"For now, the Stags still have their reputation for invincibility," Petyr thought. "Lord Tywin won a battle at the ford, but what sort of victory was it? One that cost more than it was worth. The Northerners were wearing him down with expendable men who didn't care whether they lived or died."
Others might not know the truth of the Battle of the Ford, but Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish, understood it well enough. The Winter Wolf's cannon fodder had produced a frightening casualty ratio and badly damaged the Lannister army's morale.
"That sly Little Smith has ruined all my calculations. But what is the Smith thinking now? Why hasn't he hurried south?" Petyr slammed his palm down on the map, right over the location of The Twins.
The war was about to enter a furious, tangled state, one that had taken Petyr by surprise. With the Kingslayer gravely wounded, Riverrun relieved, and The Twins taken, the combined forces of the Fish, the Wolf, and the Storm were now stronger than Tywin's, and they had the added advantage of victory behind them.
Little Smith had solved the Northern army's lack of a capable field commander, as well as its shortage of funds. Gendry, already a famous general of the age, had personally selected the Northern army's elites and death squads at The Twins to lead the main force. Meanwhile, the Young Wolf and the Blackfish, serving as the Northern army's western front, could freely rush to the aid of the Riverlands, raid Lannister supplies, and cut their grain lines. That was exactly what they were doing. At the same time, Crackclaw Point was stirring restlessly. In the present situation, Tywin had instead become the target of a pincer attack.
"How long can King's Landing hold?" Littlefinger looked again toward King's Landing. The Crownlands roughly formed a semicircle like a tiger's jaws, with King's Landing at the center. Once the Northern army marched south, Crackclaw Point fully erupted, and Renly and Stannis's armies moved north, King's Landing would be completely locked in.
The army led by Little Smith consisted of a small portion of his own forces from The Twins, followed by Bronze Yohn's men from the Vale, Redfort's troops from Redfort, and, of course, those loyal Crackclaws.
"Bronze Royce has always been arrogant, and he is kin to the Starks by marriage. And House Redfort, I suppose Lord Redfort's dream of marrying a princess has gone to his head. After all, that is a very real exchange of interests, a marriage tie with the royal house." Petyr naturally knew these proud, rigid Vale nobles. Yohn Royce had been gathering support everywhere and had long been dissatisfied with that fool Lysa. Now he had brazenly sent troops to The Twins. Lord Marq Grafton of Gulltown and others had reported the matter to him many times as well.
"Hmph. Enjoy your pride while you can, Yohn, Redfort. Don't think I have no friends in Gulltown or the Vale. Grafton, Golden Eagle Arryn, they are all my people."
"Grain. It's grain." Petyr's gaze shifted above the Crownlands, and he studied the position of Crackclaw Point carefully.
The Crackclaws were half-wildlings, always known for their fierceness and savagery. If they came pouring out and raided the grain-producing lands of the Crownlands along the way, King's Landing would have no soldiers left to defend them, and Lord Tywin certainly could not divide his forces again. King's Landing's food crisis would erupt even more violently. In the original story, once the food shortage worsened, riots broke out, the King was attacked, the High Septon was torn apart, and Sansa was nearly carried off.
Petyr had already sensed King's Landing's greatest danger. If the Crackclaws repeated Tywin's burning, killing, and plundering in the Riverlands across the Crownlands, then King's Landing would not be far from complete collapse. It was a great powder keg. More than half of King's Landing's grain came from Rosby and that foolish lady's castle. It would take only the slightest push.
"No wonder that bastard isn't worried at all. His malice and ruthlessness far surpass Robert's. He is waiting for the two Storms to wear each other down. No matter which brother wins, he will still have to attack King's Landing. Even if they don't exhaust each other, he can still starve King's Landing until it collapses." The more Petyr thought about it, the more frightened he became. King's Landing had always been an angry city, and its people even more so.
Even if the Imp had extraordinary intelligence and a game-breaking weapon like wildfire, he could not solve the food crisis or stop the riots. It seemed the greatest chaos in King's Landing was already close at hand. When that time came, the whole city would be turned upside down. Besides, the Imp himself had a way out. He was not entirely trapped in King's Landing.
"Tyrell, no, the Tyrell army cannot afford to wait. House Martell's attitude is also unclear. A Targaryen is still a Targaryen, after all. Prince Doran's army is restless, so the Tyrells have no choice but to guard the passes carefully. They show no sign of sending a great army north, and even if they did, it would be too late. And those fools in Lys and Volantis, what are they thinking? The Storm is raging, yet those idiots are still holding elections and making a mess of things. A useless lot, every one of them. Such a perfect chance, and they do not attack The Twins and the stone islands." Petyr thought angrily, then reached his conclusion. He had to choose.
