Deran I

“Ser Deran of house Parne, you stand here accused of insubordination and treason. You have pleaded not guilty.” A man with a moustache gravely said. He adjusted his black tunic by loosening his collar and breathed heavily. “The Tribunal,” he gestured to a scarred-looking redcoat and a man who clutched the Seven Heptagram in the palm of his hands, “Finds you guilty of insubordination. The witnesses speak of your violence and reckless violence against Lord Petyr, which have been verified and have proven to be true. For that, your sentence is two years of community service.”

The blonde man couldn’t take it anymore and stood up with bravado. “You’ve been sentencing people for the past few weeks for community service! What in the Seven Hells does that mean!”

“The defendant must remain seated and mustn’t talk during the deliberation! Nor should he take our Gods’ name in vain!” A man wearing grey rags exclaimed then warned Deran, “Lest he wants to have the contempt of court added to his list of crimes.”

He rattled his shackles by shaking his wrists and ankles in defiance but quickly deflated. For the first time in his life, he was vulnerable. His wrists that could easily snap the neck of Littlefinger were wrapped with steel manacles. Deran squirmed in anguish and immediately sat back down. He’s fought for Marq’s son and taught him how to further hone his skills and this is what it got him. A phoney trial mediated with heretics and Littlefinger’s cronies. Yet he couldn’t say anything about it. He was truly defenceless.

And so he bid for time and waited patiently for the opportunity to escape. Gerry commuted his charge of treason avoiding death yet he still had to serve two years of ‘slavery’. Yes, slavery. An involuntary work forced upon men under duress. It should’ve been a crime, an affront against Gods and men yet Littlefinger managed to hoodwink Gerry, the Faith and the people of Gulltown into ignoring this blatant blasphemy.

He and many others, former knights who pledged to Isembard, were hauled off to the outskirts of Gulltown and were forced to dig up the ground only for it to be filled with large rocks. Foreigners with strange sounding-sounding accents directed them and the smallfolk labourers to mix water, sand and lime together with gravel. Then it was poured into the rocky foundation. It wasn’t long till he realised he was building a road directly towards Silverbridge as the donkeys rolled a stone cylinder to even out the surface. They did this for an entire week, slowly ingratiating themselves with their lowborn handlers until it was the time to strike. They lulled their handlers into a false sense of security and persuaded them to get rid of their manacles. They snuck to their barracks and wrung their necks and took off with their weapons. Deran focused on Arwen Shett gutting the man who whipped him. Horses were stolen as they galloped away from the camping site. The escaped knights wore nothing but the rags their handlers gave them

Littlefinger’s red mob saw their grizzly work and set about tracking them. The fools! Fortunately, the bastard’s men were barely trained and were yet to earn their spurs and so they were immediately killed. Years of honing their skills against the dragonspawn loyalists gave them a huge advantage against their inexperienced but armoured opponents. It was a boon for the fugitives as they stole their armour, saddle and stirrups and took off at greater speeds away from Littlefinger’s control.

The men contemplated what they did. The bloodshed they’ve committed. And the possible reprisal Littlefinger would’ve taken. At first, they were hopeful. Gerold and his loyal nobles should’ve countered the demon’s influence however news trickled in. Their fathers, brothers and even sons were imprisoned and taken to Littlefinger’s court for a trial. To their immense relief, their family members were largely let off and set free. Free with nothing but their clothes and the valuables stuffed behind their backs. Despite being found innocent, Littlefinger’s cronies clarified their links with ‘traitors’ and ‘murderers’ and argued their supposed bias toward criminals disqualifies them to govern their fiefs. And so, lands that belonged to a family for generations were confiscated along with their keep and manse without a whimper of protest.

Effectively exiled, most chose to brave the treacherous roads and left their birthplace. Often defenceless, Deran’s men chose to heed their family’s call and escorted them across the road towards Asherville. With growing irritation, Deran realised they fell into one of Littlefinger’s traps. By escorting their families, whose livelihood and properties were unjustly stolen, further fuelled his justification that they were biased. Criers spouting nonsense were heard even in the outskirts of Grafton lands as they passed through Asherville, denouncing them as traitors. This caused the smallfolk to be extremely hostile towards them prompting them to move further inwards. Trailing the roads plagued with the Mountain Clans.

Thankfully, the exiled group were escorted by dozens of knights and were able to fend off raids and attacks with no deaths on their side. Now that they were away from the demon’s influence, an urgent question started to be asked. Where to go? To their immense relief, House Hardyng of Strongsong generously gave them land and the right to settle and govern it as they wished. In return, they would swear their fealty to Bruce Hardyng.

