It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
[x] SURPRISE! Please enjoy our new skin, and let the staff know if you find any bugs! (Shelbs accidentally overwrote the old skin and posted this too soon so it's entirely possible the dumbass she forgot some things!)
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 make no mistake, i don't do anything for free, raybae
 Posted: Apr 27 2017, 02:32 AM
Nica is Offline
35 years old
King's Landing

He was being summoned. Lord Petyr Baelish fought with the smirk that threatened to overtake his sharp features, carefully schooling his face into impassivity. What an irony. Years of planning, of waiting patiently, like a coiled serpent, and here he was, poised to just be handed what he'd been clawing at for the past decade. He'd made deals with devils far more unsavory than he, had lied, stolen, cheated, and killed. The Gods were fickle, holding that coveted seat just beyond Petyr's clawed hands for their own twisted amusement, only to tie a bow about it and present it to him when they grew tired of the game. Petyr almost had to laugh. All his scheming, all the meetings in dark, smokey rooms with unsavory people, the exchanges of coins, favors, whispers, it had amounted to nothing. Wasted effort. Still, Petyr was no fool. He didn't look this gift horse in the mouth, at least not where he could be seen doing so.

No. The ledgers, he'd pore over later. He'd already familiarized himself with the majority of their contents, Lord Grafton had entrusted more and more to the slight man over the years as Littlefinger had proven himself invaluable time and time again. Powerful men needed men like Littlefinger. Rich men needed men like Littlefinger. He had a gift for breeding dragons, not unlike the Targaryens themselves. He could simply rub two of them together, and spawn a third. Or so it appeared. Really, it was an elaborate game of sleight-of-hand, of moving coin from one investment to the next, borrowing from one House, from the Iron Bank, purchasing goods, holding onto those goods until he'd amassed nigh-monopolies, selling when the prices were high. Petyr was both clever, and unburdened with excess scruples, and was not above playing games with the lives of smallfolk for his own personal gain. Currently, he'd been stockpiling grain. Soon...very soon, that grain would be worth its weight in gold. More than. At which point, Petyr would begin to sell.

And not a moment before. The Starks were always right, come enough time. Winter was coming, and it came for them all, its grasp sharp and cold, turning their breath to puffs of smoke. They were all of them dragons in the winter. Clack, clack, clack. The heels of Petyr's boots echoed against the stone halls of the Red Keep smartly, announcing the slight man's presence far before the Kingsguard or any heralds could. It wasn't every day that Petyr had an audience with the king; however, assuming all went well with his meeting today, the frequency of said meetings would increase. His garments were both plain and rich; the fabrics richly dyed, finely woven, yet unadorned. At his collar, the silver mockingbird pin glinted in the light streaming through the tall windows of the hall leading to the solar in which he was to meet His Majesty. Petyr suppressed the curl of his lip at that thought. He was a loyal servant. Soon enough, he reached the doors, nodding coolly at the knights standing outside, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Barristan Selmy. "I am here to see His Majesty," Petyr said, probably unnecessarily, as they were undoubtedly aware of the King's schedule. With a nod, they stepped aside, and pushed the door open before him, announcing his name.

Petyr stepped through the threshold, and bowed upon sighting the king. "Good morning, your Majesty," Petyr greeted, a smile playing upon his lips. The way the light played upon his face made it seem as if the smile even reached his eyes. "I am aggrieved at the news of Lord Grafton's, ah...demise. He was a good man; we worked hand-in-hand for years. I like to think I knew him better than most." Ah, politics: insincere platitudes peddled by insincere men. Petyr was lying through his teeth. Grafton was boring; a man who preferred the company of numbers and figures to other men. He was sharp, sure, but not quite clever enough to sight the inconsistencies in Petyr's own numbers and figures. Just the sort of person Petyr like to surround himself with. Men just smart enough to hold their own; but not quite bright enough to justify their suspicions of him.

