"Silence!"
King Robert's voice cut through the Maester's words like a hot knife through butter. The Maester hesitated for but a moment before shifting and nearly pressing his face to the floor as he groveled before the King. "Pl-Please, your – your grace. There – There is no proof of their words!"
"Proof?" Master Nox's voice was calm and gentle, but it carried throughout the hall as if he'd bellowed out at the top of his lungs. A Force technique he had yet to teach Robb and Jon. Reaching into the folds of his robes, Master Nox pulled out a leather bound book that he recognized as the same one he and his father had been pouring over almost every night since they left Oldtown. "Would written proof of your transgression work? Or perhaps the marking on your body that identifies you as part of the Order of the Guiding Hand? Which would you prefer to go first?"
The whimpering from Pycelle grew louder and more pathetic as the King held kept his eyes trained on the prostrated Maester. "Oakheart." No further orders were necessary as one of the Kingsguard drew his sword and advanced on the Grand Maester, not to kill, but rather to ensure the old man didn't get any foolish ideas. "Give me the damn book."
"Of course," Master Nox said, handing the book over the king. "The Order was impressive, but foolish. They kept detailed records of their actions and even categorized them based on location. This book here details the actions taken by every Grand Maester who a member of the Order ever since the founding of the Seven Kingdoms was. There's quite a detailed accounting for how they caused the Dance of the Dragons. And there are even a few short pages on Pycelle's attempted manipulations of yourself. I believe you'll be most interested in the pages Lord Stark and I marked for you, it details his orders to turn yourself and the Small Council against myself and the actions I've been taking in the North under Lord Stark's watchful eye. Then there are also a few pages that we marked where Pycelle gave his recommendation that it would be most beneficial for the Order's long term plans if your father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, did not return from his venture to Essos to secure the former Prince Rhaegar with a Valyrian bride. And Lord Stannis, while the Maester on Dragonstone seems to have not been a part of the Order, he did inform the Citadel that your daughter was showing…unique abilities, and that you were considering requesting my aid to sort the matter out. The Order took this information and decided that it would be best to curb the influence of magic across the land by ending your daughter by sending her a doll that'd been in possession of one with greyscale."
The entirety of the throne room was silent as the catacombs beneath Winterfell as the King flipped through the pages of the book, his face becoming redder and redder the further he read. And while he managed to keep calm on the surface, Jon could sense the pure fury swelling within Stannis. "Someone get a block and get Payne's ass up here. Time for him to earn his keep."
"Your grace, please!" Pycelle all but screamed, his hands held before him in a begging fashion. "Please, mercy, your grace! E – Everything I have done has been for the realm!" The king, nor any of the others standing next to the throne, seemed to care as the Grand Maester started begging everyone who was near to him for any form of mercy.
"You have only one hope left, Pycelle." Again, his Master's soft voice carried throughout the hall, making the Grand Maester perk up at the chance offered to him. "The only question that remains is how will you convince someone to stand for you?"
Jon wasn't quite sure just what his Master was talking about, but his father, the King, and Pycelle all did going by the looks each man was giving Lord Nox.
"Trial by Combat!" Pycelle shouted as loudly as he could. "I – I demand a Trial by Combat!"
A shocked silence went through the throne room. Slowly, the silence was replaced by chuckling, then full out laughter as the people of the court laughed at the Grand Maester.
"A Trial by Combat, huh, Pycelle?" the king asked, a hint of amusement and a look of excitement entering his eye. "Alright then. Doubt you can even hold a sword, so you'll be naming a champion then, eh? Who here with stand for this decrepit piece of shit?"
No one answered the call. And as the time stretched on, Jon could sense dread reaching higher and higher levels within Pycelle. 'Is this why Master Nox brought the option forth?' Jon frowned as he tried to reason out just why his Master had even brought the option up in the first place. 'Was it just to give the man some semblance of hope to escape death, only to take it away from him? That's…cruel…but…I can't say that the Grand Maester and the Maesters don't deserve to suffer for what they've done.'
"A hundred gold dragons to the man who will st-stand for me!" Pycelle screeched, drawing a few mumbles from the crowd. "T-Two hun – no, a thousand! A thousand dragons to the one to stand for me!"
Jon felt his eyes widen as shocked murmurs spread throughout the throne room. A thousand gold dragons was, gods, that was more coin than even most nobles had at any one time. Hells, a family of smallfolk could buy a large piece of land and live comfortably for the rest of their lives on that much coin. It was…a very tempting offer. But despite the promise of enough gold to support a family through several generations, there were still none who were willing to stand for the Grand Maester.
