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CHAPTER 181
293 AC
POV THIRD PERSON
Amidst the sprawling intrigue that had ensnared the realm of Westeros, King Robert Baratheon once again found solace in the arms of his vices. The crown that should have weighed heavily upon his brow was tossed aside in favor of goblets of wine and the company of women. The throne room echoed with the false peals of women's laughter.
As the druid Emrys's name spread through the lands like wildfire, the court was divided, mirroring the very cracks that ran through the Seven Kingdoms themselves. Whispers and hushed conversations echoed through the corridors of the Red Keep as advisors urgently murmured in the ears of their liege. Some urged the king to take a stance against this enigmatic figure, while others saw the opportunity to exploit his inattention for their own designs.
In the dimly lit chambers of the Red Keep, Lord Yohn Royce stood before King Robert, his stern visage bearing a weight of concern. After learning of the events in the North, he had sailed to King's Landing, ensuring that he could report these developments to his lord, Jon Arryn. After hearing of the concerning events, Jon Arryn arranged an audience with the king.
"My king, the situation with this druid Emrys grows more complex by the day. The Vale is ablaze with talk of his powers and his influence over the North. We cannot afford to ignore this matter any longer. His actions know no bounds. He compels the innocent people of the North to forcibly convert to the Old Gods, resorting to violence if they resist. Just a month ago, he executed two knights of the Vale in front of a crowd."
King Robert reclined on his throne, his gaze distant as he swirled his wine goblet absentmindedly. He turned to Varys and asked, "Is this true?"
"In the North, my little birds don't sing as much as they used to, but it is not entirely false."
Robert's attention began to shift from the women to Varys as he listened intently. Varys hesitated, knowing how unbelievable this part of the information might sound. His Little Birds insisted it was all true, and he painfully knew magic was real. Robert impatiently said, "Are you suddenly short of words? What happened?"
"Ser Harlan and Ser Martyn, two knights of the Vale, dared to confront Emrys regarding his beliefs. They accused him of blasphemy and mocked the Old Gods, seeking to provoke him. But in a moment that stunned all witnesses, the druid invoked the power of the Old Gods."
The king's brow furrowed, and his interest deepened.
"Emrys beseeched the Old Gods to show their power, and as if in response, the ground shook, and thick roots emerged, ensnaring the two knights. The druid offered them a chance to repent, but they defied him, insulting the Old Gods once more. It was then that lightning bolts from the heavens struck them down, leaving behind naught but charred remains."
King Robert reclined on his throne, his gaze distant as he swirled his wine goblet absentmindedly.
"Bah, what is so surprising? We already know he can call upon lightning. Let them have their druid and their Old Gods; I have enough on my plate without chasing after shadows in the North."
Lord Royce insisted, his gaze unwavering.
"My king, we cannot underestimate the impact this druid is having on the realm. He is starting to sway the devout believers of the North and is growing in influence with each passing day. If left unchecked, his presence could destabilize the delicate balance of power we have fought so hard to maintain."
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The king's expression darkened as he set his goblet aside. The torches in the chamber cast flickering shadows that danced upon the intricately designed walls, adorned with the mighty stag of House Baratheon. The air hung heavy with the scent of wine and the tension of the moment.
"And what do you propose we do, Lord Royce? Send our armies North to confront a man who speaks to trees and claims to wield the power of gods? No, I won't waste our resources on such folly. What will we do to a man that can turn into a bird and fly away?"
Lord Royce tried to stand tall and resolute, but the gravity of the situation seemed to press upon him as he met the king's gaze.
"B-But Your Grace, we must not allow this druid to disrupt the faith that has guided our people for generations. We must address this issue diplomatically before it escalates further."
...
As the small council meeting continued, the members grappled with the uncertainty that the emergence of Druid Emrys had brought upon the realm. Each voice carried the weight of their allegiance, their ambitions, and their fears, woven together in a great web of conflict and interests.
