"This is Petyr Baelish, our Master of Coin; everyone calls him Littlefinger." Robert pointed at a small man with a smile on his face. "Don't be fooled by his harmless appearance; this fellow can squeeze gold from a stone."
Petyr bowed elegantly. "Lord Stark, I have heard much of your great name. It is our honor to have the Warden of the North grace King's Landing with his presence."
Eddard nodded. He did not like this man; his eyes were too sharp, as if they could see through everything.
"Varys, the Master of Whispers." Robert pointed to another man, one wearing soft grey robes with a smooth, hairless face. "He knows more than The Seven Gods."
Varys bowed slightly, his voice as soft as a woman's. "It is my honor to serve Lord Stark. If you ever need to know anything about King's Landing, you may find me at any time."
Next was Grand Maester Pycelle, a white-haired old man who coughed incessantly. He was very old, but the position of Grand Maester was for life; only after the previous one died could a new one be requested from The Citadel. Moreover, this Pycelle was feigning; he just wanted to be lazy and was loath to serve Robert unless the hand of the king was Tywin.
Cersei sat to Robert's left, wearing an off-the-shoulder golden gown with magnificent gem-encrusted jewelry around her neck and wrists. She was conversing in low tones with Jaime beside her, completely ignoring Eddard and Robert.
Only when Robert introduced her to Eddard did Cersei raise her eyes, looking at him with a faint, inscrutable smile.
"Welcome to King's Landing, Lord Stark." Her voice was sweet, but her gaze was cold. "I hope life in the south will not make you feel uncomfortable."
Eddard nodded in greeting. "Thank you for your concern, My Queen. I shall strive to adapt."
"Adapt?" Cersei chuckled softly. "King's Landing is not Winterfell. It may take you some time to understand the bustle and complexity here."
Jaime, standing aside, chimed in, "Northmen have always been known for their bluntness; I presume Lord Stark is the same. But in King's Landing, bluntness is sometimes mistaken for rudeness. You might need to be careful."
There was a clear sting in those words. Eddard replied without changing his expression, "Honesty is always better than hypocrisy, Ser Jaime."
Hearing Eddard's words, Robert laughed loudly and slapped his shoulder. "Well said! That's what I like about you, Ned. Come, have another drink."
The feast continued late into the night until Robert was dead drunk. Eddard found an excuse to leave early and returned to the study in the Tower of the Hand. This place once belonged to Jon Arryn; now it was his.
However, an uninvited guest arrived at that moment.
Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish, stood in the study of the Tower of the Hand, still wearing the grey coat embroidered with a silver Mockingbird from the feast.
Seeing Eddard, his face wore that habitual, inscrutable smile.
"Lord Stark, I hope I am not disturbing your rest."
"What is it?" Eddard asked, his tone far from friendly. He had disliked this man from the very first glance.
"I've only come to deliver a document and say hello," Petyr said. "After all, we are on the same side; Catelyn and I were childhood friends. Besides, I thought you might need some guidance. King's Landing is very different from Winterfell."
"I've noticed."
"You don't know—for instance, this tower." Petyr looked around the room. "Your predecessor, Lord Arryn, passed away right here. They say it was a heart attack, but how could a man who was always healthy suddenly fall ill?"
Eddard narrowed his eyes. "What are you trying to say?"
"Nothing." Petyr spread his hands. "I'm just giving you a warning. Lord Arryn was investigating certain matters before he died. Now you have taken his place. Be careful, Lord Stark. The walls in King's Landing have ears, and the floors have eyes."
Having said his piece, he set down the document, bowed, and turned to leave.
Eddard stopped thinking about those matters and instead picked up the document on the desk to leaf through it.
Inside were mostly trivial administrative matters: a certain lord requesting tax cuts, a road needing repair, a minor noble seeking a royal ruling on a dispute. But one document caught his attention—a detailed record of royal expenditures.
As Eddard read, his brow furrowed involuntarily. In just the past six months, the crown had spent nearly three hundred thousand Gold Dragons from the treasury. The largest single expense was "Court Entertainment," totaling sixty thousand Gold Dragons.
He continued reading and found that Robert also planned to hold a Tourney, with a grand prize of forty thousand Gold Dragons.
"Forty thousand Gold Dragons," Eddard whispered in shock. This sum was enough to repair the fortifications of the entire North.
Early the next morning, Eddard went straight to Robert and raised the issue.
"Robert, the treasury is empty. We should not be wasting money on such unnecessary things. There is still the Targaryen threat from the east; we should use our resources to strengthen coastal defenses and prepare the army."
Robert's face darkened.
"Dragons again."
Robert suddenly exploded in rage, slamming his fist onto the desk. "Don't spend all day scaring me with those damned lizards! This Tourney must be held, if only to let those across the sea know that Westeros remains strong. I want that little brat Viserys to know that Westeros is not for him to covet."
He panted heavily. "I have the final say in this, Ned. Go and make the preparations."
With that, he left immediately to go drinking, leaving the mess for Eddard.
Seeing no way to stop it, Eddard had no choice but to find a way. He felt a wave of helplessness; Robert was immersed in pleasure-seeking, choosing to turn a blind eye to the true crisis.
To truly understand the kingdom's actual financial situation, Eddard was forced to take the initiative to contact Petyr.
Littlefinger received him in the "Counting House" of a brothel on Silk Street. The atmosphere was suggestive, but Petyr himself seemed completely unbothered.
"Ah, Lord Hand, welcome, welcome," Petyr said with a smile. "His Majesty's spirits are always so high. Forty thousand Gold Dragons is indeed no small sum, but well, it can always be'squeezed' from elsewhere—perhaps by delaying certain payments or encouraging wealthy merchants to give generously for the King's glory."
He winked and continued, "Of course, I will handle these details. You only need to sign the documents."
Eddard felt uncomfortable with this rhetoric, but he still needed to go through him to learn the cause of Arryn's death.
He broached the subject: "Lord Petyr, yesterday you mentioned my foster father. Did you notice anything unusual before he passed away?"
Petyr swirled his wine glass, feigning contemplation. "Lord Arryn... toward the end, he did indeed often stay alone in his study, consulting a great many books. Once I went in to report and saw a heavy genealogical work spread out on his desk, with circles and marks everywhere. He seemed very interested in the hereditary traits of certain families."
He lowered his voice. "For instance, the color of hair and eyes. Very academic, isn't it? But Lord Jon seemed very invested."
"Was there anything else?" Eddard pressed.
Petyr shook his head. "Nothing else in particular. Oh, wait, he seemed to have asked Grand Maester Pycelle about these things as well. Unfortunately, Grand Maester Pycelle later said he couldn't remember what the Lord Hand had said at the time."
He skillfully distanced himself while leaving behind new clues.
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