10.Deadly Games

18th Day of the 4th Moon, 303 AC

Meera Reed, Beyond the Wall

Darkness had fallen, and the half-moon shone ominously from above, illuminating the twisted snow-covered forest. The dead were almost upon them, and there was no escape. After Bran had been marked, the wights and their icy masters always knew how to find them, no matter how far they went.

The half-dead Benjen Stark had managed to help them escape… for a time. Yet, his horse was alive, and like all living things, it would eventually tire. Dragging Bran’s makeshift sledge with a rider atop had the steed exhausted, and eventually, the poor animal expired on the move, blood and foam dripping from its mouth.

Meera was now pulling Bran’s sledge herself, but exhaustion quickly set in as the chilling knee-deep snow sapped her strength with every following step.

“You should have left me behind,” the boy muttered hoarsely. “They are after me.”

“We’re in this together,” was her breathless reply. The frigid air somehow grew even colder, sending shivers down her spine. “I can’t just abandon you!”

“We’ll both die.” Bran’s quiet words were mournful and resigned. “They are almost here.”

“Then we shall die together.” Meera finally stopped, gasping for breath as cold, misty puffs escaped her lips. Letting go of the rough wooden handle, she grabbed the short obsidian-tipped spear gifted by the Singers. Alas, the Cold Shadows had slain them to the last.

Sure enough, they were here, gliding through the snow with eerie grace and leaving no footprints. One, two, three, more than half a dozen emerged from the twisted trees.

Meera wanted to say she managed to take one down, but alas, they were too fast, too strong, and ruthless, and a chilling coldness seeped into her body as a crystalline blade sank into her flesh again and again as she fell into the snow. As the world faded into the biting darkness, she could distantly hear Bran’s hoarse cry halt as a sickening squelch heralded his death.

21st Day of the 4th Moon, 303 AC

The Lost Cub, the White City

Myrcella disembarked from the ship, still feeling conflicted. The chilling wind of the North made her grateful for the ermine cloak she had bought in Gulltown. She had almost decided to remain there, but one of the city watch’s captains looked at her in a way that made her skin crawl. Worse, he openly started following her, and Myrcella fled to the ship’s safety.

After half an hour of wandering through the clean, wide, cobbled streets and gaping at the pretty, whitewashed buildings, she finally stopped before an inn named the Drunken Siren.

The insides were rather cosy, the tables were half-filled, and she could hear the patrons’ eager chatter.

“Long Night come again, I tell you!”

“You’ve been drinking too much-“

“Fighting at the cusp of winter!”

“How many shall answer the call?”

“Wildlings, can you believe it?”

“Pah, you know nothing-“

“The stag lord is gone…”

“All that fighting is too far from here, so who cares? Neither bastard will move against the city.”

All that sounded strange and foreign to her, but seeing that none of the folks seemed particularly worried, Myrcella chucked it into the back of her mind as she finally arrived before the worn wooden counter.

The innkeeper was an ageing man with a bald head and a bulging belly, polishing a bronze tankard with a dirty-looking rag.

“A room is two stags a week,” he said gruffly, but his hardy eyes softened when he glanced at her marred face. “Five stars more if you want meals.”

Myrcella wordlessly paid him the coins, and a younger, homely-looking wench came over to lead her to her room. It was a small place with a bed with brown linen sheets, a rickety cabinet and a cloak hanger. Collapsing on the bed, her mind quickly began to wander.

King’s Landing was gone. Her mother and brother were quite possibly dead. A whole city was lost to the green flames. It could have been a lie, but it had been the talk in every harbour on the way. They talked of it in Claw Isle, in Gulltown, even in the Paps, and Myrcella could not deny it anymore, for the crew had seen the green flames from miles away while she had passed out in her cabin from exhaustion.

While she didn’t want to go back, scarred and ugly, to be discarded again by her mother, Myrcella couldn’t help but feel sad. Tommen had not done anything wrong, and she prayed for his survival, no matter how unlikely.

Now though?

