"I never imagined Lord Petyr Baelish would do something so terrible," Sansa said. "Why would he do this?"
"Why would he do it? It's like asking why a bear shits in the woods—it's instinct." Tyrion sat beside her, reading a letter. "Hurting others comes as naturally to him as breathing."
Sansa pulled her blanket tighter. The mountain air had grown even colder. For days now the wind had howled through the peaks, temperatures dropping sharply. Soon, once the heavy snows arrived, the pass would seal, and the Bloody Gate would be closed.
"When can we go down?" she asked.
"In two or three days," Tyrion said. "As soon as Lord Horton's army arrives, we'll descend. Move somewhere warmer."
"What about Lord Royce? I saw him leave in quite a hurry with his men."
"He went to Gulltown ahead of us," Tyrion replied. "These lords send letters faster than they send armies. We don't have many allies we can truly rely on."
"Has Lord Grafton of Gulltown chosen Littlefinger's side?"
"No word yet," Tyrion said. "But considering Littlefinger worked in Gulltown for years, and he and Lord Grafton are as close as brothers, and with Runestone so nearby—even if they claim they'll stand with us, Lord Rois will still take over the defenses there."
"Even I know it's good to hold both the Bloody Gate and Gulltown," Sansa said. "What of the other lords?"
"Lady Wywood of Ironoaks is easily understood. Harrold Hardyng is her foster son. And though her second son, Donnel Wywood, is held at the Bloody Gate, I doubt she would forgo the chance to see her foster son rule the Vale. House Melcolm of Old Anchor is closely tied to them—they'll rise or fall together."
"Old Lord Hunter of Longbow Hall died suddenly. His two younger sons accuse their elder brother, Gilwood Hunter, of murdering their father for the title," Tyrion continued. "Gilwood Hunter has written to me, offering support—provided we clear his name and uncover the real killer."
"A mess," Sansa said.
"Quite so," Tyrion agreed. "Several lesser houses—Coldwater of Coldwater Burn, Tollett of Grey Glen, and House Shett—have also pledged their support. They're all vassals of Yohn Royce."
"Lord Benedar Belmore and Lord Lyonel Corbray refuse to recognize Tywin as Great Lord," Tyrion said with a frown, drumming his fingers on the table. "Strongsong and Heart's Home sit upstream and downstream of the same river, both castles deep in the Mountains of the Moon. Belmore claims he has suffered constant raids from the savages and will never accept a barbarian as his liege lord."
Sansa waited silently, expecting Tyrion's proposed solution.
"On Timett's behalf, I've promised him appropriate compensation. And while Timett serves as Warden of the Vale, the mountain clans will not descend to raid," Tyrion said. "But Lord Corbray won't be so easily persuaded. His wife is young and beautiful—oh, nowhere near you, of course—but Littlefinger arranged that marriage. He won't come to our side."
"I'm tired," Sansa murmured, her head spinning. "So many lords, all scheming for themselves."
"In broad terms, there are three kinds," Tyrion said. "Those who support us—they acknowledge Timett's seniority in the succession and see profit in backing him. Like Bronze, who married his daughter to the lord, or those who think a Great Lord with no roots in the Vale won't be able to suppress them."
"Then there are those opposed to us—who despise Timett's barbarian blood or remain loyal to Littlefinger. Those we will have to crush."
"The third, and largest group, remain neutral. Anyone with eyes can see this is a struggle between Yohn Royce and Petyr Baelish. Even I am just a side dish."
Tyrion finished and turned to find his wife already asleep. She had been exhausted these past days.
He quietly gathered the letters, then pulled out another set of documents—the ledgers seized from Littlefinger in King's Landing. The figures Qyburn extracted under interrogation had never matched the actual accounts.
This seemingly hopeless tangle of accounts that had once left him utterly baffled was finally beginning to take shape.
Littlefinger had borrowed heavily from the Iron Bank, using the Iron Throne's credit under Robert Baratheon as collateral. On paper, the funds had been spent on various frivolous, non-profitable entertainments, leaving the Iron Throne with a deficit of more than six million gold dragons. In reality, more than half of that coin had slid quietly into his own pockets.
Yet the Vale and Gulltown were nowhere near as wealthy as Tyrion once imagined. They looked ordinary, almost plain—nothing like the gilded Westerlands or bustling Lannisport.
Money breeds money. So where had he sunk it?
And then there was the secret pact between him, the eight-legged spider, and Illyrio of Pentos. If they marched the Golden Company back into Westeros… seized the Iron Throne…
they could simply declare the Baratheon debts void, refuse to honor them, and let the Iron Bank choke on the loss.
But that was only the shallow end of Littlefinger's schemes.
Years ago, Braavos had crushed Pentos and forced an unequal peace treaty on them—limiting their armies, banning slavery. But if Braavos's economy collapsed—if the Iron Bank fell—Magister Illyrio could tear up the treaty, restart the slave trade, and harvest obscene profits. Illyrio would dominate the eastern side of the Narrow Sea, while Littlefinger controlled the treasury and the western ports. Between them, the entire trade route across the Narrow Sea would be theirs.
House Velaryon once grew rich enough to rival kingdoms on Narrow Sea trade alone.
These bastards want to crown themselves rulers of the world. Restoring the Targaryens is just the excuse. They may well hope to topple Braavos entirely.
With that realization, Tyrion decided to contact the Iron Bank directly. He needed to confirm the true amount of debt owed… and whether Illyrio had been secretly depositing funds there to prepare for a financial coup.
Ah—and he'd need another letter for the Hightower bank in Oldtown.
If Littlefinger and Illyrio intended to revive the slave trade and seize control of the Narrow Sea's commerce, then Tyrion should work with the Sealord of Braavos. They wanted to bring slavery back? Then he would see it shattered. And across the sea stood a queen who would gladly help him do it.
Bastards, all of them. Tyrion's eyes blurred from writing. If these were ordinary letters, he might have handed the task to a squire. But this business outweighed even… the struggle over the Vale's succession. Though it still fell short of the North.
This conflict was far more complicated than he had ever imagined.
...
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