Gerold IV

It filled Gerold with a great sense of relief when he handed out Isembard’s sentence. He’s no longer going to be a threat to him and House Grafton as Petyr assured him he was going to serve in the Night’s Watch. Gerold couldn’t help but gleefully smirk as the bastard that sabotaged and drove his father mad, was now gone and freezing his balls off in the Wall.

Lord Grafton chose to forgo expedient travel from Timberton to Gulltown through a ship and chose to march with Petyr’s army. Even now, despite him trusting Petyr’s advice and wanting to believe he was genuine but his father always told him to expect the worse. Just in case Petyr were to go rogue, he needed this army’s loyalty against him. And so he chose to march with them, ate like them and lived like them.

At first, he was successful as he talked to the sergeants and was surprised by their loyalty and devotion to house Grafton and to him. In hindsight, he shouldn't have been surprised as these were Rydan’s men. Rydan has proved to be a loyal supporter of house Grafton but his involvement in Petyr’s scheme made him suspect. It was when he conversed with the smallfolk that he experienced difficulties that were worrying him. They were respectful but coldly distant. They were willing to engage in small talk but they clearly had their guard against him. It was discouraging. He tried hard to get them to open up but it was increasingly getting obvious that they held a negative prejudice against the nobility.

Perhaps he should’ve consulted Oldman Rydan as he’s a former smallfolk. Maybe he can provide insights to alleviate their prejudice. But he didn’t want to disturb him as he was busy recovering from… His ailing body. It was a bit ridiculous why he preferred to march with him instead of taking the ship and his reason was even more ridiculous. The Oldman wanted to avoid the Wisdom who wanted to treat him. To avoid medical help was absurd but he made sure not to say that to him.

It should’ve made sense in a sad way. The nobility that rose up against him weren’t really out to depose him, as Robar assured him, but to reaffirm their privilege and to get rid of Petyr’s influence. It’s just a shame that privilege, in a way, restricted the rights of the smallfolk whilst doing the opposite for the nobles. The people who were already so wealthy and still wanting more power would not endear them to the more humbler folks. It’s regretful that they would clump him in the same group as those short-sighted fools. It’s going to be difficult to restore the trust between smallfolk and the nobility. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed Petyr’s help. Simply countering his influence will only exacerbate the tensions between the ruling class and the ruled, as shown by his mistake by introducing Deran – his father’s old friend.

He still doesn’t know what Deran’s fate was. What was his verdict in Petyr’s courts? Knowing Petyr, he would most likely be found guilty with all the charges set up against him. It was a valuable lesson that was painfully learned by him. Choose someone more competent to rival Petyr but the question is who? Oldman Rydan has been bought by him and he’s marrying Maribelle, the only one in the Civil Service who is vocally against him. It was his hope that leaving her as a regent would cause a roll back of Petyr's reforms.

He cringed as he noticed it too late. The reforms he was originally supporting, limited his ability as a Lord. It sounded good on paper, Petyr would always appeal to his code of honour, chivalry and duty to provide his people with prosperity and alleviate their suffering. But listening to the dissenting lords and the traitorous bastard’s son, Robar, made him open his eyes.

“It’s not your fault, Gerold.” The blonde man reassured him. “Littlefinger provided you with so much success and increased the trade to Gulltown at an unprecedented rate. It’s understandable why you listened to him. Your vaults must be brimming with golden dragons.”

“It is, Robar. Petyr… He’s capable and highly intelligent. House Grafton owes him.”

“Not too much I hope,” Robar recalled back to the last time he met Petyr. “He’s an intense man. Negotiating with him is an interesting experience that I hope I would not experience so soon. He can trap you to voluntary give him an inch and he somehow takes several leagues! You’ve probably been hearing this a lot and may have dismissed it as nothing but loser-speak, but you’ve got to be careful with him.”

“Is it because he outmanoeuvred and out-planned your father?” Gerold grumbled as it hurt so much that the man who caused so much misery was brought so low by another man. A man more intelligent, focused and ambitious that he’s forced to plot on… Removing some of his influence. It was betrayal in a way and that gnawed on his mind.

“Yes. My father… Is not the most perfect man in terms of morals. But, by the gods, he can make plans and execute them flawlessly. He would occasionally engage in skulduggery that is frowned upon by nobility. Hells! He created a way to skim and dodge taxes that your father imposed.”

Gerold frowned at him, “May I ask how for future reference?”

“By setting up many guilds and by propping minor merchant families like the woodworkers at the outskirts of Gulltown, and hiding our money there. They would normally be poor and in poverty and would be ignored by your tax collectors.” Robar rubbed the back of his neck looking abashed. “My father was going to use that money to hire mercenaries.”

