The moment Polliver stepped in, he stood right in front of Raff.
He was tall, and standing there, he could even be seen by Gregor.
Gregor was even taller, and in the hall, there were only a few people, everyone was visible to each other.
But Polliver clearly wanted this mission badly: to go to King's Landing and capture Petyr Baelish, the Littlefinger.
Raff smiled broadly, pretending not to care, but inside, he was full of anticipation.
Who wouldn't want to earn merit?
Littlefinger was just the Master of Coin, no guards, no fighting skills, and his lands were in the Fingers, a moss-covered, barren peninsula with only a few fishing families. The "Lord of the Little Finger" was unmarried and single. Capturing a man like that was straightforward, clean, and trouble-free.
The executioner, Dunsen, stared sharply at Ser Gregor, craving this task. It would bring honor and glory. Sweet-tongue had already done great service, helping Lord Tywin train the Westerlands generals in "Whistle Commands" for the army, and now he felt it was his turn.
Scribe Mark stood at the back of the four men, knowing he had no chance. This frustrated him. As the quartermaster, he never got to be at the front lines in battle or win glory, that was always left to the likes of Raff and the others. He managed the village's affairs, armory, stables, granaries, lands, miners, and people, but such duties rarely brought any recognition. The tasks were numerous and tedious. If he handled them all personally without delegating, he'd be overwhelmed. Yet to outsiders, he appeared idle.
It was a thankless job, the quartermaster's role.
Gregor looked at his four loyal followers, knowing each of them wanted the mission.
"Scribe!" Ser Gregor called.
"Yes, milord!" Mark replied weakly, expecting to be sent out again to check on the stables, buildings, or crops. Now he even had to oversee the chapel's oil, servants, cleaning, and food.
"This time, you're going to King's Landing to capture Littlefinger," Gregor said.
Scribe froze.
"Choose how many people you need and pick them from the cavalry," the knight added.
The Scribe's head exploded with excitement.
He felt like he was floating.
He could hardly believe it.
"…Millord… I'm going to King's Landing… with so many… duties in the village…"
"Lady Jeyne is watching over them," Gregor said firmly. "Thomasson manages the stables, Lady Ellen the kitchen, Abbott the armory, Delia the village, the chapel has the witch, Harry the raven master, Polliver the miners, Raff and Dunsen the cavalry. What are you worried about?"
"My lord, I want to take the Scribe with me; he needs a helper," Polliver stammered, making awkward gestures to sound more convincing.
"He needs help, but not from you three. Scribe needs to prove himself," Gregor replied.
"My lord, when do we leave?"
"As soon as possible. Figure out how many men you need, whether to ride horseback or take a carriage, I don't care. One thing you must understand: you must capture Littlefinger without letting the Spider know. His little birds are everywhere, especially at every major city gate. Though called 'little birds,' many gate guards and even cobblers on the street might be Lord Varys' spies."
"Yes, I understand what to do now," Mark smiled, his expression relaxed. The confidence that this opportunity brought him was unmistakable; a happy event always lifted his spirits.
"Tell me, how will you proceed?"
"Littlefinger is just the Master of Coin, so it's easy. I'll go to his brothel and say there's trouble at the mint that needs his attention. Then we'll wait outside the city for him to leave," The Scribe explained.
"Good!"
"My lord, if anything unexpected happens, I can handle it," Dunsen said.
"You three aren't going," Gregor said firmly. "Scribe is new, the Spider doesn't know him, Littlefinger doesn't know him, and he's young, only in his teens. Nobody will suspect a kid with a friendly smile."
Polliver, Dunsen, and Raff were all disappointed.
Raff's disappointment stayed inside, Polliver's was written all over his face, and Dunsen's showed in his heavy breathing, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
═══════✧❁✧═══════
From the Westerlands' Crag to the North's Winterfell, thousands of miles stretched out. Large groups would take two months to travel, smaller ones a month. But ravens flew directly through the air, cutting the distance in half or more, avoiding the long route through Golden Tooth to cross the Red Fork into the Riverlands, flying straight north over the Western Mountains, over the Iron Islands, then entering the ancient burial grounds of the First Men. Not far beyond that lay Winterfell, seat of House Stark, Lords of the North.
Maester Harry released ravens day and night. Within a day and night, the message reached Winterfell. Through the Maester Rowan at the Tower of the Maesters, the Lord's letter was delivered to Lord Tyger Serrett. The lord, upon reading it, immediately responded without delay, sending his own raven before dawn. Meanwhile, the ravens from Crag rested and ate corn and meat scraps at Charlot's hold.
After another day and night, Maester Harry arrived, holding the wax-sealed reply from Lord Tyger Serrett.
"Lord Tywin has ordered: upon receiving Lord Tyger's letter, deliver it to him immediately at any time."
Tywin's heart could not calm after the witch's prophecy that the Westerlands and the North might go to war. So he stayed at Clegane's Keep, waiting solely for the raven's return.
This was no trivial matter.
For a Lord, nothing was greater than the outbreak of war.
Potter dared not delay. He went to the third floor and knocked on Lord Tywin's door.
At dawn, the Lord rose, candle in hand, breaking the wax seal on Lord Tyger's letter.
The maester hastily took the candle as Lord Tywin unfurled the parchment, which bore a short message:
"My lord, Lord Eddard's fourth son, Bran Stark, fell from the ruined tower, breaking both legs and falling into unconsciousness, remaining unawakened for half a month. No one witnessed Bran's fall, so Lord Tyger does not know if it was an accident or if he was pushed."
As Lord Tywin read the letter a second time, Maester Harry stood stunned.
The witch's prophecy was, at least in part, true: the little wolf had broken his legs and remained unconscious.
The witch was in the chapel at Clegane's Keep, how could she know what happened at Winterfell?
But this was the power of witches, prophets, and shapeshifters.
The Maester recalled the legendary 'One Thousand and One Eyes', the omnipotent Brynden Rivers.
Since the witch had foreseen the little wolf falling and breaking his legs, was it an accident or was he pushed?
The prophecy said a lion pushed a little wolf.
Tywin slowly rolled up the parchment and placed it over the candle flame. The parchment curled and burned.
"Maester, how many gold dragons did the steward bring with him?"
⚔────────
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