Chapter 219

The Crownlands. King’s Landing. 301 AC.

Jorah Mormont.

The old bear had long since grown accustomed to a life that could best be described as a pendulum swing. Every ascent to unprecedented heights was inevitably followed by an equally painful crash to the very bottom. His most recent triumph had been rising to become the second most powerful man in the realm, Hand of King Viserys Targaryen. When Jorah had first been offered the position, he’d accepted, though he hadn’t truly believed the venture would succeed. Viserys was nothing like the Conqueror, and couldn’t boast anything resembling strong alliances.

So why had Jorah Mormont agreed at all? Why not? Over the course of his life, Jorah had risked his neck more than once for rewards far smaller than this. Rot away in exile for another pair of gold coins, or gamble everything on a chance to mend his fortunes, there had never really been a question between the two. The king’s personal qualities left much to be desired, but Jorah served his king loyally and meticulously all the same. Things hadn’t gone smoothly at first, little Bear Island had never taught anyone how to be Hand of the King, but eventually things stabilized. He’d adapted to his duties well enough, as proven by his agreements with the magisters, the crossing into Westeros, the seizure of Dragonstone, and the peaceful stationing of troops in King’s Landing.

At some point, Jorah had genuinely believed himself a decent Hand, had even started taking real satisfaction in the position, a man from a minor house, shaping the course of history. But that self deception hadn’t lasted long. After the capital fell, problems began sprouting like mushrooms after rain. The situation was grim, and though Jorah kept finding ways through each crisis, three new ones seemed to appear for every one he solved. The king grew displeased, and demanded results.

The court began to buzz with unrest. Courtiers started questioning the Hand’s competence, and by extension, the king’s judgment in appointing him. The king heard the whispers, and grew angrier by the day. The situation eventually led to the Hand’s authority being trimmed back, redistributed among the rest of the small council. Jorah raised no objection, understanding that this would prove the most productive path forward. No one shone brighter in the new arrangement than Petyr Baelish. A man who’d handed over the city and delivered the king his long awaited vengeance already stood in good favor, but once he started cracking problems open like walnuts, one after another, he won the king’s favor to a degree no one else could match. Problems seemed to resolve themselves, as though solutions had been waiting ready made all along.

That was when Jorah first grew suspicious of Baelish, and reported as much openly to his sovereign. He was waved off, his concerns dismissed as jealousy toward a more capable rival. The king added a further threat: if this “run of failures” didn’t stop, Jorah would lose his position. He left the king’s chambers in a foul mood, though he couldn’t stop turning the conversation over in his mind. Perhaps envy really had gotten the better of him, toward a man simply more successful than himself?

After a sleepless night spent turning the matter over, Jorah concluded that decisive action was needed. He trusted his own instincts, and his suspicions toward Baelish hadn’t faded, so he continued quietly gathering information on the man. That task would be far easier with the turncoat kept close, under his own direct watch. That way, bypassing the unreliable word of King’s Landing’s many “rats,” he could judge matters for himself and keep the damage to a minimum, since sabotaging a rival was one thing, but sabotaging himself entirely another.

At the next small council meeting, with the king’s approval, Jorah extended Lord Petyr Baelish the “great honor” of handing over a considerable share of his own authority, effectively making the man his own right hand. The move drew mixed reactions, but since the king had approved it, no one dared question the Hand’s decision. The man from the Fingers was immediately handed more weighty, and thus more prestigious, tasks. To Jorah’s grim realization, within a single week of that meeting, the number of critical matters requiring attention had dropped sharply, and for some reason, new ones weren’t rushing in to replace them. The number of problems shrank in direct proportion to the power handed to Littlefinger. That pattern became one more brick in the foundation of Jorah’s growing certainty that Baelish wasn’t acting in the crown’s interest.

Jorah wasn’t about to approach the king a second time without solid proof. Making a fool of himself once had been quite enough. Every move Littlefinger made was carefully recorded, checked, and analyzed. He searched for patterns, threads that might lead back to whoever was orchestrating all these troubles, but found nothing. Everything suggested Baelish was, at worst, a bit light fingered, but otherwise a loyal servant of the crown. Which was, in itself, suspicious.

“What in the seven hells does that Mopatis think he’s playing at?! I am the king, and when I order more funds gathered, he is to obey, not hide behind some election!” Whenever things went wrong, the king raged and threatened everyone in sight. The other council members hadn’t yet grown used to his outbursts, and instinctively drew their shoulders up, trying to make themselves smaller. “I’ll have him executed and seize every last bit of his property for the crown!”

“Your Grace, the elections in Pentos are a serious and delicate matter for any merchant, and Magister Mopatis is no exception. During this period, the amount of funds he has on hand may well decide the coming race. Should Magister Illyrio lose his position, a vast portion of his fortune would be lost to him forever. I would therefore urge patience.”

Certain facts had been surfacing more and more often of late, facts that might well have called Mopatis’s loyalty into question, though everyone seemed to unconsciously look past them. After the “miraculous resurrection of Aegon, son of Rhaegar,” the questions surrounding the magister had only multiplied. His ties to Varys the Spider, his dealings with the Golden Company, the quiet shipments of supplies, Pentos’s refusal to commit its fleet against the sellswords at sea, all of it painted a grim picture. And yet Mopatis had been, and remained, one of Viserys’s most powerful backers. It was thanks to his actions, his connections, and his coin that the return to Westeros had been possible at all.

“Magister Illyrio has placed his own standing in society above his duties to his king. If every merchant feels free to refuse the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, how long before none of them listen to you at all? The world needs to be shown who the true dragon is here, and why they ought to obey him!” Jorah wanted to grimace at Baelish’s words. Viserys’s thoughtful expression disappointed him even more.

“Lord Baelish speaks sense. I believe that’s the course we’ll take.” That was something Jorah couldn’t allow to stand.

“How many lords will stand behind you, Your Grace, if you punish one of your very first allies so harshly?” But catching himself, realizing that tone would only turn Viserys against him, he quickly corrected course. “Your Grace, men do not follow a ruler who punishes his own strongest supporters. Yes, such an act would assert your authority, and men would begin to fear you, but it would be the wrong kind of fear. Out of the dread of retribution, the wavering would flee straight into your enemies’ arms. One man alone means little, but there are thousands of such men, and together they can decide the outcome of wars.”

“…We’ll set the matter aside for now,” the king ruled, and Jorah let out a quiet, unnoticed breath of relief. “How do things stand with the Iron Bank?”

The Old Bear had relaxed too soon, having assumed the matter of the magister was the day’s most unpleasant business. The Iron Bank was a problem. The Iron Throne’s staggering debts were a bigger problem. And the bank’s brazen bankers, now demanding repayment, were nothing short of a catastrophe. Viserys ranted and threatened every punishment known to man over such insolence. Jorah shared something of his outrage, if he was honest, but the Iron Bank wasn’t a power one provoked lightly. Especially not with several other claimants still circling the throne.

“That matter was left in Lord Baelish’s care,” Jorah said, shifting one headache onto another.

“Your Grace, though progress has been slow going, there has been some. Specifically, the repayment terms have been stretched out over a longer period. I also attempted to extract a promise from the bank that they would offer no aid to our enemies, though on that front, they’ve remained silent. As things stand today, this has allowed us…”

The meeting dragged on a good while longer, and left the Old Bear with a few more sleepless nights ahead of him.