“To use against me.”

“Against Littlefinger.”

“Why didn’t he then?” Gerold thought back to one of his councils and recalled when Petyr suggested a record to detail his lands such as the people, their probable income, and professions. “Did they get found out by Petyr’s census?”

Robar rolled his eyes then chuckled. “It’s always Petyr this and Petyr that, eh?” He paused letting Gerold blush. “They were nearly caught by the census but my father managed to pressure Littlefinger to look the other way. But their greed was their own undoing. They took huge loans from the Welfare department citing that they’ll use it to expand their woodworking industry promising to use Braavosi technology. Instead, they used it on nonsensical proclivities causing them to default and prompting Littlefinger to send dozens of Rydan’s men to demand repayment. And… Well, the rest is history. So… In the end, you were right. Littlefinger was instrumental in our downfall.”

Gerold suspiciously stared at him and hummed, “I wonder how this war would’ve been different if Petyr didn’t confiscate your ill-begotten gains.”

“Father wanted to hire the Brave Companions. Absolute madness. We would’ve won for sure but at what cost? The countryside pillaged and raped with innocent people sacrificed to their black goat?”

“Glad we won against you then.”

“And for being a magnanimous victor, I thank you for that.” Robar questioningly raised his shoulders. “I’m curious what punishment will be levelled against the Gulltown Arryns. My sisters and my lady Mother are innocent.”

“They’ll be allowed to own the hill surrounding the Falcon castle. You won’t be able to hold court, collect taxes and since you don’t own land outside of Gulltown then I would like three-thousand golden dragons as reparations.”

The former Arryn heir now Lord, huffed in relief as the terms were very lenient. With their connections to many merchant families, they could easily pay that off. “Very magnanimous indeed. And let me guess, in return for the leniency, you’ll have us counter Littlefinger?” He waited until Gerold hesitatingly nodded. “We would be glad to, my lord. Someone has to stand up for the nobility. We may have been beaten but our families have survived for millennia and we shall survive for a millennium more.”

If it’s worth much, good luck against Petyr. Gerold silently snickered.

~ ~ ~ ~

They marched for a few more hours when the walls of Gulltown were becoming clearer. He noted with relief that there were now ditches and a functioning moat surrounding Gulltown. Petyr must’ve hired thousands to do that in just two weeks!

Gerold, his knights and Robar came to the gatehouse full of new crenelations, murder holes and a new steel portcullis. He noticed how wide the drawbridge was, enough to fit three carriages abreast from each other. He winced when the drawbridge was raised up preventing their knights from crossing through it unless they wanted their horse to fall into the spike-filled moat. This boded ill! The revolt ended in two weeks and a sense of normalcy should’ve descended on Gulltown. Petyr should’ve arrived six days before him.

The drawbridge was slowly let down and he saw Petyr trotting towards him. “Lord Gerold,” he turned his head to Robar and smiled with teeth bared, “Lord Robar. It pleases me that you all had a pleasant march and judging by your faces, you didn’t receive my missive didn’t you?”

“What missive?” Gerold regretted that Stephas left. He was wrought with him but with time perhaps he can forgive what he had done, perhaps forgetting his treachery. “W-we didn’t have ravens and a maester in the army to receive ravens. We were in Timberton, six days ago. When did you send the missive? What’s the missive about? Why’s the moat full of wooden stakes and why's the drawbridge raised up?” His mind was raising. Something bad has happened and he was mad that he was not up to date with information.

“You’re in the right mind, Gerry.” He gravely faced him and his assortment of household knights. “At the year 283 after Aegon’s Conquest, Lord Jon Arryn is dead, may the Stranger guide him to a better life.”

Nothing happened for a few minutes. Horses neighed and shuffled. The information took a while to process. Then suddenly as if a well broke causing water to shoot up.

“What! How did he die?!”

“I may have fought against him but I will never forget the mercy he gave me that day! May he rest in peace!”

The knights roared their questions prompting Petyr to answer them. He explained how Jon Arryn died and the knights exploded in indignation and disgust. Spittle flew and foul curses were hurled against the Martells and the Dornish in general.

Petyr stared at him gravely and nodded. He angled his head near his ears and whispered. “Succession crisis. The Hardyng are moving fast to secure support to place the infant Harrold, to inherit the Eyrie. They’ve started to muster in Strongsong. Thankfully, they’re a month away from fully mustering and marching to the Eyrie.”

