Chapter 81 78

The Vale of Arryn. Grey Glen. 298 AC.

Lord Axel Arryn.

At the head of the table in Grey Glen's great hall sat a well-built, one-eyed young man. Flouting every convention of aristocratic etiquette, he had his feet up on the table and was drinking wine. No one present had any objection to this, save for a tall old man who watched it with visible disapproval. They were under siege, but that had not stopped anyone from sitting down to a perfectly pleasant meal.

Twenty days. That was exactly how long I had been sitting in this besieged castle with my men. The Blackfish had attempted four assaults already and every one had failed. He even tried to repeat my own tactic of relentless, unbroken storming, but disappointment was waiting for him. Grey Glen is a stout castle, one where three hundred peasants could hold out against an army. At present, nearly thirteen hundred handpicked cutthroats occupy this fortress. So long as the defenders do not open the gates themselves, they will not lose.

Understanding the position my enemy was in had always been good for my mood. I had prepared conscientiously for this involuntary confinement: Meereenese sweet in adequate supply, meat laid in, a pretty enough girl found. My men had received their well-earned bonuses as well. Tollett men who offered resistance were killed either during the assault on the castle or afterward. The rest we kept in check through their children's lives. When someone attempted to poison the food and tried to open the gates at random, ten children were executed for it, and the conspirators themselves followed them soon after.

I was not troubled by my reputation among these people. They had already demonstrated their capacity for grudges, waiting decades to take their revenge. Such subjects were not ones I wanted, and so the moment they exhausted their usefulness they would be disposed of. The Tolletts and the Graftons would become history, and the remaining rebels dealt with according to circumstance.

As for the defense, I was not concerned. If anything happened, I would be told. And so I was arguing with Ser Symond while the rest looked on and enjoyed the free entertainment, occasionally throwing in a remark.

"So the moment you became Lord of the Eyrie you wanted to root out the mountain clans entirely?" Symond Templeton summed up. "You are not the first to want that. I could tell you about a dozen attempts at minimum and every one of them ended badly."

"Agreed." History showed that my ancestors had gone about exterminating the wild clans too clumsily, which was why they had failed. "I never deluded myself into thinking it would be a quick solution. The rangers were part of a larger plan. Unfortunately, the duties of the Hand did not allow me to be far from King's Landing for long. From the moment I returned from Essos, I was at the Eyrie only once, when I received the oaths of the Vale lords. Lord Royce managed the rangers' affairs in my absence." My uncle had done tremendous work, but at the worst possible moment the Rotten Fish had raised his rebellion.

"The rangers showed promise, but there are too few of them. Do you plan to return to that initiative once the rebellion is put down?"

"Of course. Summer will end before long and a long winter will follow. The mountain clans know it, which is why the raids will increase. That is when we can catch them, and once stripped of their providers, the rest will perish in the cold." I would be interested to hear the objections.

"Do not underestimate those bastards. They are hardier than cockroaches." My uncle weighed in. "Weather will not defeat them, starvation will not wipe them out. Only good steel can settle the problem."

"Where are your rangers now?" Symond asked. "Three hundred trained warriors would serve us well."

"They were the first ones killed, since they were loyal to me." It stings, watching years of work cut down like that. "No more than fifty remain. They are serving as scouts now."

If you are a seasoned soldier, the hardest thing during a siege is not going mad with boredom. Everyone finds their own way through it, but I had chosen to combine the useful with the pleasant and mend relations with my vassals. I had not regretted it. Ser Symond Templeton turned out to be an interesting man. An experienced administrator, a capable strategist, sharp-minded, and genuinely enjoyable to talk with about reforms and new ideas, which mattered more than most realized since men who thought the same way on reform were hard to come by. My uncle was a conservative. Robar was more soldier than statesman. Desmond was ambitious enough but had no interest in matters of governance. Morgan was a blowhard. Waymar wanted nothing but knighthood, and with the rest I was not yet ready to be candid. Conversations about the future were the good ones.

"...It could bring profit, but it would take serious effort." Waymar had little feel for money or politics, but even he understood it would not be simple. "You could pour resources into it for a long time before seeing any return. Better to spend on something more immediately useful."

"Ser Waymar is right. Yes, improving the roads brings many advantages, but those advantages lie in the distant future, and the money left after suppressing the rebellion could be spent more productively." Twenty minutes we had been arguing about the importance of roads. I did not know how it was for Symond, but I was enjoying it.

"Yes, but roads carry dangers along with their benefits. They cost money, time, and resources, and in wartime your own road becomes the thing that lets an enemy besiege you faster. The example is right in front of us. If the roads had been better, the Corbrays could have arrived much sooner." And what I liked even more was that Symonds could argue his position properly.

"My lord." One of the guardsmen ran into the hall. "The Blackfish is at the gates. He is asking for a parley."

"Unexpected, but let us go speak with the old man. I beg your pardon, my lords. I must leave you."