It was a bargain as the man sincerely sympathised with our plight and the injustice reaped on us. He was concerned about the heresy and anti-noble sentiments growing in Gulltown. But the Lord of Strongsong couldn’t do anything about it as they were hundreds of miles away.

As if the gods flipped a coin and then landing on its side, their liege lord Jon Arryn died at the hands of the cursed Dornish. Deran wept along with his fellow knights and the rest of Bruce Hardyng’s court. It was only two days after his untimely death that they received a missive. A raven sent from Gulltown carrying a message, nay a demand. A demand for Bruce to renounce the claim of his three-year-old son, Harrold Hardyng, to the Moon Throne of Eyrie and to swear their fealty to Robar Arryn.

Predictably, Lord Bruce ripped the scroll in a fit of rage and then summoned his banners whilst calling for the support of his allies. Within days they’ve got replies from houses Redfort, Waynewood, Templeton, Belmore and Hunter. Along with house Hardyng, their combined force can easily exceed 14,000 men.

This would’ve been so relieving as their new liege lord would be the new Lord of the Vale – more like the regent for baby Harry. The chances of getting their lands back were within their grasp fuelling their hope. Vengeance against the lowborn who stole their predetermined birthright gave his fellow knights an aura of bloodlust that encouraged them to exceed their bodies and hone their skills. For him, the chance of finishing poor Brandon Stark’s job by separating Littlefinger’s body from his head gave him solace in his darkest days.

However, this was not the case as Lord Bruce opted to waste time by throwing tourneys as they snaked across the Vale towards the Eyrie. It also didn’t help that the Belmore’s, under Benedar, mustered his troops with extreme lethargy, further delaying their army.

He had enough and so he strode to the high table and immediately prostrated. He looked up to see Bruce looking shocked. Deran mentally nodded to himself. Good. I need him to be shocked because what I’m going to say may either damn me for grasping too much above my station or be rewarded for telling the truth. Deran couldn’t tell which as he didn’t know Lord Hardyng that well yet.

“Lord Hardyng,” he stood up and surveyed the rest of the high lords, “My lords,” the knight then stared at the only lady at the table and struggled to keep his irritation, “Lady Anya, sorry for interrupting your merriment but I bring grave news.” Deran patiently waited for Bruce to gesture for him to continue. “Even though the letter we’ve all received came from Gulltown, under the name of Robar Arryn, I’ve got my suspicions.”

The rest of the high lords and lady looked puzzled as they dazedly stared at each. “We didn’t get a letter from Gulltown,” Anya Waynewood said as he twirled her brown hair. Deran held his irritation in and remembered her husband was killed by the Stone Crows wildlings, and her sons were too young to be present. The lords and a few landed knights and minor nobility who heard their conversation whispered amongst each other. Slowly, the lords also confirmed that they didn’t receive it.

Deran started to sweat cold iron down his back as he felt his stomach twisting. “I thought we were mustering to peacefully assert Harrold Hardyng’s claim to the Eyrie? Then responding to Good King Robert’s call for war against Dorne?” An overweight man slugged out as he heaved and coughed. Deran couldn’t help but stare disdainfully at Benedar Belmore. A powerful lord in his own right but was highly ambitious. He also dirtied his hands with copper counting to one-up the Hardyngs. History tells us that two powerful houses controlling a city will always cause conflict where one house always gets obliterated. One would only look at what happened to the Gulltown Arryns. The methods that the obese man took to gain influence bordered on corruption. Normally, Deran wouldn’t even notice but Littlefinger opened his eyes to the importance of skulduggery and dishonourable means to get what you want. He was further annoyed when the lords and landed knights agreed with the slab of useless meat.

A brief chaos of mutterings erupted in the Strongsong Hall until Bruce put a stop to it, “Silence! My new knight, Ser Deran of house Parne, speaks true. Just a month ago we’ve received a damn letter from those copper-counting Arryns, demanding us to swear fealty to Robar! Preposterous! It fills me with great relief that my son, who’s the closest relative to Jon Arryn, is being recognised by everyone here as their new liege lord, for that I must thank you all!” Applause roared across the hall causing Bruce to straighten up his back.

“May we have a look at the letter, my lord- Lord Regent?” Anya demanded.