Myrcella was lost. Oh, she knew where she was—White Harbour. But now, she was faced with a bitter choice. Try to journey into the Riverlands to her Uncle Jaime… or real father, if Lord Stark had not lied. The vengeful glares of the Sand Snakes and the cold, pitiless eyes of Doran Martell were still seared into her memory. Darkstar’s blade had not only scarred her face but sliced through the veneer of naivete she had foolishly clung to. A princess was supposed to be pretty and demure and bear a highlord many children.

Yet Myrcella was ruined. With an ear missing and a face marred by an ugly scar, no highlord or prince would want her. Trystane’s silent avoidance echoed louder than any insult could be. The disdainful glares, the whispers, the pity, it would all follow her scarred face. That only added to the burden of being Joffrey’s sister, Tywin’s granddaughter—two names hated across much of the realm. Both were gone, but men had not forgotten, nor had forgiven.

Should her presence be known, many would have her join the Silent Sisters or simply perish, like most Dornish. With face and name smeared for eternity, Myrcella had no desire to return to being Cersei Lannister’s daughter.

As the last moon had proven, she could do without the comforts of the highborn. And while sailors and city-dwellers were wary of or even pitied her at the sight of her scarred face, none seemed to know or care who she was. But they didn’t see Cersei Lannister’s daughter to be pitied, manipulated, or… killed, only a scarred face.

Myrcella didn’t like it, but she misliked the alternative even more. Standing up, she made her way to the bucket of water in the corner of the room and looked mournfully. She had cut her hair to shoulder length to make it easier to comb, and it had lost its lustre without the warm water to clean her golden locks every day. Although it might have been for the better, it lessened the chance of being recognised. Myrcella contemplated dyeing her locks brown, but she was reluctant.

Those golden curls were the only pretty thing left in her.

Not many people knew what she looked like, at least.

Now, it was finally time to see if she could make her way on her own. Myrcella had only a single pouch of coin, and a tenth of it had already been… spent during the journey here, so she was forced to look for a way to make a living. Mustering her courage, she grabbed her cloak again and made her way out of her new room. Her only skills of note were embroidery and dancing, and she had no desire to become a whore or a tavern wench.

After having a bowl of bland chicken soup at the inn, she finally ventured into the streets again. Finding the seamstress guild wasn’t too difficult after a few questions, and half an hour later, Myrcella was before the guild building. It was a three-story edifice lined with whitened stone, green glass windows, and a front roof supported by two columns. Two stocky men clad in ringmail stood guard at the entrance with a bludgeon strapped to their belts.

Pushing the varnished oaken door, she found herself in an entrance hall, floor and walls lined with dark wooden planks, with a lone desk manned by a squat woman with a round, frowning face.

“Good day,” Myrcella greeted unsurely, suppressing the urge to curtsy at the woman. Garbed in a woollen tunic dyed pink and with her powdered face, she looked like a pig.

The plump woman behind the polished desk looked at her with a frown. “How can the White Weavers Guild be of service?”

“I… want to join as a novice?”

“We do not accept everyone in here.” The clerk tilted her round head, her bored gaze inspecting Myrcella from head to toe as if she were looking at a prized horse at a stable.

“I have experience and skill in embroidery and stitching,” Myrcella replied with far more confidence than she felt.

The woman scoffed. “Many do. It requires far more than that to join our storied establishment, lassie. What is your name, where are you from, and who are your parents?”

“Ella Waters from King’s Landing—”

“Alright, no need to explain further.” The round clerk waved her meaty hand. “We stopped accepting apprentices from outside the North three years ago.”

Myrcella’s insides turned to ice. “But… you haven’t even seen my embroidery skills!”

The round woman looked at her scarred face with pity, then sighed. “It’s the way of the world, lass. The masters and mistresses set the requirements for joining the guild, and you do not answer them. Get out now, lest I call Gorlock and Jef.”

Feeling indignant and confused, Myrcella stormed out of the guild hall onto the wide streets of White Harbour, letting her legs carry her aimlessly through the streets.

A few moments later, the anger bled out, replaced by cold apprehension. Without becoming a seamstress, her future was bleak, and her purse wouldn’t last her loitering around for too long. She could try to return to Casterly Rock somehow, but the Riverlands were filled with brigands, armed men, and bandits, and if half the rumours were true, all of them were worse than the Darkstar. She dared not go there.