That was until Master Nox started chuckling, drawing looks from the King and Jon's father. "If it gives anyone the courage, I will not stand as champion for the crown," his master stated, drawing more murmurs from the crowd. Yet still, the Grand Maester's plea for a champion went unanswered. "Meryn Trant…Your feelings have betrayed you. You want to stand for the Grand Maester…Not for him, but rather for the coin he offers. Such a shame to think that a member of the Kingsguard could be bought for such a paltry sum."
The king blinked, then quickly turned around and glared towards the line of Kingsguard behind him before settling his sights in on one of the men standing near the end. "Trant."
One of the Kingsguard who was wearing a tall helm depicting a sunburst with a red beard coming out from under the edges of the helm took a step back, his hand twitching towards the hilt of his sword. "It – It's a lie, your grace! He's a liar!"
"I am many things, Ser Trant, but a liar is not one of them," his Master stated, folding his hands in front of himself and taking a few steps towards the knight. "Your feelings have betrayed you. Your desire for the coin is fueled by your lust. Which has turned into an inferno consuming you from within. A lust…driven by the want of a child…a girl. A slave girl…here in King's Landing. One of with golden hair and green eyes. One said to resemble the Princess. One that you can use and brutalize for your own twisted sexual pleasures."
"H-How dare you say such things about me!" the Kingsguard shouted, taking a step back and resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, "I will have your tongue for daring to slander my name, you worthless sack o-"
"There is a way you can clear your name, Trant." The movement was slight, but Jon could've sworn that when his Master unfolded his hands, he made a short cutting gesture across his front with two fingers extended. "Stand as champion for Pycelle. Should the gods favor you, then I will concede that you are innocent, and I was wrong. And you will get the bonus of the thousand gold dragons from Pycelle here, provided he actually has the coin to pay you."
Trant seemed to waver for a moment before shaking his head. "I will stand as champion for the Grand Maester and prove you a liar!"
The king was clearly confused as to just what had happened and judging by the looks on Jon's father's face as well as the face of many others, he was not the only one. "Fine," the king snapped. "Trant will stand for Pycelle. Who will stand as champion for the crown?"
There was certainly no lack of volunteers to stand as champion for the crown. For as soon as the words were out of the king's mouth, more than a dozen voices, most of them from the men of the North, quickly went into the air offering to stand against the Kingsguard who was standing as champion for the Grand Maester.
'You want to make a name for yourself, Jon, beyond just being a Stark or my Apprentice?' Hearing his Master's voice in his head made him start, his eyes darting to his Master who still had his back turned to him. 'Now is your chance. Set your nerves to steel. Do not fear or falter. To fear is to hesitate and to hesitate is to die. Do not let others dictate who or what you are. Charge forth and forge your own path. As is the true way of the Sith.'
The words stirred something within Jon. His Master was right. He wanted to prove himself more than just a bastard or…or the child of his parents. And this was a chance to do just that. "Your grace," Jon called out, drawing the king's attention and surprised looks from his father and brother. "I would stand as champion for the crown and the North."
Somehow, Jon's voice had managed to cut through the din of the others who were also offering themselves and the hall went silent. A silence which was quickly ended as more than a few of the Southerners started outright laughing at him, including one or two of the Kingsguard. The king however wasn't laughing. Instead, he was just…staring at Jon. "One of yours, Ned?" The king asked, never taking his eyes off him.
"Aye," his father said, a note of fear in his voice. "My son, Jon Snow."
The king nodded as if expecting the answer. "Ah, your bastard boy. And the sorcerer's squire from what I've heard. You got a set of balls, boy, but a Trial by Combat is no place for a greenboy."
"A greenboy?" Jon wasn't sure why, but the label stung more than being called a bastard. "I killed my first man over a year ago while traveling with the Wolf Rangers to hunt down the sellswords who were plaguing the trade roads in the North. I stood with Lord Nox and other brave men and women from both the North and Dorne as he led us into the very depths of Old Valyria. I killed a dragon that'd been slumbering in Valyria since before the Doom while on foot. I fought and defeated Ser Gerald Dayne in Sunspear with nothing more than a training blade while he used live steel. And I am Lord Nox's Apprentice, your grace. Not a greenboy."
The laughter that'd been ringing through the hall was silenced yet again by the time Jon finished speaking. And without even realizing it, he'd taken a few steps closer to the king, an act which had drawn the attention of several of the Kingsguard who were now flanking the king on either side. But the king didn't seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, he had a small smile on his face as the two stared each other in the eyes.