Deran widened his eyes in fear as he saw his liege lord gulping heavily. “I- My lady, I ripped it in a fit of rage. I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it.”

The blonde-haired knight scanned the lords and hummed approvingly as the rest of the high lords nodded with Bruce. Though his mood was ruined when he looked at Benedar the Fat sceptically looking at Bruce. “In the eyes of the rest of the Vale, we’re gathering an army not only to assert Harry’s claim but to fight against fellow Valemen. Surely, we can come to an agreeable accord with Robar Arryn? Mayhaps, we can betroth his future daughter with Harry?”

Bruce looked about to burst when Deran stepped in and placed a hand on his shoulder. “What would that achieve, Lord Benedar?”

“We’ll preserve our strength! Perhaps co-opting their army with ours! This combined army will crush those filthy Dornish!”

“An honourable endeavour. Avenging Jon Arryn should be the duty of every Valemen. Yet the grave news I was going to give relates to a man. A man that has stoke heresy and disorder in Grafton lands and Gulltown.”

“Is it this Littlefinger you talk about?” Bruce chipped in.

“Yes, my lord. I think he’s the one behind the missive. The fact that he only sent it to you gives him plausible deniability. The bastard did this so you were the first one to move.”

The rest of the table looked worried as they understood the consequences of answering Bruce’s call. In the eyes of the Vale, they’ve mustered first. They were the first ones to prepare to shed blood. So, defeat is not an option as their influence would erode and the rest of the lords would dive down like hungry vultures.

Anya shook her head. “So, what do you recommend us you do against this fellow? Does he really have the power to order Grafton’s men?”

“Yes, my lady. I should know because I served in it. His redcoats are finely equipped with chainmail and castle-grade steel swords, maces and other assortments of weapons. This man has that army under his control.” Deran recalled back to the messenger taking offence on behalf of Littlefinger with a pang of fear. “That army was used to take Timberton with Alchemist sorcery.”

“Goodness! He consorts with sorcerers too?” Ser Symond Templeton spat with disgust.

“That army may be marching to Eyrie as we speak, my lords, my lady. We need to start marching now.”

The nobles grimly nodded and planned how to wage the war. “You would have Ironoaks act as bait!?” Anya shrieked. “Surely, it would be better to march our army there and block Arryn’s army from crossing their peninsula.”

“My lady, as the regent of the Vale, I promise that you’ll be adequately compensated after this. The wealth of Gulltown seems to be overflowing, mayhaps that could be used to soothe the pain of using your town as… A crucial place for our strategy.”

Anya hardened her fist and then nodded, “I’ll have to evacuate my children.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Time was of the essence. He pushed his white stallion into a gallop and caught a red-coated skirmisher in the road, nearly decapitating him. He didn’t bother cleaning his red-stained sword as he went for another kill. Killing these scouts should leave Littlefinger blind. It was disconcerting how they found enemy scouts in goat paths. It was supposed to be a series of secret trails as promised by Anya Waynewood. Though it made sense, women weren’t always the best when it comes to warfare. He should’ve taken the information from her with a grain of salt.

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He looked and huffed with satisfaction as they summarily executed the redcoats. Deran took the time to enjoy the view. A picturesque valley with a river cutting down the middle, leading to a town – Ironoaks. He looked with savage glee when he saw the redcoats camped outside the town.

“Someone fetch me a spyglass!” Deran ordered. He looked through it and what he saw shook him. His stallion sensed his fear and reared back. “Easy boy!”

Piss-coloured tubes on steel wheels belched out green flames. He craned his head to see the effects on the town’s walls. The gatehouse was in ruins. The crenellations were damaged. Several watchtowers were barely standing whereas some completely collapse. The blurred image of redcoats preparing to storm the city spurred him into action!

“Men! With me! This is our chance to attack! Let it be known! Vengeance is best served red!” He roared and galloped downhill.

“Vengeance is best served red!”

“Vengeance!”

His knights roared and charged with him. Knights from other houses joined totalling their numbers to nearly a thousand.

They stormed the backs of the camp, slaughtering the redcoats by their dozens. They slashed, stabbed and stampeded anyone that got in their way. The bulk of the redcoat’s flanks collapsed as the rolling mass of steel swept aside any resistance.