“Wait. What? Why are you sounding as if you’re mad about their decision? Isn’t his grandmother, Alys Arryn? That would make Jon Arryn his great-uncle. He’s the closest in the Arryn family history to inherit the Moon Throne!”

Petyr rode behind him and flared his arms at the mass of redcoats. “Not if we have anything to say about it.” He beckoned Robar to him. “I have a question. How closely related are you to Jon Arryn?”

A hundred emotions seem to pass through Robar before settling to an unsettling stoicism. “He’s my second cousin once removed.”

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The Civil Servant hummed and clicked his tongue. “Close enough.” Then he waved at them to follow him. Passing through the gate, he noticed hundreds of red-coated men with their chainmail with an assortment of weapons. He’s prepared more men for this. Is he planning to force Robar Arryn to be the Lord Paramount of the Vale? Then he noticed a girl, about the same age as him, with auburn hair approach the three of them on top of a pony. “This is Lysa Arryn. My men rescued her from pirates.”

Their shock was evident when the two immediately dismounted and bowed to her. “Lady Arryn. We’re glad you’re safe and healthy. Thank the Sevens.” Robar strode to the girl and kissed her hand. “You have my condolences, my lady.”

The red-haired girl nodded with little to no emotion. “So, what do you think, Lysa?” Petyr asked loudly so that it was enough for Robar to hear.

She looked at Robar and burst into a fit of giggles in a way that annoyed him. Gerold carefully looked at her and she didn’t look like someone that was captured by pirates. Her hair was neatly braided and brushed and her silken dress was well made with no creases. The tales about his father’s privateers haunted him. Of former pirates committing untoward advances at ransomed women without their consent made his stomach churn. Gleeful confessions from the scum, he personally ordered to die, and testimony from the victims tell of horrendous acts that would mentally and physically damage women. And Lysa had none of the hardship that those victims had. D-Did Petyr kidnap her and kill Jon Arryn? Did he make her a widow? Gerold’s eyes widened with fear as his heart missed a beat. Petyr’s ambitions in reforming Gulltown… Nay, the Vale and his streak of intelligent ruthlessness to carry out his plans just further reinforced his fear. Gerold also recalled back the rumours and hearsay about Petyr stealing the maidenhead of one of the Tully sisters and everything made sense.

“Petyr, what do we do?” Gerold smiled. He needed to hide his fear. Always show a neutral and stoic face in joy and adversity. This was adversity on a scale of facing a hundred mountain lions. Mountain lions that can smile and, despite Petyr’s ruthlessness, can be friendly. He needed to control his fear – just like what Petyr advised, he thought and huffed in the irony of it. So, he did what one can do in the same situation, played the part.

“It all depends on Robar,” Petyr hopped to Robar. “You’re the second one in line to inherit the Eyrie. Harrold Hardyng is a babe and would need to have a regent to rule the Vale until he comes of age. All whilst fending off assassins until this baby can reach adulthood to have a wife and produce an heir.” Petyr placed his hands on his heart in mock pity. “It only requires one accident.” All of a sudden he tiptoed to Robar’s eye level and held a forefinger just shy of an inch from his eyes. “One accident. And you’re the Lord Paramount of the Vale, Warden of the East -,”

“Just get on with it.” Robar frowned and backed off from Petyr with his arms crossed.

“You have your sisters and mother in the Eyrie, right?” Petyr intoned. Gerold knew where this was going. Petyr once taught him to play to people’s vulnerabilities to make them lose guard so they’re more pliable to extract ‘concessions’ from. He should’ve stopped this but… But. He couldn’t. He needed to keep his mouth shut. If he can kill the second most powerful man in Westeros, then what chance does he have?

Robar grimly nodded to Petyr’s question. “How many supporters has Bruce Hardyng put in place in the Eyrie to successfully assert baby Harrold’s claim?” Petyr further prodded

“I-I don’t know.”

“You don’t know… Don’t you think it's suspect that he’s mustering his forces?”

“I said get on with it!” Robar growled as he started to fidget.

“Bruce Hardyng and his allies don’t trust you. They don’t trust your family to be honourable. After all, in their eyes, you’re nothing but copper counters. They want to eliminate any competition so baby Harrold has a higher chance of reaching adulthood and spreading his seed.”

“I-I. They would never.” He shook his head in dismay. “We’ve just lost a war. Our prestige is at an all-time low. Like you said, we’re too dishonourable since we practice trade. And our family marrying into merchants probably also tanked our reputation. We won’t be able to rule the Vale without stamping a hundred or so rebellions.” Robar took a deep breath. “Nice try, Littlefinger. But I won’t fall for your honeyed words so easily.”