"Gods boy, how in the Seven hells do you get through doors with balls that big?" The king laughed, slapping his thigh. "You remind me of myself when I was your age, boy. And your eyes…I see those rumors about you Starks and your wolf eyes aren't just tales. Hmm. Ned, he's your son. But I say let him fight."
Turning to his father, Jon was met with a look he'd never actually seen. Worry. His father was…worried. About him. "I can do this, father," he said, keeping his voice low so it didn't carry.
"Aye, I know you can, son," his father replied sadly before turning towards the king. "Jon has my blessing to stand as champion for the crown in this matter."
"Ha! Let's see what you can do, boy!" the king laughed. The look of excitement from earlier had returned to his eye before he turned to look out over the court. "Clear a space, you lackwits! Time to see what a man trained by the sorcerer can do against a Kingsguard!" Immediately, the crowd surrounding them pulled back as the king ascended the steps up to the Iron Throne and retook his seat.
"What in the hells are you thinking, Jon?" Robb hissed as he made his way to one side of the room with his father, Robb, and Lord Nox. "This isn't – You could die!"
"I could, but I won't," Jon replied, his voice far calmer than what he felt as his heart hammered away inside his chest.
"Of course he won't. Have faith in your brother Robb," Lord Nox said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You've been well trained, Jon. And you've faced far greater challenges then this sorry excuse for a Kingsguard. The only thing that can defeat you is yourself. Remember, this is a fight to the death, Jon. Hold nothing back, cause he won't."
Robb was clearly still not fully free of worry. "He should get some armor," he said, waving towards the simple studded leather Jon and the rest of the Northmen were wearing. "And he should get some rest. We've been riding for days and he—"
"Robb," their father said firmly, ending whatever Robb had been about to say. "Have faith in your brother. He will succeed."
Shrugging off his traveling cloak, leaving him in only a studded leather chest piece for any sort of protection, Jon gave his brother a squeeze on the shoulder before stepping past him and into the midst of the circle that'd been created for the Trial. The moment he stepped forth, he could immediately see a shift in the Kingsguard, Ser Trant. His expression went from one of anger, to one of confusion to one of amusement.
"This…This is who you send against me?" Trant laughed, which was echoed by many within the throne room. "A greenboy who doesn't even have a sword or armor? I wasn't expecting much from a bastard. But you must have a true death wish, boy."
Jon didn't say anything as he slid his left foot forward, grounding his stance with his left hand crossing the front of his body while his right was position over the metal cylinder that was still mostly hidden from view.
"Well, get on with it already!" the king shouted from the Iron Throne.
Bellowing out a war cry, Ser Trant charged at him, his sword held in a high guard with the clear intent of cleaving Jon in two. Holding his ground, Jon waited until the Kingsguard fully committed himself before launching an attack of his own. The moment Trant's sword began to descend, Jon moved. Pushing off with his right foot and using his left as a guide, he sidestepped the overhead strike and brought himself even with the kingsguard while using the Force to pull the hilt of his blade into his waiting right hand. The hiss of quenched steel was followed by a cry of pain from Ser Trant as Jon's lightsaber came to life in his hand and cut through the man's scaled armor and bit into his side.
"Fuck!" Trant screamed, his hand going to the wound at his side, only to have jerk his hand away quickly as the cut in his armor glowed red from the heat of Jon's blade.
Shocked murmurs filled the hall as Jon settled himself into a makashi stance while rotating his blade slightly in his right hand. Blocking out all sound, Jon opened himself to the Force, letting it fill him completely as he focused on keeping his breath steady. What mocking there was in Trant's eyes was now gone, replaced by true fear as his eyes stared hard at the glowing white blade in Jon's hand.
"Fucking sorcery horse shit," Trant hissed through clenched teeth as he held his sword in a two-handed grip. "You should've killed me on that blow, boy…Cause now I'm going to cut you to fucking pieces and feed you to the dogs, you pathetic bastard!"
Shifting his stance, Jon gripped his lightsaber in a two-handed grip as he shifted from makashi to juyo. 'Pathetic bastard?' Jon seethed as he launched himself at Trant with a thrust aiming for the man's neck. 'I'll show him who's the pathetic bastard!'
Trant immediately parried the thrust, and for a brief second Jon was surprised his lightsaber hadn't simply cut through the man's blade. 'Valyrian steel!' Jon cursed himself as he ducked and spun around Trant, avoiding the man's counter. 'That's right! Master Nox gave the king enough swords to arm the Kingsguard as tribute. I forgot that and it nearly killed me. Focus, Jon!'
