Chapter 236

The Vale. Gulltown. 301 AC.

Axel Arryn.

There is still something romantic about ships: the great sails, the adventure, the detachment from “shore” troubles, the wind in your face, the feeling of freedom. Ask a Velaryon, a Redwyne, a Greyjoy, or any other seafaring house, and every single one of them will tell you the same thing: in moments like that, a man finds a kind of communion with himself and the sea. In a world where one family has done the same work for thousands of years, at some point that work becomes sacred.

Númenor was no exception, though its reasons were rather different. In my lifetime, Middle-earth was a largely unexplored but immensely wealthy continent. Given the periodic wars, securing a resource colony was, for the King of Númenor, a worthy undertaking. For common folk, every ship was a symbol of freedom, of opportunity, of romance. Sea voyages were full of danger, but that danger only made them more alluring to sailors. As for the risk, well, a man could just as easily die on an enemy’s sword. So ships were held in the highest regard.

At some point, Númenor came to believe in its ships so absolutely that it gathered an enormous fleet and sailed for Aman to demand that the Valar and Eru Ilúvatar grant them immortality. A fair enough wish, but gods are gods. They do not care what mortals want; they mean to do what is “right.” Sauron, without question, played his part in convincing people that the Valar’s reward was unjust, but plenty of people had held that opinion long before the fallen maia ever came ashore. He simply seized the opportunity, nothing more.

“It’s a shame I won’t be there when the package reaches Viserys,” Robar smirked, and I smiled, picturing the scene.

I had met Viserys only once, in Essos, and the meeting left me with a poor impression of him. Needlessly cruel, weak, cowardly, vain. The list could go on forever, but it would all boil down to the same negative qualities. Watching a weak king throw a fit over an encounter with a dead man promised to be entertaining, though the real reason for sending it was more practical: ever since Mormont had been stripped of the Handship, Littlefinger had grown thoroughly unrestrained. I would not have cared, except the traitor was in active negotiations with Braavos. When people who stand to gain from your downfall start holding talks, that is reason enough to take notice.

“This will be the first time a king has shat on the Iron Throne,” my cousin’s pleased laughter, and the retinue’s poorly hidden coughing, showed the joke had landed well. Only Snow stood there looking displeased.

“This is a foolish idea,” the northman said. “You could have called a Great Council and shown the lords where the true war lies, but instead you just sent a wight to King’s Landing. Why?”

“Why not?” Snow did not care for that answer, but he held his tongue.

The bastard had made himself quite comfortable in his own head. He’d thought that if he showed me a dead man and handed me a plan for organizing a Great Council, I would go running off to make it happen. I had no wish to deal with a gaggle of petty kings who each fancied himself the center of the world, and there was no point in it besides. People are fools, and even with an ancient enemy staring them in the face, they will still tear at each other’s throats. Jon genuinely believes that if the powers of the realm were simply confronted with the truth of the Others, everyone would join hands and march off together to beat back the threat. That will not happen. Every side will demand an outrageous price for its help, and that is something the northmen, and I, are not willing to pay. Once they learn as much, they will start pressuring the Starks, manufacturing problems, or simply march north to plunder, knowing full well that every man the North has will be tied up at the Wall. So the current state of affairs, with the South ignoring the North entirely, suited me just fine.

“Relax, Jon, we sail for the North in a couple of days,” that, at least, pleased the Winterfell bastard, “the preparations will soon be finished.”

What does a weak man do when a problem exceeds his abilities? He calls on someone who can solve it. In this case, Viserys will summon Mormont back to the capital. Given that Baelish is in the process of selling off nearly the whole continent to Braavos, the Bear will show him no mercy and will bring Littlefinger to heel. If he strips him of his office, good. If he kills him, I’ll send him a cask of Arbor gold in gratitude. Either outcome suits me fine, and the general weakness of Viserys’s faction, together with the split within the dragon family, rules out any chance of pressure being brought against me or the North.

“I confess I’m still surprised by your initiative, Lord Arryn.” The bastard had been shocked by my wish to visit the Wall, but an extra two thousand men of escort, along with a fair quantity of supplies, had quickly settled his nerves.

“I’m curious to see the ‘edge of the world,’ take a look at the dead men, and get to the bottom of this Horn of Winter.” Elena’s latest letter had done nothing to lift my spirits, but I had taken note of it.

“I didn’t think you trusted my sister quite that much,” the bastard smirked. “I’ll admit, even I have my doubts about a horn that can bring down an enormous wall of ice.”

Then again, melt down one small ring, and the “greatest evil in all the world,” an actual maia no less, becomes a powerless spirit. Magic has its own strange conditions sometimes, the ones an ordinary man could never begin to imagine.

“Better safe than sorry. If the Horn of Winter is real, we need to seize it. If it isn’t, well, I’ll simply take in the beauty of the North. Ned always spoke of Stark hospitality. I’ll see it for myself.”

“Don’t worry, my lord, every story is true.” Everyone likes to be praised, it seems, even stoic bastards.

“Good, then.”