Chapter 254: An Old Friend
Archbishop Clare stood on the high platform, the autumn wind catching his silver-threaded robe and making the hem sway gently. His gaze stretched across the distant mountains and fields, his brow faintly furrowed.
Within the Order of the Golden Dawn, he was still a newcomer. Though the Lightbringer had not deliberately hidden the details of his economic planning, Clare's knowledge remained limited.
Besides, he was merely the leader of a diplomatic mission, not a commander with real authority. That meant he had to weigh every word and action carefully when dealing with affairs.
After a moment, Archbishop Clare gave a slight bow and replied politely, "Grain is always welcome. Thanks to Lady Lysa's wise governance, the Vale has known peace these past two years. I imagine you've built up quite a store. As for the Gods Eye Alliance, under the Lightbringer's careful stewardship, we've begun producing goods that once could only be imported from the eastern continents. In fact, I brought some samples. If you're interested, I'll have Brother Vittorio set them out for your inspection. You can judge their worth for yourself and decide whether to trade."
Mere mercenary contracts, even at a fair price, could not sustain a lasting partnership. Only by holding unique and durable leverage could the bond between them be secured.
"If you don't mind—" Petyr nodded, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
Archbishop Clare whispered a few words to the young friar behind him. The youth understood at once and grabbed two black-clad soldiers who had been gawking nearby, leading them away.
"Lord Petyr, we brought several samples from the Gods Eye. I've sent my men to prepare them. Once we're back at the castle, you can come take a look."
"Of course. I'll announce the tournament results first, and then we'll return together."
Petyr turned and looked down at the tourney grounds below the dais.
By then, the outcome of the melee was decided. Both sides had been clad in heavy plate, and the fierce fighting had left no serious injuries.
After Petyr declared the black-clad warriors of the Golden Dawn victorious, he thought it over and agreed to provide the eight Falcon Guards with an equivalent set of armor and warhorses.
A well-fitted suit of plate cost six gold dragons. A strong warhorse cost three.
Outfitting sixteen men came to nearly one hundred and fifty gold dragons. But in Petyr's estimation, spending that much to buy goodwill was a bargain. He knew his greatest lack was the loyalty of men's hearts.
Two days of revelry left the Gates of the Moon steeped in celebration. The peasants who had laid down their tools to watch the tournament gathered their families and headed home. All along the road, they talked excitedly about what they had seen, their faces flushed with pride and eagerness. They could not wait to return to their villages and boast to the neighbors who had stayed behind.
The knights of the Vale were not so pleased.
They had traveled from all corners at Petyr's invitation, risked their lives in the melee, and fought their way through sixty-four competitors to choose eight champions. Then Archbishop Clare's unknown guards had beaten them into the dirt.
The simpler knights wore shame and fury on their faces, fists clenched, eyes burning with resentment. The sharper ones sensed what was really happening: the return of armed church power to the stage of the realm.
In this world, very few knights ever became landed lords. Most spent their lives wandering, seeking a new master.
The Vale had seen no war in years. Every lord's garrison was full.
Now, the rise of church arms offered these clever knights a new opportunity. They quietly calculated: if the church's forces expanded, there might be a good position in it for them.
So on the road back to the Gates of the Moon, after they packed their tents, Archbishop Clare's black-clad guards were pestered without rest by these quick-minded knights.
"How many men do you have? What's the pay? How much land have you taken—"
The questions came like a flood. If the Lightbringer had not ordered every diplomatic mission to keep the Order's military secrets, the knights would have asked what color underpants the black-clad soldiers were issued.
When the visiting lords had all returned to the Gates of the Moon, Petyr made his way to the great hall on the first floor. There, he found more than a dozen of the Archbishop's men standing guard around two beautifully carved wooden chests.
The boxes were adorned with intricate patterns that gleamed mysteriously in the candlelight of the hall.
"These are the samples you brought, Archbishop Clare?" Petyr stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the chests.
"Of course. Care to take a look?" Archbishop Clare asked with a smile, confidence in his eyes.
"Would it be too conspicuous to open them here?" Petyr hesitated.
"Not at all. My work in the Vale is not yet done. Since so many lords are gathered in this castle, it saves me the trouble of visiting each one individually." Archbishop Clare explained.