Letting his frustration over forgetting about the Valyrian blades take hold, Jon righted himself and launched a flurry of attacks at Trant's shoulder, his leg, his off arm and his midsection. Never once attacking the same place twice in succession as he kept pressing the Kingsguard, forcing him onto the defensive and not giving him room to breathe or think. It didn't take long for the heavily armored Kingsguard to start slowing as he struggled to keep up with Jon. And quickly enough, Jon started to land light blows against the man's armor, leaving gouges in the plate and often cutting clean through to the flesh underneath.
Ducking underneath a wild swing, Jon threw out his left hand, palm facing Trant and pushed with the Force. The knight could do nothing more but grunt as he was sent tumbling backwards head over heels, the front of his armor dented from the sheer force of the push Jon had sent his way. Not wanting to give him time to recover, Jon rushed forth and brought his lightsaber down in an overhead swing. But Trant managed to recover far faster than Jon thought possible and managed to get his sword up in a guard just in time to block the strike and lock their blades.
In his short time of wielding a lightsaber, Jon had started to fully adapt to the many, many benefits that the weapon granted him in a fight. However, there was one area in which regular swords still held an advantage. And that was in the simple fact that a lightsaber had no weight behind it's strikes, which meant its power was created purely from momentum and the users own physical strength and strength in the Force. Normally, the weight discrepancy wasn't an issue. However, he'd noted that when he locked blades with an opponent, usually only his Master, he was usually at a disadvantage. Which was why, after locking blades for a moment and stopping his momentum, Trant was able to push him back and regain his footing.
'I can't let him lock blades with me again,' Jon thought, letting his lightsaber sing through the air as he idly rotated the blade. 'I suppose it's time to see if this technique really does work as well as I think it should.'
Holding his blade in a two-handed grip and in a mid-guard, Jon spread his legs with the left foot forward and waited for Trant to reset himself. The moment Trant got his bearings, Jon threw his whole weight behind a single strike aimed towards the Kingsguard chest plate. Trant moved his sword to intercept while stepping forward, no doubt hoping to lock their blades once more. But just before their blades could touch, Jon retracted his lightsaber, making the white blade disappear back into the hilt. Trant's block hit nothing but air as Jon pushed with his right foot to change his placement before activating his lightsaber once more, the white blade coming to life between Trant and his sword.
Letting out a yell, Jon swiped downwards. His lightsaber met resistance for only a moment before passing through both of Trant's forearms. Gasps and cries of alarm were raced through the nobles as Trant's sword clattered uselessly to the tiled floor, his hands and half of his forearms still attached to the hilt. Not giving the man time to realize what'd happened, Jon slashed again, this time cutting clean through the man's knee. The knight cried out in agony as his leg collapsed, no longer able to support his weight.
Grapping a hold of the collar of the knight's armor, Jon yanked him closer and held his lightsaber to the man's throat, close enough to singe his beard. Trant's breathing was erratic and his eyes wide and full of fear as he stared first at the white blade about to cut through his throat and then up to Jon.
"Hold Jon. The fight is over. And Meryn Trant has lost." Glancing over his shoulder, Jon was more than a little surprised that it hadn't been his father who'd spoken, but rather his Master, Lord Nox.
"Your grace," his Master pressed on, stepping up next to Jon. "I would ask that Trant be given over to me for questioning. This…desire of his to purchase a girl to use and abuse has…unsettled me. Particularly if slavery is involved, which is against the laws of Westeros. And I would like to see just how deep this rot goes and pull it out root and stem from this city and Westeros."
Still keeping his hold on the knight's armor, Jon turned his attention back to the king. But the king didn't seem to be paying attention to Lord Nox at all as he just stared down from the throne at Jon. Or more specifically, the blade Jon was holding in his hand. "You never said that you could make swords like your own, sorcerer."
"No one ever asked me to construct another. At least not directly," Lord Nox replied to the king's comment with a shrug. "And before anyone gets any ideas, no amount of coin or promise of power will convince me to part with one. Only those that I deem worthy will be allowed to carry a lightsaber. Jon here is but the first, but he had to go through hell and back to earn the right to wield it. Now, can I take this sack of shit here for intensive questioning, or no?"
