Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 62 (Patreon)

Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, sat alone in his chambers at the Red Keep, deep in thought. He hadn’t been back to the Vale in years, and the distance was beginning to take its toll. News had arrived from his bannermen, and each letter bore the same bleak message: the mountain clans were growing bolder and more dangerous by the day. Raiders were attacking villages along the mountain borders, and his lords were losing patience, their faith in his leadership weakening.

As much as Jon had wanted to keep the peace and stability in the realm by staying in King’s Landing as Hand to the King, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was neglecting his own house. If the situation continued, he risked not just his own legacy but the future of House Arryn.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. It was Maester Pycelle, looking as tired and solemn as ever.

“Lord Arryn,” he said, bowing. “There is news from the Vale. Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood have both sent urgent letters. The situation with the mountain clans grows more dire.”

Jon sighed and nodded, his face unreadable. “Thank you, Maester. Leave the letters on the table. I’ll read them shortly.”

Pycelle lingered, as if sensing Jon’s inner turmoil. “If I may, my lord,” Pycelle began carefully, “perhaps a return to the Vale would reassure your bannermen. King Robert would understand; he trusts you above all others.”

Jon looked down, as if contemplating the weight of his responsibilities. “You may be right,” he replied. “But if I leave now, it could be seen as abandoning my duty to the king. Robert... he needs a steady hand.”

Pycelle tilted his head. “You have served the king faithfully, but you must think of your house, too. The Arryns have been the protectors of the Vale for generations. If the clans continue to press forward, who will protect your lands? Who will ensure the safety of your people?”

The words struck a chord within Jon. He knew the loyalty of his bannermen was being tested. Already, Lord Grafton and Lord Belmore had written to him with veiled criticism, wondering when he would finally take action.

With a heavy heart, Jon made up his mind. He would go to the king and request leave to return to the Vale.

King Robert leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming thoughtfully against his goblet. "Jon, tell me again about these troubles in the Vale," he said, voice gruff but laced with concern. "I thought that region was stable. Those damned hill tribes are stirring things up again, are they?"

Jon Arryn nodded, his expression grave. "Indeed, Your Grace. The hill tribes have become bolder, raiding villages and trade routes. They’re well-organized now, more so than I’ve ever seen before. It's almost as if someone’s been encouraging them, giving them reason and strength to rally."

Robert’s eyes narrowed, his jovial demeanor fading into something harder. "Who in their right mind would stir up those savages? Is there some lord in the Vale I should be wary of? Some fool who thinks he can use the tribes to his advantage?"

Jon shook his head. "No one within the Vale would be so reckless, Your Grace. These attacks do not seem to align with any of the major houses. My concern is that the tribes have somehow acquired weapons of better quality than they’ve ever had before. They’re raiding with unusual precision, almost as if they’ve been… trained."

King Robert took a deep drink from his goblet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Trained? You mean there might be someone outside the Vale… maybe from the East?" He frowned deeply. "Could the damn Braavosi or Lyseni have their hands in this?"

Jon’s expression was unreadable. "It’s possible, Your Grace. Though I believe it may be something even closer to home. Rumors reach my ears of merchants with coin to spare and no care where it’s spent."

Robert swore under his breath. "Blast these meddlesome merchants and their foreign coins. How do you propose we handle it, Jon? I won’t have the Vale become some battleground for outside interests."

Jon managed a small smile before speaking. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice carrying the calm authority that had served him well for so many years, "the realm has many fires that must be put out, some close to home and others further afield. However, I find myself increasingly bound here by duties in the capital that prevent me from addressing the root of the troubles. I must ask your leave to return to the Vale, to handle matters directly.”

Robert shifted on the throne, surprised. "You’re saying you want to leave King’s Landing? And leave me without a Hand?”

Jon inclined his head respectfully. "Yes, Your Grace. The realm needs a Hand who can stay close to its heart, one who can manage affairs here in the capital and be ready to act as situations arise. I’m no longer certain how long these matters will take to resolve, and I do not wish to leave the realm without a steady Hand should my absence be prolonged. I would suggest you name another in my stead."

Robert’s brow furrowed as he considered this. “Another Hand? Damn it, Jon, you know I don’t want some stiff fool with a hunger for power. I need someone I can trust.”

Jon’s expression softened with a touch of nostalgia. “That’s why I’ve come to you, Robert. We have shared many years of loyalty, and I would not leave you without counsel. But I must face the unrest in the Vale directly. The lords of the Vale are restless, and their concerns grow louder with each passing season. The alliance we forged in rebellion means nothing if I am away from them for too long.”

Robert sighed, rubbing his temples. He trusted Jon more than any other man, but he also understood his friend’s duty to his own people. “Who would you recommend, then? You know these lords better than I do.”

