Fandomweekly Challenge 63 - Power of knowledge

[m_findlow]

Title: Power of knowledge
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Author: m_findlow
Rating: M. Pre canon.
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Challenge 63 - Priceless at fandomweekly
Summary: Petyr seeks an unwitting alliance in his lust for power.

Petyr knocked on the door of the Maester's tower. He had waited the appropriate amount of time since the whore had left the Maester's chamber and reported in to allow the man to redress himself. That a man of eighty-two years still acquired the services of such a woman was remarkable. Small wonder the excitement didn't kill him.

A few moments passed before the click of the metal latch sounded. The Maester stood before him, bedecked in his multitude of robes and his heavy Maester's chain draped around his neck. He hunched like a man who was thirty years beyond whoring and Petyr admired the pretense.

'Lord Baelish,' he greeted. 'What brings you here?'

'Business,' he replied succinctly, stepping into the room cluttered with its bed and table, piles of parchment and books scattered across surfaces and shelves. An empty raven's cage perched upon the windowsill. 'I believe you are aware of my business interests?'

'The finest pleasure house in all of King's Landing,' Pycelle replied smoothly.

'Indeed. And I should like to keep it that way. However, recent events have lead me to worry over the safety of my girls. Some men, powerful men, feel it their right to take more than what they have paid for.'

Pycelle burbled a feigned sound of shock. 'Most unsettling, even for such an occupation.'

'Precisely my thoughts. Which is why I have come to you to ask what devices one might use to assist in subduing clients who are not satisfied merely to wander through my garden and to admire the beauty and perfume of such rare flowers.'

'Basilisk venom, widow's blood, wolfsbane, essence of nightshade... All far too dangerous.' The Maester paused thoughtfully. 'Sweetsleep would be best. One drop to ensure compliance, two to bring on a deep sleep. Never more than two, unless of course you wish to explain a nobleman's death.'

'Your wealth of knowledge is beyond value, Grand Maester.'

'I have served many kings And it is the remit of my Order to serve the Seven Kingdoms with all that I have gleaned from the world. Both good and bad.'

Petyr wandered to the window, clasping his hands behind him as he took in the view of King's Landing from this lofty tower.

'However,' Pycelle began, 'it would be most difficult for a person of ordinary means to obtain such substances. Every port in Westeros has a strict embargo. Only a Maester of sufficient position can acquire them.'

Petyr leaned his hip casually against the stone. 'I am certain that the Crown could find within it a small stipend to cover the costs. For research purposes, of course.'

Pycelle nodded feebly but there was an unmistakable glint in his eye that belied the doddery gesture. 'Of course. And you as the Master of Coin would be well positioned to sanction such a thing.'

'Consider it already done. Tis hardly a matter for the Small Council to concern itself with.'

'No.' Pycelle nodded again. 'No, I should think not. Jon Arryn,' he said, shuffling towards a pile of scrolls and fingering their unbroken seals, 'is a very principled man. A fine Hand to the King, who at times it must be said, is very much in need of a steadying presence.'

Petyr smirked at the assessment. Old the Maester might be, but he knew how to play the game. Robert Baratheon was a poor King living in a time of prosperity and peace. He could well afford to be a whoremonger and a drunk, provided a suitable hand remained on the tiller during his many absences. His poor kingsmanship could be tolerated only to a point. A Maester who had served now four Kings knows to whom he can confide, or at least believes he does. He had played almost too easily into Petyr's hands on this occasion.

'I agree.' Lord Arryn was precisely the problem Petyr meant to rid himself of. He had no desire to supplant the Hand of the King. It was Lord Arryn's title as Lord of the Vale he wanted. Such plans were already well progressed. Arryn's wife, the thoroughly hideous and undesirable woman he had know since childhood, and who had pined for him through all the years of her loveless marriage, was already in agreement with his plans.

'One more question, for you Maester, if I may. What would you recommend for the patron who were to say, grievously harm an innocent woman? Assuming one did not want to involve the City Watch, but merely wished him to leave one's establishment under his own steam and never return.'

Pycelle puffed up a little at the question, preening the front of his robes. 'For that, the answer would be quite simple, Lord Baelish. Tears of Lys. A rare potion that is both tasteless and odorless, but which slowly destroys a man from the inside, leaving him with nothing more than a mere sense he has perhaps eaten something that disagrees with him. Almost entirely incurable unless you can purge it quickly, and even then, only by a Maester of high skill.' Pycelle moved slowly back towards his shelves, a withered hand wrapping around a tiny frosted glass vial. 'I happen to have a sample of it here. Enough to kill several men, to be certain. A few drops in a cup of wine would suffice.'

Petyr took the proffered bottle and held it up to the muted light. Just having it in his hand made him feel drunk with power.

'Very rare and very expensive,' Pycelle reminded him, eyeing the bottle.

Petyr dipped his free hand inside his doublet, tugging free a heavy purse of coin. 'I believe this should cover it, plus a down payment on the rest until you can source it.'

Pycelle hands jittered as they worked the purse-strings open, finding inside enough gold to cover the cost three times over. 'I shall send a raven this afternoon to request a shipment of various items. For research purposes, of course.'