Chapter 116 113

The Vale. The Eyrie. 298 AC.

Lord Axel Arryn.

The Old Lion's uncertain condition was shifting the balance of power across the continent. Joffrey's claim to the throne, the loyalty of the Westerlands and the Crownlands, the obedience of a dozen great houses: all of it rested on Tywin, on his authority, his influence, his reputation. Now things were about to become interesting, with the Baratheon brothers scenting blood and moving to finish off the disorganized lions.

My original intention had been to refuse Oberyn and Rhaenys the alliance, judging the costs well beyond any likely return. War is expensive. War against the entire continent is very expensive. War against the entire continent with a horde of savages breathing down your neck from next door is impossibly expensive. I had no doubt of my own eventual victory, but it would have meant wringing the Vale dry, which in the face of an approaching winter was as good as a death sentence.

The main factions were battered but not broken, and could sustain the same pace of fighting for another six months to a year. There was still Viserys and his Dothraki horde to consider. I had no desire to wade into all of that, but Tywin dead or incapacitated broke the equilibrium. The lions would be picked apart, after which the Baratheons would turn on one another, and then there would be profit to be had from all of it.

I had suggested to Oberyn that he remain in the Vale somewhat longer than he had planned and wait for further news. He kicked at me a little for my indecisiveness and even drew a comparison to Doran, but he agreed.

Having a friend present, along with two thoroughly captivating companions, had made the time pass more pleasantly. But the eternal confinement of the castle had worn on me. So that afternoon, Oberyn and I had ridden out and cut down one of the mountain clan raiding parties, and his charming daughters had brightened the evening considerably.

Even after a minor civil war, a wholesale reorganization of the Vale, and an ongoing campaign of extermination against the clansmen, I had far less to occupy me than I had during my tenure as Hand of the King. I had a great deal of free time now, particularly with the newly assembled staff of assistants handling the bulk of it.

Twenty-five days later, I was looking at one of the sources of the chaos in King's Landing, and I was, to put it mildly, surprised. They were the last people I would have suspected.

"It is a genuine pleasure to receive the children of my dear friend under my roof," I said, and meant it. "You may breathe easy. Nothing will harm you here. You have my word."

"We are deeply grateful to you for that, Lord Arryn," Sansa Stark said, with a small incline of her head. Her sister and brother echoed the gesture.

"Not at all, it is simply my duty as..." And so the pleasantries continued, meaning nothing in particular.

In the past month, three pieces of news from the capital had shaken the continent: the poisoning of Tywin Lannister, which he had nevertheless survived; the disappearance of Ned Stark's children; and the flight of Varys the Spider. In both the first and the second, my suspicions had fallen on Varys and whatever unknown master he had defected to, but the new circumstances did not fit my theory.

When the Old Lion's letter arrived, I had arranged three ships under Henry Melcolm's command to sail for King's Landing. Myrcella is a good girl, but that was no reason not to pursue several goals with a single action. The expedition had three straightforward tasks: collect Myrcella, gather intelligence, and deliver gold to Littlefinger.

The first was simple and exactly what it appeared to be. The siege of King's Landing had created serious difficulties in obtaining reliable and timely information. My people still held several positions of consequence in the capital, and they were to pass their intelligence to Melcolm, who would relay it to me. The arrangement with Baelish was slightly more involved, but a workable scheme had been devised quickly enough.

Using the Old Lion as an intermediary, I had bought out the debt obligations of my lords. Tywin, facing an acute shortage of funds in the royal treasury, had in turn effectively forced a loan from Baelish. The result: everyone satisfied, and I had stopped caring about Littlefinger the moment the little rat turned up in connection with the rebellion against me.

All three objectives had been accomplished, but unforeseen circumstances had arisen. Myrcella is a sensitive girl, and she had watched the receding capital for as long as it remained visible. At a certain point she spotted a small boat carrying four people: one smuggler at the oars and three slight figures. In one of them she recognized young Brandon Stark, and being a clever girl, she told Melcolm immediately. Henry, satisfied that Myrcella was certain of what she had seen, intercepted the boat. And so his ship acquired additional passengers.

Stannis's fleet was built from the royal fleet, that joint project of ours. Númenor had been a maritime power with the most advanced navy in all of Arda, and having been one of its courtiers at one time in my old life, I knew the sea trade well. Unfortunately, life as a Nazgûl does not lend itself to a reliable memory, and only fragments of that old knowledge remained to me, but even fragments were a considerable advantage. I had been deeply involved in the fleet's construction and still had connections enough that certain people could be persuaded not to notice a pair of ships.

Melcolm, upon arriving at Gulltown, had sent a message laying out what had occurred, which left me mildly puzzled. Tywin had been targeted by amateurs; otherwise he would not have survived. It had not been the initiative of the Baratheon brothers or their allies, the response had come far too late for that. The Stark children had gotten themselves away from the smuggler on their own, by means I could not determine. Doran and Rhaenys were most likely not involved; if they had been capable of this, they would have acted long ago. And a thought presented itself: if the children had escaped on their own, which I already considered something of a miracle, could they also have been the ones to poison the Old Lion?

Sansa? The transformation was visible on her face, but the girl would not have dared. She had gone from a love-struck little fool to a frightened, beaten-down creature, but the fire in her eyes had not gone out; if anything, it had grown sharper. She would either break free of that shell and become a woman of real will, or she would remain a grey little mouse with no opinions of her own. Brandon? A boy barely ten years old, born in 289 by any reckoning? Not remotely plausible. That left only the bastard.

Elena Snow's gaze surprised me. That kind of cold, calculating look was something I had not seen in a long while. She was watching me, assessing me, running her own calculations behind those eyes. The clear leader of their little group. In confirmation of it, Sansa glanced at her sister's reaction more than once, checking her bearing before settling her own. Now, that one might have dared it. And yet it still did not quite fit: the Lannisters were not fools, and they would have kept a close watch on prisoners of that value. So how had they gotten out?

"It gladdens me to hear you say so, my lady," I said, having satisfied my initial curiosity. "You have had a long journey and are clearly exhausted. Your rooms are already prepared, and Maria will show you to them. I will write to Ned today so that your family has no cause for worry. If you need anything at all, do not hesitate to tell Maria."

"Thank you for your generosity, my lord," Sansa said, and executed a flawless curtsy. Elena, somewhere in her own thoughts, followed suit, and Bran gave a short bow.

"Think nothing of it. You may go."