"Lady Arryn, I will repeat myself one final time—your son Robert will depart with me for King's Landing. You will remain in the Eyrie, though you may assemble whatever retinue you wish for him. This matter is settled. The boy will leave the Vale and accept the hospitality of the Crown."
We were all gathered inside a vast royal pavilion, seated in comfortable half-chairs around a large table.
Servants circulated with light refreshments, refilling goblets with wine. Outside, a sizable guard stood watch; now and then came the whinny of horses, bursts of laughter, and the distant clang of a hammer on an anvil. No doubt someone was having a horse reshod at the smithy. The fresh, cool air was invigorating even within the tent. It carried the scent of snow lying high in the mountains, of food cooking over open fires, and of damp earth. Yet the stench of a great camp dulled and muddled all other smells.
By this point, we had been speaking for quite some time. Lysa Arryn had resisted with all her might, trying every possible angle to influence the decision to send Robert to King's Landing. When Lord Aemon Estermont, seated to my left, declared that a indemnity of one million golden dragons would be imposed upon House Arryn and all their vassals for disobedience and rebellion, she had almost immediately relented. It seemed this measure was becoming something of a habit for me. I wasn't sure whether it marked the beginning of a good tradition or a bad one. If the lords knew that any potential uprising would be assessed at such a cost, would it help prevent conflicts—or, on the contrary, encourage them?
Edmure Tully had raised a million in a month. The Vale was wealthier; it would be easier for the Arryns to pay such a sum. Even so, I chose not to demand more of them—that would be a truly unwise decision. Let the great houses understand that the king "combs" them all with the same brush, extracting the same price each time. And let them decide for themselves whether they are willing to risk it.
Thus, Lysa had agreed to the indemnity, yet she continued to fight with all her strength for Robert to remain in the Eyrie.
"Your Majesty, Robert is a frail and sickly boy, and he is the last direct heir of House Arryn," Lysa tried another approach. I found the woman thoroughly unpleasant—shrill, hysterical, barely restraining her ambitions, she seemed perpetually frayed. I had never seen Catelyn Stark in person, but her image remained in the memories of the former Joffrey. Whatever his feelings toward the Starks, Lady Catelyn had appeared as a serious, beautiful, and at times even majestic woman. She had been capable of Deeds!
None of that could be seen in her younger sister. The only feature worthy of note was her thick, luxurious auburn hair.
"Precisely. Robert is frail and sickly, and what we all require is a stern and strong future Warden of the East," I replied, noticing how the lords surrounding Lysa straightened in their seats, their expressions shifting to satisfaction and complete agreement. Earlier—especially after Estermont had named the sum of the indemnity—they had clearly grown disheartened. "By royal decree, Lord Jon Royce is appointed acting Warden of the East until Robert comes of age. If your son fails to meet the expectations placed upon him, that will be… most unfortunate—for House Arryn."
A ripple of approval and interest passed among the assembled lords. History was unfolding before their eyes. And if Robert failed to change—who could say where it might lead? Perhaps the Royces would become a new Great House.
And as I looked at the imposing figure of Bronze Lord Jon , I understood that he was now interested in me—and in the continuation of the policy I had just declared.
"The gods will not approve of forcibly separating a mother from her son," Lysa Arryn already looked older than her years, but now she seemed to age further still. She did love her son—that much was undeniable—but she clearly failed to see that with her hysterical, overbearing attention and smothering care, she was turning the boy into a spineless, whimpering wreck. Such a future lord of the Vale might suit me, but something within resisted allowing a once-great house to fall so low.
"Your son will be placed under the tutelage of a master-at-arms," Randyll Tarly interjected, coming to my aid. He spoke sharply, curtly, with open disapproval… To a renowned warrior, such a child was like a spit in the soul. If he had cast his own son Sam off to the Watch, what would he have done with Robert? "I trust you remember that this is your younger brother, Lord Edmure Tully?"
"My brother… my younger brother…" Lysa Arryn pressed her thin lips together in disapproval, but then fell unexpectedly silent. Her voice carried a mix of displeasure tinged with contempt. I, however, was growing weary of the situation. Why was I wasting so much time trying to demonstrate royal mercy and magnanimity? Kings could afford such qualities—but when they were not accepted, they should be quick to abandon them.
"Lady Arryn, I advise you for the last time to be more accommodating. Surely you do not wish me to begin an inquiry into the circumstances surrounding Lord Jon Arryn's death?"
I admit, it was a low blow—well below the belt. I knew nothing for certain, but I suspected that it had not been Cersei who sent the former Hand of King Robert to his grave, but Littlefinger and Lysa Arryn.
"Very well, Your Grace, as you say," Lysa Arryn said, though despite all her breeding and manners, she had gone pale. It was an unmistakable capitulation. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the lords of the Vale exchanging puzzled glances.
(End of Chapter)
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