She could always try to get a ship for Lannisport and return to her mother, but the chilling rumours of the Iron Fleet prowling through the Sunset Sea quickly dissuaded her from such a notion. It was too big of a risk, and she would have to pass by Dorne and Plankytown on the way back, and Myrcella had no desire to do that. Yet, how was she to survive without a source of coin?

“Hey, you there, stop!” The rough shout had Myrcella freeze and look around fearfully.

The wide street was empty, and she was slowly surrounded by a dozen men-at-arms with green cloaks, most clad in mail and a merman livery.

“What do you want with me?” she croaked out, her heart beating like a drum. Why was misfortune always chasing after her?

An older man with a shaggy grey beard, over six feet tall and clad in polished plate, stepped forward. His eyes were grey, cold, hard, and filled with violence. “You have been accused of theft!”

“But I have not stolen anything!”

“I am not the judge of that, lass.” Before she could object, the guardsmen grabbed her hands, clasped a pair of irons upon her wrists, and pulled a roughspun sack over her head. Myrcella found herself being dragged forward unceremoniously. Their stride was fast and forceful, and she half-ran, trying not to fall, and the cold manacles chaffed painfully against her wrists, even through her sleeves.

She tried to protest and ask what she was being arrested for, but her pleas were ignored as she was dragged on and on; all that could be heard was the clinking greaves marching upon the cobblestones. The idea of shouting and struggling was dismissed as soon as it appeared in her mind—these were the city watch, probably, and none would come to her aid. Any resistance would be met with force if they were remotely similar to the gold cloaks, and she had no desire to get beaten. Was that how all criminals were treated?

Myrcella could only hope the local bailiff was reasonable, for she had done no crime, let alone something as petty as theft!

It felt like she was dragged forever, and every time she stumbled due to the fast pace, the guardsmen dragged her up and continued relentlessly. Her wrists and ankles began to ache, and tears from the pain pooled in her eyes. The dull commotion of the streets suddenly quieted as if they had entered a courtyard. The footsteps surrounding her slowly lessened, reduced to only one.

After a few more minutes of walking, the sack was pulled off her head, allowing Myrcella to look around while the old captain continued pulling her through the trees.

For a moment, she thought this was a garden or some woodland, but… no, this was a godswood. The crown of red five-pronged leaves loomed eerily from above, and after passing a few rows of elm, oak, and birch, she faced a giant weirwood. Its bone-like roots were as thick as a man’s waist, choking the surrounding trees, and its greedy branches had grown through the nearby walls and windows.

Myrcella paid little heed to the angry carving on the pale bark but to the enormous man beside it. Ageing, blonde hair streaked with grey and so fat that he had not one chin but four and looked like a big barrel of beer with legs and arms. Her attention, however, was on his attire—the green velvet doublet with a proud golden merman embroidered at the chest.

Myrcella knew that only a single man would dare dress like this in the Godswood here and have White Harbour’s city watch at his beck and call.

At that moment, she realised that the arrest for theft was just an excuse to get her away from the streets and watching eyes.

“So this is the lass?” His voice was deep and jovial, but his pale eyes were cold when he carefully inspected her.

“Aye, my lord.” The old captain bowed, unlocked her manacles, and took a few steps back, disappearing into the treeline. Myrcella quickly rubbed her reddened wrists, happy for the absence of the cold, hard iron.

“Myrcella… daughter of Cersei,” the fat lord uttered, making her freeze again.

“No, my lord,” she denied, forcing herself to look frightened and confused as she shook her head. Inwardly, Myrcella thanked the thrice-cursed Dornish for the lesson on how not to show any weakness or her true feelings. “I’m just Ella Waters from King’s Landing.”

The words rolled out from her tongue, and she instantly felt foolish.