“You would gamble the lives of your mother and sisters so callously?” The Arryn had enough as the veins in his head started to bulge. He took a step and was about to grab Petyr’s collar when suddenly two redcoats wearing a queer-looking steel breastplate – a cuirass, is what Petyr calls it – stepped in with swords drawn at his neck causing him to freeze. “I’d had enough of being choked by people way stronger than me. So, thanks for that Derrick and Edgar.” He dusted himself. “We can start marching to the Eyrie as soon as possible since we’ll be slowed down by my toys. The redcoats are trained and bloodied. They’re well paid and their morale is high. We can seize the Eyrie. And to add a cherry on top of the cake,” Petyr grabbed Lysa’s shoulder, causing her to pathetically squeal, and placed her in front of Robar. “You’ll get to marry Lysa. Hoster Tully will support your claim. She’s my foster sister and you better treat her right. Got it?”

Gerold wiped a bead of cold sweat from his forehead. And that’s it. That’s how Petyr operates. Manipulating your vulnerabilities and in Robar’s case, his family, and using it against you whilst framing it as him giving you a ‘helping’ hand.

Robar reluctantly nodded and that should’ve been the end of it but Petyr craned his head towards his direction causing him to jolt up. “And you, Gerold, have you thought long and hard on who to marry?” He said in a sickeningly sweet tone that weirdly sounded fatherly despite Petyr only being two years older. Petyr didn’t act his age as he would speak in a way that made him wiser and more experienced.

“I was thinking of following on Yohn Royce’s offer to marry her daughter, Ysilla. Stephas burnt the marriage offer so I didn’t actually refuse it.”

Petyr hummed approvingly which made him puff his chest out before mentally pinching himself. “A very wise choice, Gerry. We need to secure their support and stabilise this peninsula.”

Gerold nodded and gave a parting glance to the Tully. Does she know Petyr killed her husband? He shook the thought out of his mind and maybe when he reconsolidated his power base in Gulltown, he would confront Petyr about his suspicions. He prayed to the Old and the New Gods that his suspicions would be wrong. His friendship with Petyr was blossoming and he doesn’t want his growing paranoia ruining it.

“But for now, both of you are just on time for my wedding!”

Maribelle IV

It was a terribly busy day with pointless pageantry. She would’ve been fine with a humbler wedding but Petyr, the master grandstander, couldn’t resist making it a ‘grand’ affair. They rode in an open carriage where his future husband insisted on her waving at the masses. She obliged as the thrill of their combined roar and cheer grew ever larger making her nearly burst into tears. Her family was now starting to get recognised and despite the insults the nobles directed at them, they rose to heights never before seen. All thanks to that man.

She saw with amusement as Gerold’s knights threw copper stags on the crowd only for them to ignore it. Some threw a few silver eliciting a few shuffles in the crowd but nothing to warrant a stampede. Over the past seven months, she and the rest of the civil servants worked none stop to break the monopoly of guilds in certain aspects of the economy. Petyr wanted them to share their craft like their manufacturing techniques and encouraged them to hire more apprentices. He succeeded in those as orphans, the homeless and the destitute managed to find employment in numerous artisanship, lifting themselves out of poverty. And those who didn’t get employment were allowed to enter the ‘Vocational’ Schools Petyr built across Gulltown, manned by retired artisans. All succeeded thanks to the generous loans Naerys and she gave out. Though Petyr did fail at one thing, and it always felt good when Lord Perfect doesn’t always get what he wants. He failed to convince the crafters to subscribe to the Braavosi weights and lengths or as Petyr calls it the ‘Decimal System’. The rant Petyr gave after their rejection made her smile even till now as the manchild accused them of being closed-minded primitives and crying about ‘mass assembly’.

She stepped out of the carriage and she saw her brother’s long blonde hair as he gave her a helping hand. “Thanks, Orland. This gown is killing me.”

“No problem, sis. I must say you look good. Much better than at Buefort’s wedding.” He then stared at her shoulders and gasped. “You’re exposing your shoulders!”

Maribelle preened at that, “I look good don’t I?” She spun around causing his oaf of a brother to quickly wrap her in a cloak proudly displaying their family’s crest and colours. A field of green and blue cut diagonally in half with a golden sickle in the middle. Petyr would always remark on changing their crest by adding a smith’s hammer in a field of red. He would always chuckle but she didn’t even understand his jest which just irritated her.

“Y-yes, you look good. Now,” Orland held his arms towards her allowing her to interlink her arms with his. “I hope this is the last time, I’d have to do this.” He glared at the Sept but soon softened his face when he stared at Maribelle.