He could retreat to the Vale for the time being and later return to King's Landing, or he could take Sansa Stark with him and wait quietly for King's Landing to fall into chaos.
Lothor entered the room and looked at the slender man with the pointed beard. Those gray-green eyes, once brimming with laughter, now held a deeper cast of thought.
"Lord, you guessed correctly. There is a Braavos ship in the harbor, the Titan of Braavos. They have been loading cargo by skiff these past few days and are preparing to depart."
"Good. I will speak with the captain myself. Provided the wind and tide are favorable." Petyr made up his mind. He had to make a show of leaving King's Landing, then wait until another small riot broke out in the city, one that would work to his advantage.
"Let those fools tear at each other in King's Landing. We will prepare to leave," Petyr said. "So long as we are in the Vale, everything will be safe. In an age without dragons, The Eyrie is impregnable. Countless skilled generals have suffered defeat in the Mountains of the Moon or before the Bloody Gate. Who else could challenge it?"
Petyr believed the most chaotic situation to come would be the Northern army marching south while Renly or Stannis marched north, with a great war unfolding around King's Landing and Harrenhal. But with King's Landing's wildfire and riots, he feared no one would come out of it well. The civil war of the Three Storms, the Lion's stubborn resistance, the mutual hatred between the Rose and Martell, and the decisive battle between Lys and The Twins. Chaos, greater chaos, was coming. War was the music of this age. A pity the Sealord of Braavos was in poor health. Otherwise, the Sealord would surely have joined this chaotic game as well.
But what did any of that have to do with him? He had already hidden himself in a warm, safe high castle, with the Bloody Gate shut tight. Everyone would have to court the power of the Vale. How wonderful.
"We must be careful of autumn storms, Lord," Lothor suggested. Storms truly had to be treated with caution. Autumn, which usually lasted around a year, was the season of heavy rain. Rivers swelled, and sometimes floods followed. Autumn downpours were so frequent that sailing became far more difficult and dangerous.
"You've thought it through carefully, but there's nothing I can do about it. The greater Storm is in King's Landing." Petyr smiled. Autumn was naturally the season of storms.
"Who do you think has the biggest mouth in King's Landing?" Petyr asked Lothor.
"I would say the Begging Brothers," Lothor replied.
"Correct, but not only them. There are also the whores. Those women's mouths spread plenty of information as well." Petyr smiled. "As for the Begging Brothers, they are bold and foul-mouthed. When the Imp was born, they said the gods were punishing Tywin for placing his own authority above the King's."
"So I have one more thing to trouble you with. Tell our loose tongues among the Begging Brothers and the brothels that Rosby and Stokeworth are under attack, and that wildlings have burned the granaries and fields."
"Yes. But should we send some men to do it?" Lothor asked.
"No need. Once they see smoke and dust, fire will kindle in the mob's hearts. All it takes is a little fanning, a little push from someone. But the timing must be perfect, perfect enough that I will already have taken my leave of King's Landing, so that none of it appears to have anything to do with us," Petyr said.
"Then King's Landing will fall into chaos."
"Clever. But what does that have to do with us? This city is full of big mouths anyway, just like when someone leaked that Young Lord Tygett was to be married, and that the King had prepared a feast for his cousins and was eating and drinking inside the fortress. Just imagine it. Our good King is about to face another wave of petitions."
"That has nothing to do with us."
"Exactly. We need to move to another battlefield. Pack some thick clothes. The Eyrie is a cold place, the temperature is low, and falcons soar in the sky. There is also a great herd of men as stubborn as mules. Those are the Vale lords."
"Very good. I have also heard The Eyrie is a castle that cannot be taken," Lothor said flatteringly.
"Of course it cannot be taken. It is far better than stinking King's Landing. And I have a surprise for you. In time, I will raise you up as Captain of the Men-at-Arms of The Eyrie."
"What have I done to deserve that? I am only a Sellsword, and a bastard besides." Lothor immediately dropped to his knees, looking overwhelmed with gratitude.
"You deserve it." Littlefinger laughed. "In time, I will have the King grant you knighthood. Why shouldn't you be Captain of the Men-at-Arms of The Eyrie? I have always seen your devotion and loyalty, Lothor."