"Wh – Oh, yes," the King stumbled, obviously having difficulty turning his sight away from Jon's lightsaber. "Trant, you got your ass beat by a boy less than half your age. You're no longer a member of the Kingsguard and will be questioned by the sorcerer about that buying a little girl thing. Sorcerer, you learn anything about this shit, and I want to be the first you tell."
Withdrawing his lightsaber, Jon retracted the blade and clipped the hilt onto his sword belt. "Thank you, your grace," Lord Nox said, taking Jon's place as he grabbed the former kingsguard by the collar of his armor. "I will keep you appraised of what I discover. And Pycelle…where do you think you are sneaking off to?"
With a start, Jon spun towards the kingsguard who'd had a hold of Pycelle, only to find said Kingsguard standing there alone with a dumbfounded expression on his face. As for the grand maester, somehow the old man had managed to get to the far corner of the throne room near to a small door that led somewhere further into the keep. Pycelle's chains rattled as he jerked, his hand pausing in the act of trying to open the door to his freedom.
"Pycelle!" the king's voice was near deafening as he shot up to his feet. "Stop him!"
Several swords cleared their scabbards as the remaining kingsguard made to follow the king's command, and Pycelle gave off a shout of alarm as he wrenched on the door trying to open it before they could reach him. Summoning his lightsaber back to his hand, Jon's thumb passed over the mark on the hilt, bringing the white blade to life as he made to go after the fleeing Maester. But none were fast enough as a loud whistle sounded, followed by a large blur of grey and white, followed by two smaller blurs, racing across the tiled floor.
With a snarl, Winter's powerful teeth dug into the flesh of the Maester's leg before the massive direwolf dug her claws into the tiles and shook her head violently. A wet tearing sound came from Pycelle as he screamed in agony before being tossed easily a good ten feet into the air and landing in a bloody lump on the floor. What was left of his leg still clenched tightly in Winter's jaw. Dropping the severed limb, Winter pounced onto Pycelle's back, pinning him to the floor. Now pinned, Pycelle could do nothing as Winter reached down and lightly bit down onto the back of the Maester's neck with just enough force to drag the old Maester across the floor and back towards the steps of the Iron Throne. The bleeding stump from where his leg had been leaving a trail of blood on the tiles as he was dragged. Not to be outdone by their mother, both Ghost and Grey Wind worked together as the two young pups each grabbed an opposite end of the severed leg and dragged it along behind their mother.
More than a few Lords took a step back, and more than one Lady fainted from the sight of the blood, as Winter passed them by, giving the direwolf plenty of space. Those at the base of the throne though all had differing reactions. The moment Winter had released the Maester, the kingsguard swarmed the old man with swords drawn, ready to cut him down should he try another escape. Which was unlikely given he was short a leg. Lord Renly looked more than slightly pale and refused to even look at where the Maester was laying or at the trail of blood he'd left behind. Lord Stannis remained completely impassive, but Jon could sense a not so small amount of satisfaction coming from the stoic man. The larger man and the small one with the thinly trimmed mustache were both avoiding looking at the scene. The old man that stood next to the throne seemed almost…disappointed for some reason Jon could not fathom while the king was almost radiating excitement. The queen though, she had the most complicated look on her face. A mix of anger and frustration and almost…envy.
"Seven hells, Ned," the king laughed as Winter retreated to his father's side with Ghost and Grey Wind quickly following. "Perhaps I should start putting a few wolves amongst my guard. Someone get this piece of filth out of here and close up that wound, he has a date with the king's justice. And it'd be a shame if he died of blood loss before he loses his head. You, boy, you hold a moment. Time to do something I should've done years ago."
Jon wasn't sure just what the king was talking about until he found himself standing right before him after Pycelle had been dragged off by two men wearing golden cloaks and one of the Kingsguard. "Your grace?" Jon murmured as he started to go down to a knee.
"None of that shit now, boy," the king demanded, making Jon freeze where he was. "Years ago, your father wrote me asking to legitimize you with the consent of Lady Stark. Well, I was talked out of it for some horse shit reason as you hadn't earned it yet. But I say now to hell with that. You went to Valyria and spat in the eye of the dead dragonlord sister fuckers and came out alive. And now you just beat a kingsguard in fair combat. I'd say you more than earned this, boy. Therefore, I, King Robert Baratheon, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, do hereby grant you the name Stark. So long as you do not seek your brother's place as future Warden of the North."
Jon was caught completely unaware, his mouth hanging open as he tried, and failed, to form some type of reply. All his life there was only one thing he ever wanted. And now, now he had that one thing. To be recognized as a Stark. A true Stark. "I – I thank you, your grace," Jon breathed, finally finding the words and dropping to a knee before the king. "And Robb, my brother, he is the future Warden of the North and my father's heir. And I will spend my life serving him."
