From the very next day, waves of purchase orders poured out from the Governor's Palace of Gulltown—one after another after another.
It was as if glittering gold dragons were springing and dancing right before people's eyes. First a few lucky souls couldn't stop grinning; soon more and more faces broke into wide smiles.
As the circle of beneficiaries grew, many began to think: this self-proclaimed temporary protector of Gulltown, Earl Crabb… perhaps… he's actually a good man?
On the ninth day that the marsh marigold banner flew over Gulltown, the doors of the lord's hall stood open. For the first time, Earl Crabb heard the petitions of the townsfolk.
Afterward, word spread in whispers: Lord Crabb is a kindly governor.
From dawn till dusk, the petition lines continued—seven days in a row.
At the same time, people suddenly noticed that the villains who had long preyed on their neighborhoods were vanishing one by one. That made them, without thinking, overlook the fact that the blue-cloaked patrols were growing more numerous.
Gong… gong… gong…
The great bell of Gulltown's largest square began to toll.
Then the townsfolk saw a sight they would never forget so long as they lived.
Accusations were read aloud in a ringing voice—and then heads rolled.
Fear spread; yet very quickly the people realized their lives had become easier than before.
Were they afraid of the new governor, whose reign of blood seemed to cling to the streets? Of course. But they feared even more the petty monsters who had always lived close at hand.
Ordinarily, there would have been no escaping such men in a lifetime. But… their new governor was "cruel" enough to erase those men directly from their lives.
As time passed, they grew to admire the governor's bloody methods.
Laughter and cheer slowly blossomed among the common folk. In private, they began to call their new governor, almost fondly, the Bloody Earl.
South of the Eyrie, in the camp of the League of the Just, the flower of the Vale had gathered—Houses Royce, Waynwood, Hunter, Redfort, Belmore, and Templeton, a thousand men from each: six thousand in all.
Yesterday, the coalition had made a token assault against the Eyrie—an act to warn Lysa Tully, snug within those heights.
"My lords, a siege will have to do. With our numbers, the Eyrie cannot be taken."
"My sources say they've stocked a good store of food in there. Only the gods know how long we'll be stuck."
"Why haven't our envoys returned?"
"Gods have mercy—she poisoned her own husband. The woman's a madwoman!"
"She won't dare harm envoys now, I think. Poison can be slipped in secret; but out here thousands of eyes are on her—unless…"
"Unless she truly is mad?"
"May the gods not forgive her!"
"—Any word from the Bloody Gate, from the Blackfish?"
"Brynden Tully says he will not meddle in the quarrel between the League and Lady Lysa—but he insists we not interfere with sending vegetables up to the Eyrie's basket."
"What does he mean by that? Isn't that the same as taking the side of his sin-soaked niece? Where's his knightly honor?!"
"Perhaps that's why the late Lord Tully didn't care for his brother."
"The Bloody Gate's conduct makes us a jest. I say we seal the Gates of the Moon and cut the Eyrie's supplies."
"My lords—a raven from Gulltown!"
As Bronze Yohn Royce and the others met in council, news arrived: Gulltown had fallen.
Ser Symond Templeton of Nine Stars sprang up. "This is an invasion—a crime!"
Lady Anya Waynwood of Ironoaks read the letter, frowning. "Earl Crabb of the Crab Claw Peninsula?"
Her once-brown hair had gone gray; wrinkles webbed her eyes; the skin at her jaw had loosened.
She finished and passed the letter to Bronze Yohn. "The Graveson family is gone—forever."
Ser Symond slammed a fist on the table. "Savages! They must pay blood for blood!"
Lady Anya flicked him a look to sit. Calmly: "Read the letter first."
Bronze Yohn's ash-gray eyes hid under heavy brows. He read, brooded, and handed the message to the bearded Lord Jedwood Hunter of Longbow Hall.
Silence stretched.
"At face value," Lady Anya said, "the Earl of the Crab Claw moves in King Joffrey's name against the Eyrie, and brands House Graveson Lysa's accomplices."
Lord Jedwood snorted. "Better call it a half-wild house's revenge."
All present knew well the peninsula's grudge toward Vale lords—their own houses had helped seal off the Crab Claw.
Ser Symond sneered. "With that little army of theirs?"
"Do not make light of any foe, ser," Lady Anya cut in.
She glanced around. "My lords—might Earl Crabb be allying with Lysa Tully?"
Bronze Yohn shook his head. "Whoever sits the Iron Throne cannot stomach Lysa's crimes."
He folded his hands. "We all know Stannis is mustering in the south. A great battle for King's Landing is unavoidable."
He paused. "What I cannot see is why the Lannister Queen Mother would send her creature into the Vale now."
Lady Anya's eyes narrowed. "Earl Royce—what are you thinking?"
"I had guessed the Lannisters wanted a hand in the Vale. Now…" He shook his head. "They have enemies everywhere. It gains them little."
Lord Bennedar Belmore of Strongsong, silent till now, rubbed his pear-shaped belly. "I hear grain remains short in the capital. Might the Queen Regent be eyeing the Vale's harvests?"
