"That is only the vanguard. I believe he merely wishes to test our strength—and at the same time link up with the Freys," Jaime said, stepping toward the map and pointing to several key locations, drawing our attention. "Look—Tully has seized vast lands with virtually no resistance. At present, everything north of the Trident, from Riverrun to the Quiet Isle, belongs to the enemy. The Freys control the river's headwaters and the lands between the Blue and Green Forks, while the Greyjoys hold the entire Ironmen's Bay and the coastal castles. We are effectively cut off from the North. The Boltons will not be able to come to our aid. As for Tully himself, he has stationed an impressive garrison at the Ruby Ford, but he is in no hurry to cross to our side of the river."
"It is curious that the Arryns have chosen war," Qyburn said quietly. "There are rumors that Lysa Arryn dotes upon her sickly son Robert and shields him from every possible danger. And yet—such a step! She must understand the risk she is taking."
I could not help but smirk. Qyburn had only recently assumed his office, yet hearing the Master of Whisperers say, "there are rumors," was rather amusing. It would be much the same as if the Master of Coin remarked, "there is an opinion that bread prices will rise by a quarter next month."
"Littlefinger is as eloquent as a nightingale. He could talk a girl into sucking him off and then charge her for the honor." Tyrion burst out laughing. "No surprise he managed to fuck that loose Lysa through sheer bedroom persuasion."
Only Jaime joined in his laughter. The rest frowned, clearly signaling that this was not the time for jokes—especially not such ones.
"Tyrion, behave with dignity. You are not in a brothel or Flea Bottom," Genna reproved him. "What of our forces?"
"William Mooton is gathering all who can be gathered at Castle Darry. So do not worry, sister—your new lands have not yet suffered," Kevan replied.
"Have you sent Mooton the orders we discussed?" I asked Jaime.
"Yes. He is forbidden from acting independently or attempting to relieve the Ruby Ford. He is to gather strength, and if the Blackfish should suddenly grow foolish enough to cross the Trident, Mooton is simply to retreat."
"Lord Brynden Tully is one of the finest commanders in Westeros," Estermont cleared his throat cautiously. "Surely there is a reason he has taken so few troops with him. What is he counting on?"
"We believe this to be a probing maneuver," Kevan said, rising and joining Jaime at the map. "They are simply cutting down or forcing lone river lords to their side, burning crops, and seeking to exhaust us. The moment we commit substantial forces there, the Blackfish will retreat into the Vale."
"The Bloody Gate is practically impregnable," Mathis Rowan frowned, studying the map. "Without siege engines and a vast army, there is simply nothing to be done there."
"Just so," Jaime nodded. "The Vale cannot be taken without a fleet—and we have no fleet."
"Then first we must drive the Blackfish back into the Vale, separate them from the Freys, and blockade each in turn."
"A sound thought, Your Majesty," Pycelle nodded. Of late—especially after the incident with the High Septon—he had begun to flatter openly, and it gave me no pleasure. Rather, I felt a certain awkwardness before the other lords.
"Previously, the Bloody Gate was commanded by the Blackfish himself. Now it is held by Donnel Waynwood, who knows every stone and path there just as well," Jaime added.
"We shall, of course, blockade the Vale," Kevan said. "There is, however, a problem. With Littlefinger's full consent, Lysa Arryn has appointed her uncle as supreme commander, and all their forces obey him. Lord Royce, called Bronze Yohn, is assembling a second army in Gulltown. And if we blockade the Bloody Gate with too few troops, the Blackfish will bide his time, draw in Bronze Yohn's men—or other bannermen of the Vale—and crush us there like insects. Worse still, they could put their men on ships, sail from Gulltown, and strike directly at King's Landing. And that is devilishly dangerous!"
"I remember Littlefinger," Genna said quietly. "As a warrior he is nothing, but the men under his command have always worked with astonishing efficiency."
"He is sending letters throughout Westeros in which he continues to dispute Your Majesty's lawful birth," Rowan turned to me.
"Then we should begin sending letters of our own," Genna suggested.
"What do you propose, Grandmother?" I asked.
"Let us write to everyone that Baelish was involved in Jon Arryn's death, that he aided in the murder of King Robert, that he intends to destroy the lords of the Vale who oppose him—and even the boy Arryn himself—and that he plans to seize the full power of Westeros. In fact, let's accuse him of every mortal sin imaginable," she replied calmly.
"Now that is truly a worthy idea," I answered quite sincerely.
"Undoubtedly, we can achieve some effect," Kevan agreed.
Yes, the idea of driving a wedge between allies had merit. If I were honest, I still did not entirely understand how Littlefinger had managed to forge such a coalition, for each faction had its own goals—often in conflict with one another. The Greyjoys, as ever, wished to reclaim all the lands they had held before the Targaryens—that is, nearly the entire Trident valley and its tributaries, from the western coast to Harrenhal itself. The Freys intend to become a great house, to gain Riverrun, and take the place of the Tullys. The Golden Company dreams of returning home and placing the Young Griff upon the throne—and he is said to be a Blackfyre, which would mean he would seek to restore all Targaryen lands. And finally, Littlefinger himself prefers to play for the highest stakes, and I suspect he aims to become nothing less than King of Westeros and found a new dynasty.
And how, precisely, were all these houses and men supposed to resolve their contradictions? For the moment, I could not see it.