"At last, a proper fight!"
"How can we suffer rebels who follow false King Renly against our divinely blessed sovereign to draw another breath? Every last one should taste steel!"
"I, Ser Marq Piper, would count it an honor to lead the van!"
Lord after lord, knight after knight pressed forward with eager declarations, each seeking to outdo the others in protestations of loyalty and hunger for battle. Their voices rose like flames feeding upon themselves, filling the night air with promises of blood and glory.
The martial fervor grew thick as morning fog upon the Trident.
Yet into this rising storm of war-lust came an unexpected voice of restraint.
"We should show mercy," said Ser Jaime Lannister, his words falling like cold water upon hot steel.
The fevered discussion flickered and died as though doused by winter rain. Every face upon the glowing screen turned toward the Kingslayer with expressions ranging from surprise to outright disbelief.
Mercy? From the man who had earned his name by driving a blade through the back of the king he had sworn to protect? The very notion seemed to turn the world upside down.
"Mayhaps we should defeat them first, then speak of mercy," suggested a knight bearing the arms of House Blackwood—white ravens clustered around a dead weirwood upon a field of black and red. His tone carried the careful respect due the Kingslayer's reputation, yet his meaning was clear enough.
It was telling that even among this gathered host, the awe reserved for King Joffrey himself far exceeded what they felt for his most notorious knight.
Lord Kevan Lannister, Master of Ships, remained silent as stone, offering no guidance to break the impasse. Thus emboldened, the assembled commanders pressed their case with renewed vigor, each adding his voice to the growing chorus.
Every argument, stripped of its flowery language and martial posturing, carried the same simple message: Attack with everything they had.
Littlefinger observed this display without surprise. The composition of their force practically guaranteed such discord.
Twelve thousand horse they commanded—eight thousand from the Westerlands, two thousand from the Vale, and one thousand each from the Riverlands and the capital. A patchwork host if ever there was one.
The officers who led them came from different worlds entirely. Some knew each other as brothers-in-arms, others were strangers bound only by temporary alliance. Old friendships warred with older enmities. Without the magical communication that allowed unified command, they would likely be at each other's throats before ever reaching Stone Hedge.
Yet this chaos could have been avoided entirely.
Ser Kevan alone commanded ten thousand seasoned cavalry. Add the knights of the Crownlands and newly-raised levies, and their force would have been more than sufficient to take Stone Hedge without requiring this delicate balancing of competing interests.
If the concern had been potential rebellion among the northmen garrisoned in King's Landing, transferring them to active duty made little sense.
The capital was no longer the vulnerable city it had once been. The great structures rising from its ancient foundations served as fortresses in their own right, able to withstand assault from within as well as without. More importantly, the all-seeing eyes of the magical screens made rebellion all but impossible.
Any would-be traitor would find himself facing the city watch and royal inquisitors before he could so much as whisper sedition to his closest friend.
Such fears were groundless, which meant...
Was this some oversight? Had King Joffrey failed to anticipate this complication?
The very thought of that terrible name sent tremors through Littlefinger's restored frame. For a moment, phantom pains—memories of agony both physical and spiritual—threatened to overwhelm him. He pushed such delusions aside with desperate force.
No. Littlefinger transformed his fear into understanding.
Joffrey had become something beyond mortal comprehension, a king whose schemes operated on levels mere men could barely glimpse. This confusion, this tension among the ranks—it had to be intentional.
But why? Littlefinger bent all his considerable intellect to the puzzle, seeking to divine the royal will.
His gift for reading hearts and minds had carried him from customs officer to Master of Coin, had won him freedom when Varys still languished in whatever hell the King had devised for him. If he could but discern Joffrey's purpose and align himself accordingly, power would flow back into his hands like water finding its course.
Littlefinger held to this faith as a drowning man clutches driftwood.
Why this complex mixture of forces? What purpose did it serve?
The debate raged on within the magical screen, voices rising and falling like waves upon a storm-tossed shore. Littlefinger studied each speaker with the intensity of a maester examining ancient texts.
Ser Symon Templeton of Ninestars maintained his position with characteristic stubbornness.
Littlefinger knew him well, had visited his halls during that long-ago journey to Riverrun. Ninestars had been their second stop, and despite its master's cold demeanor, it had provided honest hospitality. Hot soup and fresh meat, vegetables and fruit, all served without mockery or contempt.
For years afterward, young Petyr had harbored fond memories of that place.
Until he learned of the marriage ties that bound Ninestars to House Stark—how the sister of Eddard's grandfather had wed a son of Runestone, and their daughter in turn had married into the Templeton line.
The Starks. Always the bloody Starks, reaching their icy fingers into every corner of his life.
From his position in Gulltown, Littlefinger had made it his business to learn everything about the great houses of the Vale. Knowledge was the coin he dealt in, information the weapon he wielded.
Ninestars commanded perhaps the most prosperous stretch of coastline in all the Vale, could summon thousands to its banners at need. Yet Ser Symon Templeton hungered for more—always more.
Peace had been the enemy of his ambitions. Without wars to fight or enemies to conquer, how could a man prove his worth? How could he claim the glory that seemed always just beyond his grasp?
Thus had Symon Templeton become the Vale's most restless spirit, forever seeking tournaments to win or disputes to settle. Any excuse to draw steel and make men remember his name.
Now war had come at last, and that long-suppressed hunger blazed in his pale eyes like wildfire.
Littlefinger's gaze fell upon the Templeton arms—nine six-pointed stars arranged around a central seven upon a field of black and gold.
Six-pointed stars. Seven-pointed stars. How fitting.
Which faith would Ninestars ultimately serve? The old gods and the new, or the revolutionary doctrine King Joffrey had begun to preach? Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.
"Lord Kevan, Ser Jaime, grant me the honor of leading the van!" Ser Donnel Waynwood pressed forward with earnest enthusiasm. "Let Ironoaks sound the horn that heralds victory!"
The second son of Lady Anya Waynwood was barely twenty, too young to have been at Ironoaks during Littlefinger's childhood visit. Yet looking upon him now, the family resemblance was unmistakable.
Ser Donnel possessed the sort of open, honest features that invited trust—the gift of his bloodline. His mother had worn the same expression when she welcomed a frightened boy into her halls all those years ago.
Littlefinger sighed inwardly at the memory.
Ironoaks had been their third stop, and Lady Anya Waynwood had seemed the very image of noble grace. For a time, young Petyr had seen in her the kindly aunt he had never known, a gentle soul who offered comfort without condition.
Only later had he learned to look deeper, to see the steel beneath the silk.
Lady Anya already had three sons of her own blood, plus one she had fostered—Ser Harrold Hardyng, called "Harry the Heir" by those who understood the game of thrones.
For according to the laws of succession, should sickly Robert Arryn perish without issue, Harrold Hardyng would inherit the Eyrie and all the Vale besides.
Could anyone truly believe that Ironoaks harbored no designs upon such a prize?
Looking upon Donnel Waynwood's guileless features, Littlefinger felt only suspicion. He had learned too much of the world to be deceived by pleasant smiles and earnest words.
This campaign raised questions that gnawed at him like hungry wolves.
Lady Lysa trusted no one—that much was certain. Though she dared not refuse the Iron Throne's summons outright, her intention to limit the Vale's commitment had been plain as sunrise.
The knights who served her directly, those whose loyalty to the Eyrie was absolute, should have remained safely within their mountain fastness.
Yet here they were, far from home and eager for battle.
To whom, then, did their true allegiance belong?
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