The tension in the room was palpable, like the charged air before a storm. The intricacies of Westerosi politics were on full display as each council member brought their own motivations and agendas to the table. Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, maintained a demeanor that mixed authority and weariness. His piercing gaze swept over the gathered members, each representing a different facet of the realm's governance.
The torches flickered, casting shifting shadows on the ancient walls, and the council chamber became a stage for the delicate dance of power and diplomacy. The fate of the realm hung in the balance, its future uncertain in the face of a druid who wielded powers both mysterious and formidable.
o Lord Jon Arryn's right sat Grand Maester Pycelle, a wizened figure whose true motives remained shrouded in the haze of age. He offered his counsel with a veneer of wisdom that often masked a self-serving nature. His voice trembled as he delivered his opinions, often couched in the form of historical precedents and ancient wisdom, though his true intent remained known only to him.
Pycelle's counsel was like a fog that obscured his intentions, leaving those in the room to question his true loyalties. Yet, his knowledge of the realm's history and the intricacies of power made him a valuable, albeit enigmatic, member of the council. The members exchanged knowing glances, aware that Pycelle's counsel could be a double-edged sword to their agendas.
Grand Maester Pycelle, his voice bearing the weight of age, added with a hint of concern, "We must tread carefully in these uncertain times. The emergence of this druid, Emrys, has the potential to upset the delicate balance we have striven to maintain."
Beside him, Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, sat with a calculated smile. Petyr Baelish's recent appointment as the Master of Coin carried a weight of significance in the small council. His reputation for managing the House Arryn's economy effectively had brought him to this esteemed position, especially at a time when the realm faced the uncertainty of Druid Emrys's growing influence. It was a testament to Lord Jon Arryn's trust in his abilities to handle the economic challenges and keep King Robert's financial excesses in check. This appointment had positioned Petyr Baelish as a key player in the council's discussions.
Petyr Baelish, with his disheveled auburn hair, sharp green eyes, and a well-groomed beard, possesses an unassuming appearance that belies his manipulative nature. His unpretentious charm and soft-spoken demeanor mask a keen intellect, while his cunning personality is characterized by an unwavering desire for power and influence. Petyr's calculating and pragmatic approach to politics, combined with a penchant for intricate scheming, make him a master of subterfuge in the cutthroat world of Westeros, where he thrives on ambiguity and hidden agendas. He interjected with a calculated smile.
"Indeed, Grand Maester. The influence of this druid threatens to disrupt the power dynamics that bind our kingdoms together. A wise ruler would seek to either align with or neutralize such a force."
Across the table, Lord Renly Baratheon, the Master of Laws, leaned toward his brother, the king, and said, "It's true. We've heard whispers of Druid Emrys's ability to sway the hearts and minds of the people. If he can truly enhance fertility and prosperity in the North, it could shift allegiances and loyalties in unpredictable ways."
Lord Stannis Baratheon, the Master of Ships, spoke with his characteristic directness. "Our primary concern should be the stability of the realm. If this druid's actions threaten that stability, we cannot afford to let him go unchecked."
In the midst of this discussion, King Robert Baratheon himself sat slouched on the throne, a flagon of wine in hand. He glanced up with a distracted expression, his thoughts seemingly far from the council proceedings.
"Met him during the Greyjoy Rebellion. He showed me a thing or two about those Old Gods he preaches about. Some of you were there with me, and you have witnessed how he made quick work of Ser Mandon Moore. With a flick of his hand, the man turned into a charred corpse."
The council members exchanged glances, a mix of surprise and concern on their faces. Pycelle cleared his throat, "Your Grace, the Old Gods and their magic are unfamiliar to us. We must consider the implications of this druid's influence on the people's faith."
"Faith or no faith, if he can turn the tide of battle with his tricks, I'm not one to complain. As long as he stays in the North, he is no concern to me," Robert quipped, taking a long swig from his flagon.
As the discussions continued, it was evident that the council was divided, each member wrestling with their own convictions and political ambitions. The fate of Westeros hung in the balance as the small council navigated the treacherous waters of power, faith, and the enigmatic figure of Druid Emrys. Some of them wanted to ally with him, and others wanted nothing more than to destroy him.