Beric Dondarrion
The war was unfolding in a rather strange way…
Littlefinger had grown gaunt, lost both sleep and appetite, and dark circles had settled beneath his eyes. It was clear that the man was doing everything in his power to stay alive—and to make something happen.
At first, the Blackfish, alongside the Freys, held the Ruby Ford. Then they were pushed back and retreated to the Crossroads, where another battle took place, after which Tully fell back to the Twins.
To Beric, before he understood the full plan, it all looked like a mistake. But the truth became clear soon enough.
The northmen had marched to aid King Joffrey, only to betray him and strike instead. At that moment, Littlefinger might have succeeded—but, unfortunately, he did not.
Many lords from the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Stormlands perished. But the king and the Kingslayer survived, and that was the worst of it.
The royal army was pushed back to the Ruby Ford, but that was as far as it went. The Blackfish lacked the resources to press the attack, while fresh forces arrived to reinforce the king with each passing day.
As for the Greyjoys, on whom Littlefinger had placed such hopes—they got their teeth kicked in, gone quiet, and now limited themselves to scattered raids rather than full-scale war.
Meanwhile, the Reach had raised a massive army. Command was given to Randyll Tarly, and in less than two months he completely crushed the Golden Company and arrived at the Ruby Ford.
Dondarrion had never liked prying into the hearts and minds of others, nor did he offer advice unless asked. He remained silent. But that did not stop him from thinking, and he simply couldn't understand how former enemies who hated each other had managed to unite: Freys, Boltons, and the knights of the Vale under Brynden Tully. They could not remain together long and still stay loyal. Sooner or later, the rats would flee a sinking ship.
And that the ship was sinking had already become clear to everyone.
Beric himself did not care. Like Thoros, he wanted only one thing—for this absurd farce to end as quickly as possible.
Randyll Tarly drove the Blackfish from the Trident, and the rats fled. The Boltons and the northmen withdrew their forces, simply abandoning everyone, thinking they could sit tight in their North for a long time and hold Moat Cailin.
The Freys followed suit. The allied army fell apart, and the Blackfish led what remained back into the Vale. He assigned Ser Donnel Waynwood to guard and defend the Bloody Gate, while he himself rode to the Eyrie to assess the situation and consider their prospects.
"What's new?" he asked Beric when they met again. The Lightning Lord could not help but notice how sharply Brynden Tully had aged and declined. It seemed as though the man had lost—or was on the verge of losing—something deeply important, something that defined his actions and motives and helped him preserve his honor.
"New?" Beric gave a faint, humorless smile. They sat in a small chamber Lysa Arryn had given him, slowly working through a decent ale. Gusts of wind battered the cloudy window again and again, while cold drafts seeped mercilessly through the cracks. "I've never seen such a nest of vipers. Lysa Arryn adores her Littlefinger—practically worships him. And he, trying to keep her loyal, fucks her senseless and showers her with every kind of attention—because she's his last hope. As for the rest of them, they don't give a damn about him!"
"Seriously?"
"Mm." Beric nodded. "The lords of the Vale hardly bother to hide how much they hate Littlefinger for stirring up this mess and putting them in danger. To be honest, they have no desire to fight and don't understand why—or for whom—they should do it."
"That's bad, but… expected. What else?"
"The Hound has managed to quarrel with just about everyone. Arya nearly killed Robert, and Lysa has forbidden her from leaving her chambers. The Kettleblacks are drinking, bedding whores, and enjoying themselves. Rumor has it Bronze Yohn is gathering men to depose Baelish. Your niece has daily fits of hysteria and suspects that all of us want to separate her from Littlefinger. All in all, a nest of vipers worse than the Red Keep."
"And you?"
"And I just watch—and wait to see how it ends."
They reached no conclusions—there was nothing left to decide, nothing left to plan.
*
The king marched out from the capital at the head of an impressive fleet. At the same time, Randyll Tarly, with the help of the mountain clans of the Mountains of the Moon, managed to seize the supposedly impregnable Bloody Gate and slaughter its entire garrison.
It had to be admitted—the campaign had been planned and executed brilliantly. Tarly's host laid siege to the Gates of the Moon, while King Joffrey landed at Gulltown.
Lysa Arryn and Littlefinger realized the trap had snapped shut. The atmosphere in the castle, already far from calm or welcoming, became utterly unbearable.
"I couldn't care less," Thoros said calmly. Lysa Arryn, clearly hedging her bets, had ordered them back to the Gates of the Moon, and they were now on their way there. "Man proposes, and R'hllor disposes."
The Blackfish went with them. He had been appointed commander of the Gates of the Moon.
The defense of Gulltown was led by Bronze Yohn. For two days, the Arryns held their principal port, but their strength failed them, and they were forced to retreat.
The agony had begun.
It might drag on—but its outcome was no longer in doubt.
(End of Chapter)
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