Deran felt his blood pumping and through a red haze, he saw someone. A man with a black tunic wearing a red-golden sash. The rest of his vision blurred as he tunnelled his eyesight on that man. He was the one that ruined his relationship with Gerry, the one who sentenced him as a criminal unlawfully and the one that placed him in slavery. “On me!” He rallied dozens to his call and prepared to charge when suddenly he saw green. For a few seconds, his head rang like a dreadful case of hungover then he felt his hair and skin tinge with warmth. He saw with horror as his men around him lay sprawled flat on the blood-caked mud. Their limbs were detached and in some cases twisted unnaturally from their body. Some were alive as they saw their guts pouring out of their split stomach whilst screaming for the Seven or to their mothers.

Gabrin! Hothier! Calrin! Julien! He mentally cried out for his childhood friends. Friends that survived against the Mad King’s henchman. Friends who stuck by him as Gerry and his lords abandoned him. He shook his head. Later. Later. After this battle. After I kill him.

Perhaps the gods favoured Deran today, as he escaped a horrifying death and he was going to use that favour to rally his faltering men. “Charge!” He galloped and lead by example.

The brief charge was enough for them to penetrate the redcoats four ranks deep. He slashed and parried strikes toward him and his horse until he felt his muscles burning. They were making ground. He was about to reach the coward when he quickly spied the weird-looking tubes pointing towards them and then belched green. He cringed and mentally prepared himself to be destroyed by their sorcery. It did no visible damage apart from a dozen or so knights with their mounts being smeared into the ground. Instead, the horses being unaccustomed to the blast neighed in fright and reared back. Some of his men dropped from their horses and then immediately swarmed with the redcoats. Others were pulled down.

He knew this was a losing battle and in another stroke of luck saw the Ironoak drawbridge lowering. He didn’t know who was stupid enough to lower it but he wasn’t going to waste it. “Men! To the drawbridge! Withdraw to Ironoak!” He desperately corralled his men and despaired when nearly four hundred heeded his call and started to gallop towards the gates. Some had their mounts killed and, in panic, removed their armour to increase their running speed. Deran saw them and pitied them and willed his horse to swerve back. He guided his horse to trample the redcoats pursuing his men and covered their retreat.

Deran was the last one to cross the drawbridge and once he crossed he yelled, “Close the bridge! Now.” Quickly the Waynewood men-at-arms pulled on the wheel causing the pulleys to spring up. The torsion eventually closed the bridge but not without a few idiots jumping on it. The blonde knight gleefully looked at them whilst brandishing his longsword. He killed them one by one and took no prisoner. No ransoms, no point.

He climbed the stars atop the walls and surveyed his damage. What he saw made him puff his chest with pride. Pride at his men for accomplishing the impossible by fighting through Littlefinger’s foul sorcery. Looks like I heavily damaged them. Now it’s Lord-Regent Bruce to take over.

Petyr XI

It was a disaster. Acolytes ran around like headless chickens as they looked like they came out of a murder orgy. He saw them washing the bandages in boiled water and applying healing salves on minor skin wounds. He saw some sharpening their saw as they prepared it to amputate limbs. What Petyr saw was organised chaos, resulting from Laenera’s genius madness, as the white-robed men with green armbands ran around segregating people based on the severity of their injury. He looked at the triage system at work and was pleased with how successful it was. With this despite, losing a third of their forces to injuries and deaths, at least half the injured would be in fighting condition to face Bruce Hardyng’s army.

He face-palmed and shivered with guilt as he witnessed the number of deaths and suffering his mishap caused him. Petyr thought by placing scouts in the mountains lining the valley, he would be fully secure from a rear assault. The methods he tried implementing on the Redcoats like the heliograph communication proved successful at first. Refracting light was easy and learning morse code, while tough, was doable. It was a much better alternative to using Laenera’s genetically engineered green doves. It was faster, literally at the speed of light, and could be done with torches and a spyglass at night.

What he failed to account for was the shadow the other mountains cast, reducing the amount of sunlight. He cringed hard. If only Rydan was here, I wouldn’t have made such a catastrophic mistake!

Petyr ran more numbers through his head. He managed to further mobilise a couple more thousand men from Timberton and Asherville and its outlying hamlets, increasing his total to 12,000. A third of that is either dead or injured. Leaving roughly 8,000 men in fighting condition. Perhaps a thousand injured could be fit for fighting within a week, therefore his army would total 9,000. According to his wife, the Hardyings have managed to muster around 15,000 men. With approximately more than 2,000 of them being knights. Petyr glared at Ironoak. A thousand knights led by Deran are holding up in the city. Petyr blushed at the embarrassment the buffoon caused him.

