Chapter 221

The Vale. The Gates of the Moon. 301 AC.

Axel Arryn.

Boredom is the chief enemy of active men forced to languish in idleness. For me, though, everything was more complicated. All the immediate stages of the Vale's modernization that required my direct involvement had already been completed, leaving only day to day matters that took little time. The result: I had plenty of free time and no idea what to spend it on. I could have wedged myself into some project and taken on the extra burden, but that would have been counterproductive. I had chosen my people carefully; they would not make any serious mistakes, and an abrupt change of "management" would only slow the work down, and even if I did the job better than whoever was doing it, it would not be by much. So there was no sense in disrupting a well oiled machine for the sake of some passing need.

I had considered riding out on another raid against the mountain clans. Killing had always given me pleasure, and it was the best cure for boredom, but two things stood in the way of the plan. Most of the clansmen on the southern side of the Mountains of the Moon had already been killed or enslaved; there simply weren't any left. And once the frosts set in, the rats had scurried back into their caves to wait out the winter. Hunting them down now would cost more than it was worth. So killing was out.

Even Elena, whose antics never failed to amuse me, was unavailable. Had I known I would run into this particular problem, I probably would have decided differently. As things stood, there was no killing, no interesting project, no intrigue, nothing at all. Just boredom. I could have followed Robert's example, but our mentalities were rather different. Whores and wine were not an end in themselves for me, only a diversion. They existed simply to lift my mood, the same as riding out on horseback. That is, however much I might have wanted to, I could not spend whole days on horseback any more than I could spend them drinking and whoring.

Unexpectedly, the idea came from a direction I hadn't looked in. Myrcella suggested that I start training young Brandon and Robin, which was a nickname given to Robert by Sansa Stark. She offered a whole list of arguments in favor, but they all amounted to the same thing: she wanted me occupied with something useful instead of moping about. It turned out to be entertaining.

"Robin, you're stumbling about like a drunken sailor! Move properly, coordinate your movements, control your limbs." It was hardly fitting for a man of my station to needle his own brother, but it brought me an unexpected amount of pleasure.

"Argh!" Caught up in the thrill of the fight, my brother wasn't listening, and he paid for it. A short jab at the right moment, and his already unsteady stance collapsed. "Again!"

"Beating on you alone isn't quite as interesting anymore." Everything in moderation, and we had already been sparring for half an hour. "Brandon, in a few minutes the two of you try it together!"

"Don't come complaining to me later!" The insolent little wolf pup bared his teeth.

Brandon Stark was a quiet horror, not a ward and hostage. And it would have been one thing if it were ordinary mischief, skipping lessons, or stealing sweets from the kitchen. I could understand and accept that easily enough; I had been much the same myself. But this Stark had outdone every child I had ever known. The wolf pup's favorite pastime was climbing. And what does a restless child do when he finds himself on ground perfectly suited to his hobby? He goes looking for trouble. Elena used to keep him in check, but now there was no one. Sansa was too soft, Myrcella too kind, the rest of the servants wanted nothing to do with a Stark, and those who might have managed him, commanders, lords, officials, had their own affairs to attend to and no time for children.

"Bold words, coming from someone who loses shamefully every single time." The remark made indignation flare up on both children's faces.

Since Brandon and Robin were close friends, the former copied the latter's behavior toward me. That is, he "rebelled," disliked me, and dreamed of beating me in a fight. I had learned to work with negative emotions back in my past life, and their hostility had been channeled in the right direction: the two of them tore their guts out on the training ground, straining with everything they had to "wipe the smirk off my face" and prove my "wicked nature." Their efforts were rather endearing.

"Ready?" I asked the boys.

"Always," Robin answered for both of them.