“Clever girl,” Manderly chortled while she fought the flush creeping up her neck. “But do you think I do not know what happens behind the walls of my city? Your pride and upbringing betray you, lass. You do not sound or act like a poor bastard-born girl. They would say m’lord, their posture would be far more submissive, and they wouldn’t necessarily recognise the Lord of White Harbour or dare to look him in the eyes.”

It took all of Myrcella’s self-control not to recoil and bow her head deeply. “You’re mistaken, m’lord. I’m just a poor bastard daughter of a second son and the seamstress Elyne, looking to become an apprentice. I have done no crimes to be treated like some outlaw!”

“Ah, but dear, a certain merchant reported that you have stolen his coin pouch filled with gold and silver.” The words made her blanch. “Marlon found a purse filled with too much coin to belong to a simple bastard-born girl. Of course, thieves have their hands chopped off here.”

To her dread, Myrcella’s hand made for her belt but found nothing; her pouch was not there. Surely… fifteen golden dragons were not that much?

Regardless, Manderly was testing her. She could admit her ruse, but she was unwilling. The Northern Lord could still be bluffing. Lord Stark’s death aside, only the gods knew how many Northmen had died in the Red Wedding. Many might blame Walder Frey, but she had heard enough in Sunspear and the Water Gardens to know it was done by her grandfather instead. Sansa had been beaten at court as a hostage, and Myrcella shuddered to think how they would deal with Tywin Lannister’s granddaughter.

“This is slander,” Myrcella insisted, stubbornly looking at her feet. “I have not even approached any peddlers while in this city; the purse was left to me by my late mother!”

“We shall see, Ella Waters,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “It is possible, I suppose. I have been wrong before. Ah, Maester Theomore, finally.”

Two figures approached through the tree line. A guardsman escorted a fat, rose-cheeked middle-aged man with a head of thick golden curls garbed in a grey robe.

“You called for me, my lord?”

“Ah, yes. Does this girl… seem familiar to you?”

The maester turned to her, dull green eyes widening in recognition. How? How could he recognise her?! He schooled his face a moment later and coughed as he turned to the Merman Lord. “The scarring makes it hard to make out the features of her face, my lord.”

“True, true!” Manderly bobbed his head and made a subtle gesture with his hand. “Yet the golden curls and emerald eyes are rare, no?”

“In the North, yes—” The words choked in a gasp as Theomore’s head rolled on the grass, and his body fell bonelessly, spraying blood on the roots of the massive weirwood.

Someone was screaming, and it took Myrcella a few moments to realise that the terrified shrieks were coming from her own throat. Horrified, she shut her mouth next and fearfully glanced at the knight who was wiping his blood-splattered sword into the corpse’s grey robe.

Myrcella’s stomach rebelled, and she heaved over to release its contents. A few moments later, she wiped out the bile and tears with her sleeve, looking at the Mermen Lord with apprehension, an acrid taste in her mouth.

“Thank you, Marlon.” Wyman’s giddy voice sounded like a death knell.

“I never liked the haughty rat anyway,” the captain snorted.

The merman lord came forward and lifted her chin with a fat, meaty finger.

“You see, Princess Myrcella, maesters are supposed to abandon their name upon forging their links, yet mine still held his previous allegiances. Born in Lannisport as a lion of a lesser pride, his loyalty was not to me but to the Old Lion before he perished and now… to the Queen. You might wonder why he recognised you, but he had seen Cersei in her youth aplenty. And so did I more than twice, and you look as pretty as your mother, scar or not.”

“How did you find me?” Myrcella asked, defeated, and Wyman Manderly’s smile grew even wider.

It was useless to deny any further. She tried not to look at the headless corpse or the severed head that had rolled over to the bone-like roots. There was no doubt that if she continued, her hand would be forfeited as a punishment for theft. The fat old Merman might look jovial, but a demon hid underneath.

Nothing stopped him from disposing of Ella Waters, for a bastard girl had no backers…

“I did tell you I know what happens behind the walls of my city. These are trying times, and I cannot allow suspicious folk to roam the streets unchecked.” He apologetically clasped his hands.

“What… what happens to me, now?”

A meaty hand patted her shoulder, but Myrcella felt far from reassured.