With sufficient trenches and stakes, those knights won’t be able to sortie and stab them from behind. Again. He mentally subtracted a thousand from the enemy’s count.

So it would be 9,000 against 14,000. It would’ve been nearly 10,000 if Isembard’s son and Gerold didn’t drag their feet when calling for more knights. It should’ve been simple, they were captured by Petyr’s men therefore they should’ve fought for them, or else. Petyr recalled when Rydan hit his head and insulted his neuronal capacity. ‘They’re moral is goin’ to be dogshite! They’ll stab ye on the back!’ Petyr relented at that but he was tempted to counter back. Perhaps he could increase their morale by rounding up their families. He had the resources and the men loyal enough to do the deed.

Yet he relented. He couldn’t afford to look evil for the sake of evil. At least not to someone who was the key to his success in Gulltown. Someone who introduced him to Gerold. And so, he let Robar and Gerold cajole them with promises. Petyr could’ve done it by himself but there was no way they would’ve listened to him. It also didn’t help that he gave them both a list of demands to outright reject. Petyr was not going to take half-measures. He needed to centralise control and caving into the knight’s demands was against that. Especially, when those medieval tanks were going to be obsolete soon. Unfortunately, Petyr needed them now and was willing to compromise whilst crossing his fingers behind his back.

“Milord. A message for you.”

Petyr recognised him. The messenger stood up for him even when he was faced against the blonde meathead. “Pollard. Nice seeing you again. How’s your sister? I heard she’s taken ill from the flu.”

He widened his eyes as he shuffled. “M-milord… She’s doing fine. Thanks to your ‘medicine’ school, she was cured just a week ago. Those Wisdoms know what they’re doing.”

“Indeed they do. They prescribed her salicylic acid right?”

“Milord?”

“Sorry, I meant aspirin?” Petyr clicked his tongue in frustration as another slip of the tongue occurred. This caused Pollard to slightly step back. “Willow tree extract?”

“That’s it, milord! Worked like a charm and she was able to split wood within a week.”

“I see, I see. You’ve been loyal, Pollard. Hopefully, I can reward that loyalty with something substantial… Soon.” Petyr meant it. He was going to need a lot of capable personnel that will execute his orders flawlessly. After all, ruling the Vale from the shadows requires you to occasionally bathe your skin in the sun.

Pollard smiled and saluted. “You’ve already done so much for us already, milord.” He stepped towards him and gave Petyr a metal cylinder. Pollard saluted again and left the tent.

He opened the casing and flattened the scroll. Well, well, well. He read the letter.

To Petyr Baelish

Please meet me at the hamlet directly east of Ironoaks. I hope you give my regards to our liege lord, Robar Arryn. Please only bring a maximum of a dozen guards.

Benedar Belmore

Petyr nodded affirmatively as he examined the letter. He noticed the precise calligraphic style unique to Benedar’s handwriting. Petyr was pleased he listened to his instruction of personally writing a letter. He carefully filed the letter away into his deadman’s switch folder.

A folder designed to be released and published after his death. A lot of blackmail material resided in the folder and it was specifically designed to prevent treachery. He’ll have to take every precaution against a man who would betray his liege lord. It’ll be the first time he’ll see him but rumours suggest that he swings to the more rotund form of the human body.

He grabbed his cloak and gestured for Derrick and Edgar along with ten other guards to follow him. “Wait… Edgar, you stay behind. You’ll be in charge of the camp.”

“Me, my lord?” The raven-haired man pointed at himself. He’s ordered men before especially against King Robert but nothing to the scale of thousands of men.

“Yes, you! Naerys is going to arrive soon. Transfer your powers to her when she arrives.” Petyr smirked. “If you know what I mean.” The rest of his guards guffawed and burst into laughter at the expense of Edgar as evident by his reddening cheeks.

They galloped away towards their destination leaving Edgar by himself.

~ ~ ~ ~

A small village started to emerge from the copse of trees. Few buildings littered the gap in the forest. Petyr instantly noticed a dozen men adorned in a pink tunic with surcoats displaying the bell of house Belmore. As they emerged those men quickly drew their swords. Petyr knew he had to reduce the tension as his men also readied their weapons. “Easy now! My name is Petyr Baelish. I’m here to meet Lord Belmore!”

A man with his chest visibly floating in the wind ran towards them and then stopped to pant and heave for breath. “Sh-sheath your swords, men! Lord Petyr means no harm.” He beckoned Petyr to come closer then clasped his hands and shook.

“It means a lot to me that you’re personally coming to meet me.”