The king gave off an amused grunt. "Just like your father, boy. Now get on your feet and someone crack some fucking barrels of wine! We have a new son of House Stark to herald! That calls for a fucking drink!"
During his time amongst the Kingsguard, Jamie had seen more feasts than he had seen combat engagements, particularly under the rule of the fat oaf. Usually he stayed off to the side, ignoring all save for his beloved sister. But not this time. No. This time while the feast was raging, he was stuck wading through the ankle-deep layer of shit and grime that was a constant amongst the streets of Flea Bottom. Which certainly wasn't where he'd expected to be when the night began.
Almost as soon as Pycelle's blood had been cleaned up off the floor, the throne room had been redone into a banquet hall with tables set to seat hundreds. The head table of course held the royal family and the Small Council, but unlike usual feasts there was a place of honor set right next to the king for his ever so honorable Lord Stark and his sons. Honestly, if Jamie didn't know the king's preference for women, he would swear that the king wanted to bed Stark given how much he fawned over the damn man. There was another seat of honor that'd been set up for the sorcerer, but the man proved to be just as boring as Stannis was as he decided to forgo attending the feast in favor of questioning Jamie's former sworn-brother, Meryn Trant. Not that Jamie was especially upset with the loss. The man was little more than a thug with next to no skill with a blade. But still, to be defeated so easily by a boy, and a Stark no less, it was pathetic. And in his mind, the kingsguard was far better without the man.
The sorcerer's absence didn't last for long though. As before the first cup had even been drained, the man made his reappearance, apparently having gotten Trant to sing like a songbird. Of course, the fat ass didn't want to stop his revelry, but Stark, Stannis, and the Hand seemed all the willing to put the feast on hold while they went to a side room to discuss what the sorcerer had pulled out of Trant. And while normally the king would just ignore his brother and Hand and keep drinking, his devotion to Stark was enough to pull him away from the feast. As the kingsguard that'd been assigned to guard the fat oaf on this day, Jamie was of course forced to go along with them as an emergency Small Council meeting was called.
The moment the last of the Small Council arrived, Renly of course, the sorcerer laid out everything that Trant had told him. Apparently, a group of slavers from Essos had somehow managed to find root here in King's Landing. According to what Trant knew at least, they were more focused on purchasing slaves and smuggling them to Essos than they were about selling slaves in the city. But evidently there was enough of a demand for those with…exotic tastes in pleasure that they had begun selling pleasure slaves of all ages to those who had the coin to pay for them. And apparently, the young girl that was supposed to have a similar look to Myrcella was indeed real and was soon to be auctioned off to the highest bidder for whatever purpose they deemed fit.
For most of the conversation, Jamie simply stared blankly ahead, letting the words from the Small Council just pass him by. Robert was, predictably, enraged. Not for the people being sold of course, but rather because it was happening right under his nose. Stannis was his normal stoic self, decrying the action and stating that the slavers needed to be hunted down. A thought that was mirrored by Stark and Jon Arryn. The eunuch, in one of the rare few times Jamie could get a read on the man, seemed mildly perturbed. Though again, for what reason he didn't know. Baelish didn't seem to care much. And Renly, well, he seemed to find the issue not worth his time as he simply stated that they could assign a few of the city watch to go to Flea Bottom and route out the slavers in the morning.
In the end though, all of their opinion's mattered not as the sorcerer calmly and firmly told them that he would be taking a group of Northmen and whoever else he could grab and head down to Flea Bottom to deal with the slavers personally that very night. The way he said it, the way he simply silenced and overruled the most powerful men in all of Westeros, it reminded Jamie a great deal of watching his own father in action. Not much was said after that. And, having laid out his plans, the sorcerer marched out of the Small Council chambers to go and collect those he would be taking with him to Flea Bottom while the fat oaf declared that they would leave this matter to the sorcerer, and that they had a feast to return too.
His sister was, predictably, waiting for him the moment he returned to the feast and pulled him aside the first moment she could. From the urgency with which she pulled him aside, he had hopes that his beloved sister wanted to share a night of passion with him while the fat oaf was distracted. But sadly, that was not her reasoning at all as she started asking him just what had been discussed with the sorcerer. So he told her exactly what was said to the word, or at least all that he had been paying attention to. And when he'd finished, she asked something of him that momentarily took him aback.
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