“Someone called Aegon Targaryen had taken over the Stormlands. The lad claims to be Elia Martell’s long-dead son and the rightful king of the realm. I can give Myrcella Baratheon,” the word was uttered with such a heavy disdain that made her recoil, “to him. Or… Ella Waters can become my granddaughter Wylla’s new lady-in-waiting, a distant relative to my cousin Marlon.”

In other words, she was a problem to be gifted away or a hostage kept in secret.

22nd Day in the 4th Moon, 303 AC

The Flayed Lord, Winterfell

The castle’s piping systems had stopped working for nights at a time, letting the autumn chill seep into the keep, and none of the masons had any idea how to fix it. They were genuine, too, as no results had come even after flaying three of them alive to warn the rest.

Worse, his sleep had worsened yet again, and Ramsay often awoke in a bedful of sweat, feeling tired. It didn’t help that the Lord’s room was cold. Judging by the darkening bags under their eyes, the others seemed to have a similar problem. The skittish guardsmen even reported seeing strange visages at night, and rumours spread about an elusive ghost haunting the grounds.

Gods, when did everyone become cravens and superstitious fools believing in old wives’ tales?

Word had come from Last Hearth that the wildling host was marching down the kingsroad, and Ramsay had called a meeting. A pity that the Umber keep was almost fully bereft of fighting men; otherwise, they could have struck the savages in the back.

“Nobody will support that bastard oathbreaker,” Cregan Karstark muttered, eyes almost bloodshot. The man appeared not to have slept for days. “Not after the fool brought in the wildlings with him.”

Words of agreement echoed from Umber, Dustin, the Ryswell brothers, and the rest as Ramsay looked at the map of the North, twirling his favourite flaying knife in his hand. White Harbour, Greywater Watch, Deepwood Motte, Flint’s Fingers, Widow’s Watch, Oldcastle, and the mountain chieftains had yet to come and pay obeisance to him.

It mattered little; their time would come once the savages were killed and his errant wife was properly chastised.

“We must retake the Moat,” Rickard Ryswell, the second son, said, tapping the Neck with his gloved finger. Then, he tried to fight off a yawn but failed. “We cannot allow the crannogmen and Robb Stark’s deserters to hold the entrance to the North.”

“Let them keep it for now,” Barbrey Dustin said dismissively. Her face was paler than usual. “A motley band of desperate Stark men lingering from the Red Wedding and a bunch of frog eaters. It seems they are dead set on meeting their demise. The Moat is nought but a hollow shell.”

Ramsay eyed the Dustin Widow at the side of his eye. Despite the grey streak in her hair, she was pretty and proud in her black silken gown.

How loud would Barbrey squeal in his bed? Would she keep her haughtiness as the knife sank into her skin?

But no, it was too soon. The Ryswells and Dustins made up nearly half of his forces… for now.

“Indeed,” he declared with a smile, but it probably came out… strained. “They can guard the Moat for me until the other problems are resolved.”

“Our outriders and scouting parties keep disappearing in the Wolfswood,” Steelshanks Walton said dourly. The tired captain needed to smile more.

The greying Lord Rodrik Ryswell took a gulp of wine from his silver-lined cup. Since Ramsay’s father died, the man had been inhaling more and more wine and was only sober till noon. “Doubtlessly a few bands of desperate forest clansmen.”

“Well, those desperate clansmen have managed to kill over a hundred and fifty of my men in just a moon. Not even the bones or horses were found!”

“They must have gotten lost,” Whoresebane tutted, raising his horn for a mouthful of dark beer. The old Umber had always been stiff and cold, but it had been even more so lately. “It is the vastest woodland in the realm, and it’s their first time seeing it.”

Steelshanks stood up, his face red with anger. “There’s no way—”

“Be careful how you speak to your betters, Walton,” Cregan Karstark warned, unfazed by the captain’s outburst. “The smallfolk and huntsmen are just lashing at the change in command. However, it does leave our left flank blind. Wasn’t that lout, Ludd Whitehill, sieging Ironrath?”

