhere, and the clamor had driven away every trace of the town’s usual peace.
Shouts, brawls, boasts, and crude banter were commonplace.
Every hour or two, some drunken fool would get himself a beating, fleeing in disgrace to the jeers and curses of onlookers.
Of course, no one could say for certain how many of those scuffles were truly about drink.
After all, the whores outside the town were already overwhelmed, with some even having queues forming for their services.
Even the innkeepers were grumbling about a shortage of hands, for the usually quick-footed serving girls were run ragged at times like these.
As for the tavern masters, with tempers flaring and nowhere to vent, they could only bark and curse at the little bastards in the kitchen who kept sneaking food, forcing them to work just to keep things going.
Those mischievous brats, of course, were hardly dependable, none of them working the way one would hope.
Still, the chaos in Winterfell was only on the surface—no more than a lively din.
At that moment, before a window along the covered bridge that overlooked the training yard, a man so large he nearly filled the space stood “blocking” it, peering out.
Before long, another man joined him: the Lord of Winterfell, Eddard Stark, his face grim, a thick beard left untrimmed for some time.
Brushing sawdust from his sleeve, Stark’s hair was no longer as meticulously groomed as when he had first met the king, and his long face was framed by eyes shadowed with deep rings.
Finding Robert, he let out a breath and stepped forward.
“Your Grace, all preparations are complete. We must set out at once!”
The Lord’s tone carried a note of urgency—perhaps the very source of his restless demeanor.
Robert’s eyes lit up at the report, and then he threw back his head in laughter, clapping Stark’s shoulder, his delight plain as day.
“Ned, do you know how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say those words?” he said, grinning broadly.
“Gods, I’ve been here far too long. And I don’t mean to say your hospitality’s lacking—”
“I just can’t wait another moment!”
“I’m telling you, I could mount my warhorse right now, ride straight south, and smash Tywin’s skull into a heap of rotten muck and dog shit with my own hands!”
“Just like I did with Rhaegar back then—I swear I’ll crush his head to pieces!”