Many nodded. Lady Anya demurred. "Stannis Baratheon will not grant the Lannisters so much time. Three months—at most—to bring the south to heel."
Bronze Yohn tapped the arm of his chair. "We must choose quickly: Lady Lysa… the Crab Claw… which does the League face first?"
He'd barely finished when the captain of guards strode in. "My lord—Lord Petyr Baelish begs audience."
"Petyr?" Bronze Yohn blinked. "How is he here?"
Ser Symond's voice was edged with scorn. "Perhaps he's come to admire the mighty fortress upon the Fingers."
Low laughter rippled through the tent.
Petyr Baelish entered with elegant steps, lips curved. He bowed slightly. "My lords—my lady. An honor."
Once seated, Bronze Yohn asked at once, "Petyr—why are you here?"
Petyr spread his hands with a smile. "Surely you're not asking about the rumors in King's Landing, Lord Royce?"
"You may refuse to answer," Bronze Yohn said, holding his gaze.
All eyes fixed on Littlefinger. He sighed, theatrically. "It seems an explanation is needed."
"You all know I was fostered by Lord Tully; I grew up at Riverrun with his children…"
His eyes drifted over them; he shrugged. "Then at Lord Stark's side I heard what Lady Lysa had done. I could hardly play the mute."
Lady Anya's eyes flickered. "I heard you were thrown into the black cells."
A tremor crossed Petyr's gray-green eyes—but he smiled as at a jest. "My lady of Waynwood, you should trust Lord Stark's honor. He merely disliked a man who, for personal reasons, sometimes forgets his honor."
Bronze Yohn nodded slightly. "Then why are you here? For whom?"
Petyr let the smile fade. "My lords, my lady—for the League of the Just, and for peace in the Vale."
A beat of silence. Ser Symond scoffed. "Ha. Littlefinger—this is the Vale, not the Red Keep for word games. Did you think we brought armies to take a stroll?"
Petyr opened his hands. "That, too, sounds like a fine idea."
Steel rasped as Symond half-rose, hand on hilt, eyes hot. Petyr glanced to Bronze Yohn. "Drawing steel at a parley is not a honorable thing, Lord Royce."
The others soothed Symond back to his seat.
When the tent quieted, Bronze Yohn asked, "Do you speak for Lady Lysa?"
Petyr nodded—then shook his head.
Bronze Yohn lifted a hand to still the murmurs. "We do not care for riddles, Petyr. Speak plainly."
A helpless shrug. "Very well. Tell me, my lords—and my lady—what do you intend to do with Robert Arryn's mother? What is your end?"
Glances crossed the tent; then all eyes turned to Bronze Yohn.
"Lysa Tully must face public trial," he said.
Petyr smiled faintly. "Robert Arryn is young and sickly. The poor boy."
Bronze Yohn answered the unasked question. "I will take him to Runestone. I'll make of him a knight to make Lord Jon Arryn proud."
"Runestone?" Petyr tilted his head. "Why not Ironoaks or Longbow Hall—or some other lord's keep?"
Lord Bennedar Belmore raised his voice. "Anywhere will do. Lord Robert will rotate among our castles."
Lady Anya's sigh cut through. "Your needling is clumsy, Lord Baelish. You won't split the League."
Petyr's eyes glinted. "My lady Waynwood—my lords—do you truly speak for the Vale?"
The air thickened. He went on, mild as milk. "I have many friends in Gulltown. Of late I heard ill news. I think you know what has happened there?"
He folded his hands. "This touches the honor of the Vale. My proposal is… that we first deal with our common enemy. What say you?"
The Red Keep — Small Council
Varys could not keep the fear from his plump face. "Your Grace, Queen Mother Cersei, my little birds have brought particulars."
"Speak," said Cersei Lannister.
Varys bowed his head. "My birds say Renly Baratheon was murdered in his own camp—horribly. A blade slid through steel and bone as if it were cheese, slicing his throat from the lobe of his left ear to his right."
Grand Maester Pycelle blinked awake. "Most… unbelievable."
Cersei frowned. "Do you know who did it? Stannis?"
Varys spread his hands, helpless. "Your Grace—his sudden death has bred rumors like mushrooms in the dark. A groom says he was slain by one of the Rainbow Guard… a laundress swears Stannis crept in with his magic sword… some soldiers think the killer was a woman, but cannot agree which—one says a maiden Renly spurned, another the bed-girl who served him the night before, a third dares whisper that the Little Rose of Highgarden is the true culprit…"
Cersei cut him off, impatient. "You would waste my time with gossip? I want the truth."
The lioness bared her teeth; Varys drew his head down between his shoulders.
Tyrion grinned. "At least we may be sure Renly is dead. Pity—King Joffrey will be disappointed. I hear he had a forest of spikes ready for Renly's head."
Cersei sniffed, pride stiff in her voice. "They'll do nicely to mount Stannis's."
Tyrion blinked. Oh, sweet sister—Renly's death is no boon. He had hoped the Baratheon brothers would bleed each other in the south. Now Stannis stood the true foe of House Lannister.
He turned to Varys. "My Master of Whisperers—what of Renly's hundred thousand?"
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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