“He is,” Ramsay confirmed, staring at the green expanse of woodland on the map. He had sent a few hundred men to assist the Whitehill lord; ironwood was too valuable to leave in the hands of some foolish huntsmen. The siege was still on, which meant that whatever force attacked his outriders and scouts was not too numerous; otherwise, they would have broken the Whitehills. Yet that whole problem in the forest sounded like some trick that could come back to bite him in the arse like a rabid dog. And rabid dogs had to be put down.

Ramsay licked his lips. “Walton, send more men into the Wolfswood, bigger scouting parties this time with hunting hounds. I want the place scoured clean of any trouble before the savages arrive.”

The yellow bone handle of his flaying knife slipped from his finger, and the razor-sharp edge sank into his palm, drawing blood. Scowling, Ramsay cleaned it with a piece of silk, cursing the lack of sleep. It played tricks on the eyes and made your mind and limbs sluggish. It was the bed, Ramsay decided. He would get a new one with the finest freshly plucked goose feathers and Lyseni cotton sheets and would finally be able to sleep well again.

24th Day of the 4th Moon, 303 AC

The She-Bear, Deepwood Motte

Her spiked mace lashed out into the head of another drunken Ironman with a satisfying wet thunk, sending him sprawling on the ground.

Stalking through the courtyard, she tried finding other foes to fight, but Galbart, Arlyn Fenn, and the rest were making short work of the surprised Ironmen. The crannogmen had taken out the handful of sober sentries, and the gates were opened before the reavers could realise what was happening. Lord Howland Reed had sent some of his best to accompany them, yet insisted on remaining in his beloved bogs and swamps.

In less than ten minutes, no foes were left to kill. It wasn’t because they put up much of a fight, but because it had taken some time to find all of them across the Motte. Her daughters, Lyra and Jorelle, were helping to pile up the reavers’ bodies in the yard and stripping them of anything useful. Yet the ten minutes of excitement had Maege feeling winded; she was no longer as young, and even after a year of recuperating in Greywater Watch, her strength was not what it was before.

Damn those thrice-cursed weasels and their treacherous ilk.

“We got a few wounded here and there, but nothing serious.” The Fenn Lord approached, face cold and trident in hand, dripping dark blood from its razor tips. His boots produced no sound whatsoever. While small in stature, the Crannoglord proved himself as vicious a fighter as Howland Reed. “There were barely two dozen of them.”

Maege looked around, failing to find the third member of their expedition. “Where’s Galbart?”

“Consoling his kin. His good sister and nephews are unharmed, but the Ironborn have despoiled Lyarra Glover.” The crannoglord was clad in a brown traveller cloak, hiding his bronze scaleshirt beneath, looking like a phantom in the night.

“Damned cowardly scum!” Maege spat in the mud. The thrice-cursed reavers had forever been like a plague upon the western shores; her daughter Alysanne had perished from her wounds after defending Bear Island from the Ironborn raiders while the bulk of the North fought in the South. At least Mormont Keep had not fallen.

“One day, the reavers will anger the wrong man,” Arlyn said, face mournful. “It doesn’t matter; most of them have fled the North. Our purpose lies at the Wall.”

She sighed tiredly as they made their way to the Longhall atop the hill. “Ned’s last boy better be alive, or we’re all doomed. The North will never have peace without a Stark in Winterfell.”

The daughters were not enough, never enough. Maege would know; ruling a small fief was challenging enough for her, let alone the vast North. Arya Stark, a slip of a girl, disappeared to the winds, and Sansa Stark was so easily used as a figurehead. The Northern lords were unruly and could never be ruled by a woman. Many daring kings and warlords had tried to conquer the vast North, but only the direwolf had proven its strength to hold and defend the lands from within and without. Worse, when the white winds blew and foes descended upon the kingdom like vultures upon a corpse, only an iron fist and a strong spine could cast them away.

Maege only prayed Jon Snow would have what it takes to set things right, for their foes were numerous.

Just then, Galbart, face grave, met them at the Longhall’s door.

“There’s a word from the Wall.” He brought up a crumbled piece of parchment. “Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are marching on Winterfell and calling the banners.”

