It wasn't just Stannis; both the King's Men and the Queen's Men harbored hostility toward the Tyrells.
When Petyr Baelish, "Littlefinger," entered the dragon-shaped Stone Drum, he felt as if he were walking straight into a dragon's gullet, ready to be incinerated by a blast of dragonfire at any moment.
He kept his gaze fixed ahead, but his peripheral vision scanned the gathered knights and lords. He realized he didn't recognize most of them; in fact, he had no impression of them at all.
As a Master of Coin appointed by Jon Arryn, Petyr was used to rubbing shoulders with the high lords of the realm. To him, the men surrounding Stannis looked like small fry.
If it weren't for Jon Snow, all of you would be prisoners right now! Petyr thought bitterly, cursing the unfairness of fate.
All his schemes and plots had come to nothing.
"Ah, the King's 'Littlefinger' has arrived," someone sneered, calling out his nickname.
Petyr's nickname came from two things: his slight stature as a youth, and his family's meager holdings on the smallest of the Fingers in the Vale—remote and barren.
Hence, Littlefinger.
But at this insult, Petyr only offered a faint smile. He showed no anger. He approached Stannis and knelt respectfully on one knee.
"Your Grace, King Stannis. I am Petyr Baelish. I come to offer you my loyalty and to negotiate peace on behalf of House Tyrell."
The moment the words left his mouth, someone shouted, "The Tyrells are traitors!"
"Aye!"
"We'll march on them sooner or later!"
Listening to the clamor, Petyr felt nothing but contempt. Idiots. If not for the threat of the Dornish to the south, do you think the Tyrells would care what you broken remnants think?
Naturally, Petyr kept these thoughts to himself. He remained kneeling, waiting respectfully for Stannis's decision.
He trusted Stannis wasn't stupid enough to ignore reality.
Finally, Stannis spoke. "Lord Petyr, I am aware that Cersei ordered you to court the Tyrells. The responsibility for that does not lie with you."
"Your Grace is wise beyond measure." Petyr breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed he was in the clear.
But a second later, Stannis's tone shifted to an interrogation. "Even if you were coerced by Cersei initially, tell me: once you left King's Landing, was anyone holding a sword to your throat? Why did you continue to serve the false king then?
"Furthermore, Cersei has told me that Lord Eddard was killed in a coup—a coup in which your scheming played no small part!"
Stannis's voice rumbled with the fury of an approaching storm. If not for the Tyrells, he could have taken King's Landing himself.
He could already see the history books recording that he owed his crown to a bastard's intervention. While he wouldn't punish Jon for it, the fact remained a stain on his pride.
Petyr's face went pale instantly. Fortunately, he had come prepared. He quickly explained, "Your Grace, Cersei sent Lannister guards with me. I couldn't get away! And as you know, the Tyrells were desperate to make Margaery a queen. Even without a humble man like me, they would have found a way to bed the Lannisters.
"And regarding Lord Eddard... I have already spoken to Jon Snow. I have his forgiveness. I am merely a Master of Coin, good only for counting coppers. Getting Lord Eddard sent to the Wall was the best I could do. It was Joffrey alone who insisted on executing him!"
As he spoke, Petyr produced the letter of "forgiveness" Jon had written for him.
Before Stannis could even signal a squire, Davos hurried forward to take the letter and present it to the King.
"Your Grace, Jon is young, you must..." Davos whispered, hoping Stannis wouldn't misunderstand Jon's intentions.
Stannis didn't speak. He opened the letter, scanned it briefly, handed it back to Davos, and then addressed Petyr with a stern face. "Petyr Baelish."
"Your Grace." Hearing his full name, Petyr bowed even lower.
"Whether your past actions were right or wrong, born of selfishness or honor, is hard to prove now. However, representing the Tyrells in peace talks is a service. I will allow you to keep your lands and titles."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Although he knew Stannis wasn't finished, Petyr thanked him quickly, desperately hoping Stannis would stop there.
Seeing Petyr's eagerness, Stannis's deep blue eyes flashed with disgust. He continued, "But the mutiny at Bitterbridge caused great losses to me and my army. Your actions constitute treason!" Stannis paused, then barked, "Guards!"
Petyr's body jerked. His throat tightened, his jaw trembled, and a shock ran through his entire frame.
"I, Stannis Baratheon, First of My Name, sentence you to lose one hand as punishment!"
"Your Grace!" Petyr shot his head up, staring at Stannis. His voice shook, bordering on a sob. "Your Grace! I will pay a fine! Your Grace!"
Petyr begged, but two fully armored guards were already upon him. They grabbed the slight man by the arms. Someone dragged a wooden block out from the shadows.
"Your Grace! I will pay a fine! I will give up my lands! Your Grace, plea—" His plea was cut short as a dirty rag was stuffed into his mouth.