Jon paused before responding, choosing his words carefully. "There are several who would serve you well, Your Grace. Lord Stannis, for one, is unyielding and devoted to your cause. Ser Barristan would be loyal beyond measure, though he is better suited for matters of war than politics. And there are others, both here and beyond the capital, whose names could be considered.”

The king scowled, his frustration evident. “Stannis… he’s loyal, yes, but my brother and I don’t always see eye to eye. And Barristan…” he trailed off, deep in thought.

Jon spoke again, calm and unwavering. “Your Grace, I understand the difficulty in choosing. But the realm needs stability, especially now.”

Robert’s face softened slightly as he looked down at his old friend. “Very well, Jon. I don’t like it, but I can see the sense in what you’re saying. Go back to the Vale, take care of your people. I’ll find someone… though I doubt anyone will be half as good as you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Jon replied, bowing. “The realm will always have my loyalty, and I am only ever a raven’s flight away.”

Robert gave a reluctant nod, watching as Jon turned to leave the throne room. The heavy doors closed behind him, leaving the king to ponder the weight of the decision he would soon have to make, knowing that replacing a Hand like Jon Arryn would not be an easy task.

Meanwhile, within the walls of the Red Keep, news of Jon Arryn’s departure to the Vale had already set the wheels of courtly ambition turning. The capital hummed with speculation about who would replace him as Hand of the King. And in the shadowed halls of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister, the Lion of the Rock himself, received the news with a rare smile. Jon Arryn’s exit from the capital was an unexpected boon to his carefully laid plans.

He sat in his great solar, pouring himself a glass of wine as he mused over the possibilities. The thought of becoming Hand of the King again was tantalizing. Tywin's ambitions extended beyond wealth; he sought influence, legacy, and the consolidation of power that only the office of the Hand could provide. And while Robert Baratheon was not the easiest king to manage, Tywin knew the power of his own will — a force strong enough to guide even the most reckless Baratheon through statecraft and governance.He started his journey to the capital.

The tension in the capital was palpable as lords and courtiers speculated over who would soon be named the new Hand of the King. Tywin Lannister, arriving with his usual air of dominance, made no secret of his expectation to assume the role. To him, it was a matter of right; after all, he had served as Hand before, wielding power over the realm with undeniable efficiency. His cold confidence was as visible as the red lion of Lannister on his banners as he entered the city, expecting a swift confirmation from King Robert.

But King Robert Baratheon, for all his faults, still held one unwavering loyalty—to Eddard Stark, his friend and brother-in-arms from the rebellion. In Robert’s mind, the choice was clear. Eddard was the only man he trusted without question, the only one who, he believed, could bring both honor and stability to the realm.

As Robert's council gathered, rumors quickly spread through the halls of the Red Keep that he intended to name the Warden of the North as his Hand. Lords, knights, and servants alike whispered of how this appointment would change everything, not least of all Tywin Lannister’s plans.

When Tywin arrived at court the following morning, he strode into the hall with his usual poise, flanked by members of his household. He found Robert seated on the Iron Throne, looking as stubborn as ever. The king’s expression was firm, and Tywin could sense that something had shifted.

Robert spoke before Tywin could offer his greeting. “Lord Tywin, I appreciate your haste in coming to King’s Landing,” he began, his voice carrying a hint of warmth. “But I need to speak to you plainly.”

Tywin inclined his head, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “Of course, Your Grace,” he replied, keeping his voice neutral.

Robert leaned forward, looking down at the Lord of Casterly Rock. “You’ve served the realm well, Tywin, and your expertise is unmatched. But I have decided to name Eddard Stark as my Hand.”

A murmur spread through the court, and Tywin’s face remained unreadable, though a flicker of surprise flashed in his eyes. "Eddard Stark, Your Grace?" Tywin's tone was carefully measured, but beneath the calm was a surge of irritation. “Lord Stark is… an admirable man, no doubt. Yet, he is a man of the North, with little familiarity with the affairs of the South. I, on the other hand—”

Robert raised a hand, cutting Tywin off. “I don’t need someone familiar with the South. I need someone I trust. Ned and I, we were meant to rule side by side. It’s time he took his place here, by my side, as Hand of the King.”

Tywin’s jaw clenched slightly, but he maintained his composure. “As you wish, Your Grace. I am, of course, at your service in any way you require.”

The tension in the room grew thicker as Robert’s eyes softened, but he did not yield. “I know you’re a proud man, Tywin, but the realm needs unity right now, and I know Ned will bring that.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “You’ve done much for the crown already. I’d hate to lose your advice in times of peace, but the realm needs a different kind of Hand now.”

Tywin gave a stiff nod. “As you say, Your Grace.”

With that, Tywin turned and left the hall, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The court watched him depart, aware that this was no mere dismissal. This was a slight—a message from Robert that, despite Tywin’s influence and power, the king would have his way.

Once outside, Tywin’s mask cracked ever so slightly, a flicker of cold fury glinting in his eyes. He would not forget this insult, nor the choice that Robert had made.