15st Day of the 5th Moon, 303 AC

Petyr Baelish, the Eyrie

Petyr Baelish strode through the empty High Hall, mind deep in thought.

King’s Landing was gone. Hundreds of thousands had died, yet Tommen and Cersei had managed to survive and escape towards Casterly Rock. He did not know whether to admire their luck or curse it.

If nothing else, the alliance between roses and lions had been broken, if far too successfully.

The city was completely ruined, and the board had been reshuffled, if not completely flipped. The rose lord, his golden daughter, the red huntsman, and many other noblemen had perished along with tens of thousands of swords, and now the Lannisters stood alone. Well, not alone—the Riverlands were in their grasp with the marriages and hostages.

Willas Tyrell, with no sisters left to wed to Tommen, had decided to completely withdraw from the conflict and focus on the reavers plaguing his shores. It was an obvious excuse to sit out the fight between the new dragon and the lions and join the winner. Petyr would have done much the same if he had been in his boots.

Despite Cersei’s allegations of the vile deed, Aegon and the Golden Company forced the remaining Stormlords to bend their knees—quite probably because Cersei and her son had fled to Casterly Rock. Worse, Dorne had finally decided to bestir itself again, mustering its banners to support the dragon, and so had most of the Crownlords.

Despite having almost no contacts in the North, a few rumours had finally reached him, each following more queer than the last.

Lord Commander Jon Snow had been killed.

Jon Snow had become a dragon on his funeral pyre.

Sansa Stark had jumped onto her brother’s funeral pyre in grief and died together with him.

Jon Snow and Sansa Stark were the Mad King’s bastards.

Dead men were walking again, and the Long Night was coming.

The Wall had fallen to wildlings and giants, and the North was next.

Every piece of hearsay he had gotten was more unbelievable than the last, making him question his sanity. Even a glimpse of truth was impossible to pick out, for the rumours were such a mess. It would have been better to have heard none of it.

Alas, spies were too quick to expire in the North, the cost too high, and the gain too little.

Everyone knew magic was dead. The giants were an old wives’ tale, like the Long Night. A Stark bastard couldn’t possibly become a dragon, nor were Sansa or her brother in any way related to the Mad King.

Scoffing, Petyr thought no further of the North. That place was more trouble than it was worth.

He had other woes, issues far closer to home.

His grip on the Vale was slowly but surely slipping away. Sweetrobin’s sickness had taken a turn for the worse. Maester Colemon had tried everything, but Robin was still abed, barely struggling against the Stranger’s embrace. While Petyr had always planned to dispose of the boy at one point or another, now was the worst moment possible.

In hindsight, Lysa was very useful, but the foolish woman couldn’t even give birth to one healthy child. Or was Jon Arryn’s seed weak?

The Lords Declarant were far too eager to remove Petyr from the Eyrie, and should Robert die, the next in line was Harry the Heir. Anya Waynwood had raised him, so things were not looking good for the Mockingbird.

True, some of the lords had been in his debt, but none would support him openly. Gold and favours were worthless before fealty for the nobility. As Hardying was of age and an anointed knight, Petyr lacked the means to influence him quickly without a suitable marriage.

Alas, with Sansa out of his grasp, that plan had been scrapped, and he was better off holding Sweetrobin alive and mentoring Lysa’s son. Yet, with the boy’s ailing health, he was forced to consider his other options far more seriously.

His lordship over Harrenhal and the Riverlands had been useful back then, but now it kept him involved far too closely in things for his taste. Petyr could always turn the cloak and support Aegon should Sweetrobin die. Yet he knew little about the so-called son of Elia, who was probably a skilled mummer at best.

Baelish had little to offer and would not be trusted after betraying the Lannisters for no reason. His other option was to go to Harrenhal and wrangle in the war directly or resume his position in the small council again.

Yet, without the Iron Throne to sit on and claim legitimacy, Petyr struggled to see how the war would play out. The realm was on fire, royal authority had been shattered again and again, and he was once again reduced to responding to the moves of others.

Just as he was lost in his musings, Maester Colemon, face grim, entered the High Hall.

“Lord Baelish, Lord Robin has passed away from fever.”