"Lord Petyr, my apologies. For the sake of the lords' ears," said Penny—the same knight Jon had slapped in King's Landing.
Petyr struggled, but it felt like a mountain was pressing down on him. He never imagined the price would be this heavy.
Because his view was blocked, he couldn't even see his left hand, which was about to be severed.
Thwack!
When the axe fell, he didn't feel pain at first. It just felt like someone had tugged hard on his sleeve.
But then, blood spurted. A wave of agony, strong enough to numb half his body, washed over him. In the blink of an eye, the color drained from Petyr's face, leaving it pale and contorted.
The faint scent of blood filled the hall.
Seeing this, Davos unconsciously rubbed his shortened fingers.
To him, this was Stannis. Punish the crime, reward the merit.
Years ago, Stannis had taken the tips of Davos's fingers for smuggling, then knighted him for saving the garrison.
Davos believed it was worth it. Stannis's punishment hadn't made him bitter; it had made him more loyal.
In the hall of the Stone Drum, Petyr bit down on the rag, a muffled scream exploding in his chest. Fortunately, a Maester appeared quickly, forcing milk of the poppy down his throat and bandaging the stump.
After about fifteen minutes of chaos, Petyr sat looking forlornly at his severed left hand. He imagined he could still feel the warmth in the fingers lying on the floor.
But he didn't try to pick it up. Instead, his hunger for power and ambition climbed to a new, terrifying height. Images of faces flashed before his eyes: Aerys Targaryen, Jon Arryn, Brandon Stark, Ned Stark, Robert, Rhaegar...
At that moment, Petyr desperately yearned to be one of them.
He wanted power. Enough power to reshape the world.
He wanted a kingdom that belonged absolutely to him.
Having taken Petyr's hand, Stannis seemed to feel a bit better. He steered the conversation back to Jon's marriage.
As for the captured nobles Petyr had brought, Stannis ignored them for now.
Regarding the peace terms, the Tyrells had already sent ravens to Dragonstone, and Stannis had accepted them. Petyr was just a formality.
The crowd began arguing about Jon's marriage again. Petyr watched them with cold detachment. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He knew this wasn't the time for self-pity—he had to prove his value immediately.
"Your Grace," Petyr said weakly, clutching his bandaged wrist.
The King's Men and Queen's Men looked at the newly maimed turncloak in surprise. Stannis wouldn't listen to their suggestions; would he really listen to a man whose hand he just chopped off?
But seeing Petyr's pale face and bloody stump, they put away their contempt and watched as he walked to the center of the room to face Stannis.
"Your Grace, please allow me to offer a humble suggestion regarding this matter."
"Speak, Lord Petyr," Stannis said, looking into Petyr's gray-green eyes.
"I believe Jon Snow should marry Margaery Tyrell."
Silence fell over the hall. For a moment, only the sound of armor shifting and breathing could be heard. Then, laughter erupted.
"Lord Littlefinger, they say you're a clever man. Do you think with your hand?"
"How could the Tyrells possibly agree to marry their precious daughter to a bastard?"
"That's as good as declaring war on them!"
The courtiers thought the pain had made Petyr delirious.
They knew Stannis's current strength. Forcing a marriage between Jon and Margaery was a slap in the face to Highgarden.
During the Targaryen reign, the Baratheons had once challenged the Dragon Kings over a marriage dispute. In the end, the Targaryen king had been forced to marry his youngest daughter, Rhaelle Targaryen, to House Baratheon.
In fact, Robert's claim to the throne over Arryn or Stark came from the fact that Rhaelle Targaryen was his grandmother!
Ignoring the mockery, Petyr remained unmoved and stated his case. "Your Grace, the Tyrells' condition for peace is to keep all their lands and titles. But their treason is undeniable and demands punishment." Petyr looked at Stannis, implying: You can bully a soft target like me to show your authority, but do you have the guts to handle the Tyrells?
"I believe forcing them to marry Margaery to Jon serves two purposes: it shows your immense favor and reward to Jon, and it punishes House Tyrell for their arrogance."
Hearing this, the room quieted down. It made sense. But the power imbalance was still an issue.
"As for Jon being a bastard, I assume you intend to legitimize him. Why not name him the Duke of Casterly Rock? That solves the status issue."
Petyr's words shocked the room again.
Casterly Rock was still firmly in Lannister hands. Who rewards a hero with land they don't even control?
"If you grant Casterly Rock to Jon, it solves his status problem. Furthermore, once Jon is wed to Margaery, House Tyrell will be obligated to help him conquer the Westerlands. You can use this opportunity to drain the Tyrells' strength. Is that not achieving multiple goals with a single stone?"
Once again, silence descended upon the hall.
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