Wright: "Robert, you've been to the Stepstones before. Forget development—just building basic infrastructure will take at least two to three years. So what, there'll be no Hand of the King for that long?"
Varys, the Spider, responded, "Then we can appoint an acting Hand in the meantime. Once you return in three years, you can officially take up the position."
Wright turned and pointed to the map on the council chamber wall. "Look at the Stepstones. Once development starts, do you think I'll be able to leave?"
The others followed his gaze. The Stepstones were the key trade route between two continents. Though two new allies had been secured to the east, they were fickle—siding with the Seven Kingdoms only after their victory. Should Westeros falter, they would surely turn against it, just as they had done for centuries. On top of that, pirate lords, mercenaries, and the Free Cities were all watching like hungry wolves.
Varys said, "But doesn't Lord Wright have a dragon? You could travel between the two places quickly."
Wright shook his head. "The Hand of the King isn't like other positions. Every day, there are major matters to handle—it's not a role you can simply leave unattended."
Robert, more knowledgeable in military affairs, studied the map for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, he really can't leave."
Mace Tyrell and the others looked visibly disappointed.
Robert idly rubbed the hand-shaped emblem on the Hand of the King's badge—then casually tossed it at Wright.
Wright had no choice but to catch it. "Brother, in all of Westerosi history, has anyone ever been forced to take this job like this?"
"Ha!"
Robert burst into laughter and flipped Wright's words back at him: "And in all of Westerosi history, has anyone ever refused the job as stubbornly as you?"
Wright turned the badge over in his hands but didn't put it on. He was genuinely conflicted. Once he accepted the role of Hand, he'd be shackled to King's Landing for life. But his heart longed for the skies.
Wright understood the nature of power in the Seven Kingdoms well. There was an old saying: What the king dreams, the Hand builds. The Hand wielded power second only to the monarch.
A more cynical saying, however, went: The king feasts, and the Hand shits. With such authority came overwhelming responsibilities, pressures, and temptations. Many brilliant men had been ruined by this position.
Robert could barely contain his amusement at Wright's clear reluctance, but he sat up straight and announced, "Until an official Hand of the King is appointed, I, as King, hereby name Wright Baratheon as Acting Hand!"
Wright: "And how long will it take to choose a permanent one? Don't tell me I'll be 'acting' for decades!"
Robert hesitated—he had only ever had one Hand, Jon Arryn, who had been appointed directly by his foster father. He wasn't sure what the process was if a nominee refused. He turned to the Grand Maester, and after a brief whispered conversation, he laid it out plainly:
"Either I appoint one directly, or the Small Council nominates candidates and votes. If a candidate gets unanimous support—like you just did—then they're appointed. If not, we keep nominating and voting until someone is chosen. The kingdom must have a Hand. The latest we can delay this is until after the upcoming tourney."
Wright sighed. "Fine. I'll be Acting Hand for ten days."
Reluctantly, he pinned the badge to his chest.
"Congratulations, Lord Wright."
As the one who had nominated him, Varys was the first to offer his congratulations.
Wright groaned, "I thought I'd have time to enjoy myself in King's Landing. Now I've got to deal with this nightmare instead."
Laughter erupted in the council chamber.
Robert was in an excellent mood. Now that Wright had put on the badge, he could easily find an excuse to delay choosing a permanent Hand—dragging it out for years, if not decades.
The others were pleased as well. Wright's position meant benefits for everyone present.
Varys, however, did not laugh like the others. He simply curled his lips into a quiet, knowing smile.
Varys knew all too well—Robert wouldn't be able to keep Wright in King's Landing. But he had still fulfilled his end of the bargain with Littlefinger: he had successfully nominated Wright as Hand of the King. That Wright had refused was expected, and in doing so, he had avoided offending both Varys and Littlefinger. That alone was enough to make the Spider smile.
Wright was the Archmage. If he were to accept the role of Hand, he would have to relinquish his current position; otherwise, he would hold two votes on the Small Council—and three if the King was absent. That was simply too much concentrated power. The only one who could take his place as Archmage was Renly, which would then leave the position of Master of Laws vacant.
From Varys' intelligence, it had been Wright who had originally maneuvered Littlefinger into managing the city's sewers. And if Littlefinger manage to climb his way up to Master of Coin, he would never get his hands on the hand seat—not unless Wright became Hand, thus leaving the position open.
Before long, the Red Keep announced official news:
Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale, Warden of the East, and Guardian of the Eyrie, had passed away the previous night at the age of seventy-four. His funeral would be held in two days.
Robert took charge of the funeral arrangements, and with that, the tourney was delayed by two days as well.
A white-haired old man, whose foster children had all married and settled, dying peacefully after a wedding—it was hardly seen as a tragedy. King's Landing was not shrouded in mourning; rather, most simply prepared to pay their respects to the diligent former Hand at his funeral.
---
After dinner, Wright's uncle, Eldon Estermont, arrived at the gates of the Royal Magic School. Wright stepped out to receive him.
"Uncle Eldon, what's so urgent that you came all the way here at night, at your age?"
Eldon's face was heavy with worry, but upon seeing Malora Hightower and Sansa Stark present, he hesitated. "Come, let's speak in the study."
The two young women glanced their way but paid no mind, continuing to assist Tyene with alchemical potions.
Once inside the study, Wright retrieved two glasses from the wine rack and poured plain water.
His uncle drank first, then asked, "Can you use that magic of yours—the one that silences everything?"
Wright cast the spell. "I can. Now, Uncle, what is it you need?"
They spoke for some time. When Wright finally escorted him out, Eldon's worried expression had turned into a smile—while Wright's had darkened considerably.
Not long after, Renly arrived at the School alone, walking straight into the hall to find Wright.
Seeing Malora and Sansa again, Renly say to Wright with a smile: "Come, let's talk in the study."
Did they plan this? Wright looked constipated but followed anyway.
The two cups from his previous conversation were still on the desk. Wright fetched two more and poured them each a glass of water.
Renly drank his quickly, but his cheerful face immediately fell into a look of distress.
Wright slumped into his chair, equally troubled. "Your situation is very complicated."
Renly stepped forward, gripping Wright's shoulders tightly. "It's not complicated! Not complicated at all!"
---
Late at night, both nobles and commoners alike had already extinguished their lights. Perhaps the heavens mourned Jon Arryn's passing, as thick clouds loomed over King's Landing, casting the city in an even deeper darkness.
In the noble district near the Red Keep, the vines creeping up the walls of a luxurious three-story mansion seemed to be weighed down by something unseen. The higher up, the thinner the vines became, their burden more pronounced. The rustling of leaves filled the silent night.
A large, plump black cat perched on the courtyard wall, its sharp eyes fixed on the disturbance.
"Cooh-cooh—"
The fat black cat tilted its head, slowly tracking the movement as it ascended toward the third-floor window. Then, a strange, bird-like call echoed through the night.
The large black cat, startled, arched its back, its tail and fur standing on end as it bared its tiny white fangs, hissing at the vines.
"Cooh-cooh~" A clear, melodious voice echoed from within the room.
The window on the third floor creaked open, and a woman from Dorne leaned out, sweeping her hands through the air as if to catch something. She gripped whatever she found and pulled it forcefully into the room.
Thud~~~
The sound of a body hitting the floor followed.
Inside the room, three women in sheer nightgowns stood: Nymeria, Tyene, and another, a young rose, Margaery Tyrell.
Tyene: "Hurry! Hurry!"
Margaery, the young rose, hid an empty Might bottle beneath her pillow before walking over with a cup of wine.
---
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