“Likewise, Lord Petyr. What you’ve done to Gulltown is an inspiration to me.” He pointed at the stone brick building, likely the chief’s house. “You must be tired from the galloping. Please allow me to provide you with a drink.” A group of women came out and organised a table and poured a pint of wine under the roof of the building.

Here goes nothing. If it’s poisoned then I’m dead and hopefully, I’ll get reincarnated somewhere with flushing toilets. He gulped it down and was surprised by how sweet it was. “Arbor Gold. A truly generous drink, Lord Benedar.”

“Please, let’s dispense with the formalities. Just call me Ben.”

“Then call me Petyr.” They continued to drink. “I must relay Robar’s gratitude at you seeing his worth. He’s glad that you have turned against the traitors and joined his rightful ascension to the Moon Throne.”

“As long as he recognises my house’s sole claim on Strongsong. Then I’ll turn my banners against Bruce.” He chortled, “And of course, some charity be given to Strongsong. And to house Belmore.”

Petyr faked his surprise. He knew he was corrupt to the bone. Someone that needed to go after living their usefulness. He would be a blight to the future Civil Service of the Vale. A blight that would develop into a tumour. And tumours had to go so that the rest of the body survives. “This is new, my-lor- Ben. Why haven’t you communicated this through your letters? I would’ve gladly relayed your demands to Lord Robar in advance.”

“Let’s stop talking bullshit now. Shall we, Petyr?” Ben grinned and gestured for the camp followers. “Food? Freshly grilled venison seasoned with parsley, thyme and mushrooms!”

“I guess having a full stomach would make us talk straight?” Petyr jested causing the obese man to laugh in a baritone pitch.

As they ate, Ben shed away his jovial persona and replaced it with something more severe. “Now that we’re full… You know why I contacted you instead of Robar, right?”

“I have no idea-.“

“I said to talk straight otherwise I’ll leave and help crush your pitiful army. An army that was wounded hard by Deran’s charge. Also, don’t think I’m stupid. The lack of knights from Robar Arryn and Gerold Grafton paints something worrisome. Don’t you think? I can’t turn my banners only for you to be defeated with a cavalry charge. Then it’ll be over for me and my house.”

“I understand your concerns, but I have the utmost confidence that a thousand knights will answer Robar’s call and in a week’s time, those knights will battle against the remaining knights loyal to Bruce.”

“Even then, Petyr… Your footmen would be outnumbered. Even if I turn cloak, that would be 10,000 against 12,000.”

Petyr laughed at that. “Come now, Ben! You must’ve seen the amount of progress Gulltown is undertaking! Not only in terms of trade but it’s transforming into a steel exporter! We make so much steel that we can afford to equip – ALL, our men in armour and equip them with high-quality weapons. 9,000 people equipped with steel armour and weapons will win against levies armed with pitchforks any day. The only reason why I want your thousand men to turn cloak is because they’ll sow chaos in Bruce’s flanks. Allowing us to fight through the gaps and win. Way faster than normal and saving more lives in the process.”

“Hmmm. Interesting. You’re lucky I’ve validated those claims. The Battle of Timberton and the capture of Isembard Arryn was truly a masterful stroke, Lord Petyr.”

Yes, yes! Stroke my ego some more. He then realised something terrifying. Am I starting to sound like Maribelle? Yes? Yes? He shook his head as he focused on the matters at hand. “Thank you, Ben. With your help, we can defeat him and take the Eyrie. And you can have Strongsong all to yourself.”

“This is not enough. How do I know Robar’s reign is going to be stable? They’re a House that are looked down upon in the Vale.”

“Robar shall rule ‘As High as Honour’ I can assure you that. But I know that’s not enough to convince you. Gerold is marrying Yohn’s Royce daughter, Ysilla. That’ll tie the Royce to our cause. Then Robar is going to marry the widowed Lysa.” Petyr triumphantly smiled as he saw the man’s chin bobbing up and down in surprise.

“You have Lady Arryn?!”

“Yes. Rescued from a pirate ship. It seems the Gods are with her.”

“Indeed! That’ll further legitimise him to the Eyrie and the Tully’s may help him secure his grip on power!” The fat man stood up and eagerly shook Petyr’s hand.

It’s a shame he doesn’t realise that I would never let Hoster help in Robar’s affairs – Nay - the Vale’s affairs. I won’t let him get anywhere near Lysa.

“It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Ben. May we meet again.” I hope you prove your usefulness.