"I cannot imagine that you called me here to discuss old friends, however."
 Posted: May 3 2018, 07:04 PM
Shelbs is Offline
43 years old
house targaryen

ooc: timed at the conclusion of the battle in the Stormlands, and just before announcement of Aegon’s capture in Volantis

Was history truly so keen to repeat itself? Try as he might, for all that he’d learned and all that he’d been forced to do, Rhaegar thought he might be able to divert the many repetitions of Westeros’ past. Perhaps, even his own past. His ancestors had given him much to learn from, but in truth, so had his own reign, his own kingship and own rule. With reluctant ease he could recall the early months, years, even, when only a small few of them sat the Small Council, when much of the weight and royal burdens rested on the scant number chosen to endure alongside him. Jon and Arthur, of course. Daeron and Oberyn. His Kingsguard even smaller, Rhaegar tried not to dwell on those half-guarded days, sharing those sleepless nights with Arthur and toiling endlessly to repair their new realm together. Ending his letter to Gulltown, he pressed his seal to the globule of melted wax, blowing softly on it to help the imprinted scarlet cool and harden. Passing the folded parchment to his squire, the King heaved a long sigh. He’d lost his trusted Master of Coin, still when he’d yet to reappoint a Master of Laws, and Rhaegar feared those early days of his reign were returning to him. Worse, he feared he may have to face the coming times with but a few men to help steer the Seven Kingdoms. He could not leave Aegon an empty council as much as he could not leave him an empty realm.

Lyanna, he gritted his teeth, resting his forearms upon his desk and staring blankly at the small pile of papers before him. Where are you? It was not a question he’d failed to ask before, when pleading with his restless dreams at night or the many periods of frustration, loneliness, anger and sadness he found plaguing him throughout his days. He needed her, as much for comfort and consolation as he did answers to his questions, and now with Aegon flown to Volantis, Rhaegar found his mind scattered in every possible direction. Perhaps the announcement of Petyr Baelish’s arrival was some small modicum of comfort, however, for he felt his mind clearing of the excess to attune to the new matter at hand. While he continued to ponder the curiosities of late Lord Grafton’s somewhat uncharacteristic involvement in the Stormlands, he could not decry a man for a taste in honor and glory, and was simply prepared to accept Gerold’s deputy as his successor. Lord Baelish was no man of noble repute, perhaps, but birthright was not what Rhaegar needed in times such as these. He had served the late Master of Coin well, impressively so, and now it was time for him to serve the Iron Throne in the same exact capacity.

The room cleared of his attending squires, leaving them only to a few choice servants, the King stood from his desk of ironwood and moved to cross the floors and into his audience chamber. The room warmed by the hearth already lit on the far wall, a few quiet crackles of burning wood echoed the man’s entrance, drawing Rhaegar’s eyes to meet the gaze of his appointed guest. “Morning, it may be,” he replied lightly enough, watching Baelish with mild interest as he rose from his bow. “However I have yet to decide if it is a good one.” Though a faint sense of remorse could be noticed in his expression at the mention of Lord Grafton, his shoulders remained broad, if not almost squared, and he could only nod in empathetic response. “The battle took many. I never thought him a man for glory, but... “ pausing, he pushed aside his doubts. “Lord Grafton will be missed. He often noted as much of your partnership, as well. For all of his deputies, I believe I heard your name mentioned the most frequent.” He took a moment to appraise the late lord’s successor, catching the silvery glint of the mockingbird pinned beneath his neck. Something did not seem quite right about Petyr Baelish’s smile, nor the words he spoke or the tone he used to speak them, but they were things too small, too fleeting and too trivial for the King to dwell on now. “I cannot imagine you would stand so surprised to hear you will now fill his seat.”

Turning, ignoring his soured stomach and pouring himself a chalice of wine from the well-tested carafe nearby, Rhaegar continued. “Make no mistake, it is hardly a position one may covet,” his back still turned to Baelish, he lifted the crystal to his lips and tilted his head back just enough to allow a large sip. “You will endure many a sleepless nights, many demands will be made of you by many people, and there will be times you might want to overturn the council table itself.” With a small, hidden smirk, he took another sip from the Arbor red and turned back to face his new Master of Coin. “I do not presume you require details of the position. If you truly knew Lord Grafton so well, I imagine you knew his seat even more intimately.” For the briefest of moments, the King’s eyes narrowed upon this Lord of the Five Fingers, but with a repeated taste from his chalice, his expression relaxed and he moved to offer him the second of the cups of wine. “I would have you sit the Small Council, Lord Baelish, as Master of Coin to the Seven Kingdoms. You would be as foolish to accept as you would be to refuse it.”

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