Petyr chuckled. "Tch. The Lightbringer certainly works his clergy hard."
"Heh. When he has the time, the Lightbringer works alongside the craftsmen himself. My little efforts are nothing." Archbishop Clare laughed in reply.
Then the black-clad guards carefully opened the chests and removed items even Petyr had never seen before, setting them out on the floor. The lords in the hall crowded around, curious.
"This is a glass goblet. The Lightbringer brought the art of purifying glass from the realm of the gods. These goblets from the Gods Eye now surpass the crystal cups polished by the royal craftsmen in King's Landing." Archbishop Clare picked up a crystal-clear goblet and turned it gently in the candlelight. The cup refracted a rainbow of colors.
"This is porcelain, fired from clay. The Lightbringer learned to coat pottery with glass to create these vessels. As you can see, the patterns are vivid and colorful, and they are very easy to clean. Perfect for a noble of discerning taste. Once you have used such a fine bowl, how could you ever bear to eat soup from a stale bread trencher again?" He lifted a porcelain dish, pointing to the lifelike pattern on its surface.
"This is an iron pot. Ha, I know it is not a great wonder. Every village smith can make one. But the iron pots from the Gods Eye are cheaper and more durable. I think the kitchens of smallfolk and lesser nobles alike could use a couple of solid pots like these." He slapped the pot, producing a loud clang.
"These little white cubes are the sugar that has become so popular in King's Landing lately. It is as sweet as honey, but far cheaper. The coin you would spend on one jar of honey buys ten times the weight in sugar. From now on, you need not count every copper when you crave something sweet."
Archbishop Clare, like a diligent salesman, explained each of the exquisite goods laid out on the table to Petyr and the lords who had trickled into the hall.
Petyr picked up a small porcelain cup painted with a falcon. He ran his finger lightly over the surface, his mind on alert.
He had no idea how much labor these goods required, but each one looked valuable.
He stole a glance at Archbishop Clare, who was explaining a set of Seven-Pointed Stars to Lady Anya Waynwood—books printed using something called "movable type." Petyr's brow furrowed.
He understood the game. The Lightbringer had sent the Archbishop with these goods, trying to trade these seemingly frivolous luxuries for the grain that meant life itself. There had to be an unseen purpose behind it.
Free Trade, Free Mission, and Free Movement. Those were the conditions Archbishop Clare had presented.
By the Archbishop's own words, his mission required at least securing Free Trade.
Petyr weighed the matter in his mind. His footing in the Vale was not yet secure. If he wanted the church's support, he could not refuse.
And if he could not refuse, he might as well join in willingly.
When he had been Master of Coin, he had amassed a fortune, but it came from brothels, loans, and monopolies.
Now that he had left King's Landing, the networks he had built were slowly crumbling. A new source of revenue would not be unwelcome.
Provided he controlled where the goods flowed.
He made a private decision: once matters here were settled, he would have to go to Harrenhal himself and meet the Lightbringer.
In the end, the nobles bought every single sample.
The atmosphere in the hall grew heated. The lords competed fiercely for the novel goods, and the final prices were very high.
Fortunately, the generous Defender of the Vale was willing to extend them credit. They could return to their lands and deliver grain at the agreed price—and the price was quite good.
In the end, both host and guests parted in good spirits. Archbishop Clare, having exceeded his mission's goals, was in high spirits. He lingered at the Gates of the Moon for several more days before preparing to depart with his escort.
Before he left, Archbishop Clare sought out the old friar who had decided to stay behind. He spoke solemnly. "Brother Horst, I entrust the young lord's health to you. His well-being bears directly on the relationship between the Vale and the Gods Eye Alliance. Do not be careless."
"Of course, Brother Clare. If Anshe's glory can spread without the sword, I would ask for nothing more. But even if I stay by the young lord's side every day, I can only keep him alive. I cannot root out the sickness. In all the Gods Eye Alliance, only the Lightbringer can truly cure him." Brother Horst's face was troubled.
Clare shook his head. "I will report our mission's outcome to the Lightbringer. As for whether to fully heal the young lord, that will be his decision."
In Clare's judgment, Littlefinger would never allow Robert Arryn to be fully cured. A sickly lord needed a regent father. A healthy one would only find ways to get rid of him.