Maribelle elbowed him hard for that. “Oh, shut it you.” She looked left and right and was glad when no one was close enough to hear him. “Petyr and I may not be head over heels for each other but I’m confident I can make this marriage work.”

“Please do so. I’d rather not have to do it again.”

“Yes. Yes. Now escort me to Petyr. We're already done with the pointless tradition of wrapping a cloak.”

She strode into the Sept as the crowd fell into silence. She nodded and walked to the raised dais and spotted Petyr beside the altar. Maribelle couldn’t quite see him as the multi-coloured heptagram window glossed him in an eclectic barrage of light that made him seem… Holy, perhaps blessed. Maribelle smirked and held in the laughter bubbling inside her. Him? Holy? No way.

Septon Qarlton toddled towards the lectern and gestured for her and Petyr to come close. Orland reluctantly removed her cloak. She nearly yawned as the exchange of cloaks was a boring event. But her boredom didn’t last long as Maribelle widened her eyes at the person passing Petyr a cloak. It was none other than Lord Gerold. Wow. He’s quick to regain Gerold’s trust… I don’t know how he did it but Petyr managed to convince our liege lord to be his best man. Maribelle gleefully looked at Petyr as he smirked back. “So, what do you think? Still want a small wedding?” She barely heard his cheeky whisper. Maribelle ignored him as she looked at the cloak in Petyr’s hand. A silver mockingbird in a field of red and striped gold. Petyr placed it over her shoulders causing the elderly Septon to huff in approval.

Septon Qarlton launched a dull homily on the wonders of marriage as he quoted the scriptures. She blocked the prayers, chanting and praises till the Septon announced, “May I have the names of the couple who seek union during times of strife and comfort, for now and forever?”

“My name is Petyr Baelish, and I take you to be my lady and wife.”

“My name is Maribelle Vantery, and I take you to be my lord and husband.” Septa Denise was kind enough to allow her to revoke the Arryn name as her marriage with Buefort wasn’t consummated.

They strode closer to each other, as their faces nearly touched. “With this kiss, I pledge my love.” They said in perfect sync and kissed causing the audience to burst into applause.

“With this, you are now one flesh, one heart, one soul now and forever. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder!” Qarlton pronounced.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. She was married again and hoped to the Gods that this time he’ll be faithful. Or else.

Robar II

He watched with growing lust as Maribelle’s gown was ripped off revealing a slender body with porcelain-like skin. He didn’t get to see much as she and Littlefinger got carried to their bedroom. When his elder brother, Buefort married her, Robar was jealous. He hoped he was going to marry someone that beautiful one day. Robar still remembered the day when his brother died of pox and the wroth and anger he directed at his father for casually dismissing his death. ‘I have a spare and a couple of daughters to pump a few grandsons,’ he remembered his father saying and how he wanted to wring his neck for that. He was glad that Isembard is now a distant figure in his life both figuratively and literally a thousand miles away from him, freezing his balls off in the Wall.

When he got his father’s orders in Silverbridge to muster in Timberton, he was glad his father promised him to Maribelle. But it seems Littlefinger moved faster than his father. He took a quick glance at the Tully girl. He noticed that her red hair was glowing despite the sun setting a long while ago. Her brilliant blue eyes contrasted her posture. She hunched and curled around herself as she clutched her arms closer together.

The Arryn lord couldn’t stand the sight of her looking downcast and approached her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He was shocked and disgusted with himself as the girl shrieked and backed off. Luckily she calmed herself when she saw him and began to dust herself and cutely curtsied. “I’m so sorry, my lady, for startling you. I didn’t mean –,“

“It’s alright…”

Robar calmed at hearing her angelic voice. “I’m glad my lady. I hope the pirates didn’t do anything untoward to you?” He said with a slight sharpness in his tone.

“N-nothing that concerns you, Lord Arryn.” They both looked at each other and a still silence came over them despite the merriment of the people in the GrandHall.

Robar broke first as he couldn’t stand the awkward silence, “You must be happy for Little- your foster brother. I hear he was good to you. Taught you your sums and letters.” He felt his heart flutter as Lysa giggled.

“He always took care of me when I was young. He was a good… Brother.” She twisted her eyebrows. She gulped and sighed then stared at Robar, “We’ll soon get married. I hope I’ll get to know you.” She ripped a strip off her dress and wrapped it in Robar’s arms. “This will be my favour. I hope you survive against the coming war.” She walked away leaving Robar’s mouth wide open.

His heart started to beat in a way that no camp followers or whores ever did. He was looking forward to the war and winning the Eyrie through conquest the same way Robert did. Then after that, marrying her.