"If I return to the Vale, perhaps I can even demand a Great Lordship of Harrenhal. That is nothing but an honorary title, an empty promise from the Iron Throne. But the Vale's soldiers and grain are real enough. I can have Lysa make a modest show of goodwill. When the time comes, even a Great Lordship can be granted, let alone a knighthood," Petyr thought, quite pleased with his own calculations.
"Thank you, Lord." Lothor nodded, deeply grateful. "But Oswell and the others are always... there has not been any movement from them lately."
"It's fine. You are still the one I trust most," Petyr said approvingly, though he had arranged for the two groups to watch each other.
"I will send Marq Grafton a letter," Petyr said. "Everything is in hand. Lysa is lost in her own game, but once I return, that game will be over."
"You are worried about the Storm?" Petyr asked Lothor, who had also noticed the map on the table.
Lothor nodded.
"There is no need to worry. Whether he is mustering an army at The Twins for a decisive battle, or sending surprise troops to harry the Crownlands, let him amuse himself." Petyr snorted. "The King was killed by a boar and the Lannisters. It was Cersei who killed the Storm's bastard brothers and sisters. What does that have to do with us? Instead of hating the Vale, he would do better to worry about the enemies right in front of him."
"Go see to your work, my Captain of the Men-at-Arms. I had originally planned for you to distinguish yourself in the defense of King's Landing, but the Vale will do just as well."
"Yes, Lord." Lothor nodded, then turned and left the room.
"Let me give you a small parting gift, Imp. In any case, it will make you more vigilant, in case those two places really do end up in flames." Petyr thought happily. "And I will be taking a ship, playing the part of a fine bridegroom."
"Fight for the Vale and The Eyrie. Fight for Winterfell. And me? I fight for myself." Petyr poured himself a cup of wine and laid out his plan. He would speak with the ship's owner. First, he would pretend to sail for Gulltown, then wait near King's Landing until the riot broke out. In the chaos, Ser Dontos might be able to bring Sansa out of King's Landing and deliver her into Petyr's hands. After that, Petyr would kill Dontos, bury the evidence, and sail for The Fingers.
As for the Vale lords who favored Bronze Yohn, they were either old or poor. That was their weakness.
Bronze Yohn's refusal to obey The Eyrie's commands was a path to his own ruin. Redfort and Waynwood were old, and old men were naturally easy to die. As for Lord Hunt, young Harlan had long wanted to make his move, and he also intended to murder old Lord Iain and his elder brother. Belmore lived a corrupt life and was easy to buy. Templeton would be easy to befriend. As for the Corbray brothers, that was simpler still. The elder lacked women, the younger lacked boys, and both were always short of money.
"You are next, Lysa." A glimmer flashed through Littlefinger's eyes. He also had plans to remove Lysa, but timing and opportunity had to be considered. To become Warden of the Vale, he had to slowly cut away Bronze Yohn's supporters, secure himself a marriage, and only then could Lysa properly disappear. A foolish woman, mad and controlling, made for a very dangerous ally.
"Let me strike once more." Backstabbing was what Petyr did best. The Tullys had been his benefactors, but he meant to ruin Eddard and Catelyn. Great Lord Jon had raised him up, but Petyr had turned around and poisoned the Great Lord. Lysa was obsessed with him, yet Petyr had already planned either to kill her or keep her under control.
The history of House Baelish was a history of climbing the ladder. Petyr's grandfather had been nothing more than a landless hedge knight. His father belonged to the lowest rank of the realm's nobility, but because he had saved Great Lord Hoster, Petyr had become a foster son at Riverrun. When he overreached and coveted Great Lord Hoster's precious daughter, he had been brutally driven out at once.
All Petyr inherited was a windswept stretch of rocky shore on the coast of The Fingers. The Imp thought Harrenhal would satisfy him, but Petyr's sharpest poison was his vision, just like his forebears. Harrenhal was indeed one of the richest and most fertile domains in the Seven Kingdoms, with vast lands, rich soil, and a magnificent main castle as strong as any fortress in the realm. Beside it, even Riverrun seemed small. But that was nothing more than a castle in the air. It was not his true power, and Petyr had never been tempted.
"The Petyr who took Brynden's sword at Riverrun died that day. The world toyed with me, so I will turn the world into a sum of chaos. Step by step, I will climb to the highest glory. I will watch the Tullys, the Starks, and the Arryns dance in the palm of my hand."
It had happened in the lower courtyard of Riverrun, when everyone abandoned him. Cat gave Brandon her handkerchief as a token. Edmure became Brandon's squire. And Petyr himself met Brandon's longsword head-on. That was the end of his life, and the beginning of a new one.
A man obsessed with backstabbing never forgets the hatred the world showed him.
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