In the end, Lord Petyr agreed to fund the construction of a septry for Brother Horst. Then Archbishop Clare's mission, along with more than twenty Vale knights who had chosen to follow, set out on the road home. They traveled day and night, and in just over a fortnight, they crossed back into lands under the Gods Eye Alliance's control.
As soon as he entered Harrenhal's domain, Clare heard that the Lightbringer was nearby. Guided by the sentries, he found him in a military camp not far from the castle.
The camp was alive with the sounds of training—shouts and the clash of arms rising and falling.
"Brother Clare, back so soon? I thought the Vale had quite a few lords to court."
Aldric sat at a table inside the tent, a quill in his hand as he reviewed documents. He looked up when Archbishop Clare entered.
"Yes, the Vale has many lords, but only one who truly rules. It is not like the Riverlands. The Vale has known no war. Using the spread of the Light's faith to pressure the lords into opening their borders is no easy task. So after I landed at Gulltown, I heard Lord Petyr was hosting a tournament, and I followed along." Archbishop Clare sat across from Aldric, speaking with ease.
Aldric set down his quill. "And the results?"
A genuine smile, rare on Clare's stern face, appeared. "I think they were quite good." Then he gave Aldric a detailed account of everything he had done in the Vale.
"Indeed," Aldric nodded. "The Vale's terrain is easy to defend and hard to attack, and its military strength is intact. Securing a Free Trade agreement at this stage is already an excellent outcome. Brother Clare, do you still have your promotion token?"
"Of course." Clare reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a small iron medallion covered in grey-black striations. He handed it to Aldric. "The High Sparrow gave it to me when I left King's Landing."
Aldric took it, rubbed it between his fingers, and said, "I do not have a promotion token myself, but I agree to be your sponsor. If you are certain of the firmness of your faith, I will arrange the ceremony."
Clare's voice trembled as he fought to contain his excitement. "I am ready whenever you are."
"Good. Once I have finished my business here at Harrenhal, we will return to the monastery, and I will grant you the Seed of Light."
"That would be wonderful. But... has something happened here at Harrenhal? To require you to come in person, and with so many men?" Archbishop Clare asked, his curiosity piqued.
At that, Aldric's expression turned frustrated. He furrowed his brow. "You remember the men who held Harrenhal before? Ser Gregor's lot? When I passed by on my way to Saltpans, I led a group under the Brotherhood Without Banners and killed a wave of them. After that, the bastards kept their heads down, holed up in Harrenhal like fattened ticks. They caused me no trouble. But recently, Jaime Lannister marched through here and took Gregor's bullies with him. In their place, a knight named Ser Bonifer Hastwyck moved in with over a hundred men. Once he took command, he started harassing the nearby villages."
"He raised men to rob?" Clare frowned.
"No. But he came claiming to be the Acting Castellan of Harrenhal, appointed by Jaime Lannister. He tried to restore 'the King's Peace' in those villages. He even arrested and tried the veterans we had stationed there as outlaws." Aldric's voice carried clear displeasure.
"Did anyone die?"
"No. His trials were fair enough. When he confirmed that my veterans had done no wrong in the villages, he charged them only with disrespecting the King and gave them a flogging. But my men are not to be bullied. So I brought a few hundred men myself to test his mettle."
"To be honest, I know this 'godly' Bonifer. He is no lord, just a landed knight from the Reach. But he is famous for his piety. He is described as solemn, calm, just, and dutiful, and he never misses a chance to speak of the Seven. In his youth, he was a fine warrior, promising at the tourney grounds. But later, for reasons unknown, he decided that tourneys were empty vanity. He set down his lance and turned to the Seven. He is not only devout himself, but his Holy Hundred are equally zealous. He followed Renly Baratheon at first, then Stannis. After the Battle of the Blackwater, he was captured and swore fealty to King Joffrey, who pardoned him.
"For a time after that, he often prayed at the Great Sept of Baelor. We had a decent relationship." Archbishop Clare gave a detailed account.
"So you can talk to him?" Aldric's brow lifted, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
"I can." Clare nodded firmly.
"Good. There is no need to wait for the monastery. Tonight, I will grant you the Seed of Light. Tomorrow, go and speak with him. See if we can bring him into our cause." Aldric's voice was decisive.
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