Chapter 181 181: Silver-Tongued, Light-Fingered
The Vale became an arena of bloody slaughter, where every house and castle stood for itself. By every possible means, we stoked that cauldron again and again. It could not go on like this for long.
And the lords broke.
One day, as we stood camped upon a plateau swept by every wind, scouts reported that a party of some thirty men was approaching under a white flag. They were stopped, searched, disarmed, and brought under guard to Jaime and me.
"Looks like they're ready to surrender," the Lord Commander remarked calmly, watching the envoys make their way up the slope.
"Looks like it," I nodded.
Surrounding us were the entire retinue, the bodyguards, along with the most powerful and highborn lords.
Garth Greysteel halted the group and allowed only one of them to step forward.
"Your Grace," said an imposing, broad-shouldered man with his head bandaged, gray eyes, and extraordinarily bushy eyebrows, "I am Lord Yohn Royce, and this is what you demanded." At his signal, two knights pulled a bundle down from a horse, dragged it over to Royce, threw it on the ground, and unwrapped it.
A murmur ran through our ranks as we recognized the body of Petyr Baelish—dressed in fine clothes, adorned with a single ornament, a silver mockingbird at his throat, he looked almost as though he were asleep. Only the gash across his throat—nearly from ear to ear—spoke of his death.
Silver-Tongued, Light-Fingered. The phrase I had once heard in Westeros came to mind. It fit him well—capturing the essence of Baelish, though it hardly conveyed the true scale of everything Littlefinger had wrought.
I held him responsible for all the chaos that had erupted in King's Landing a few years ago. He, perhaps together with the Spider, had been the Player who set the Game of Thrones in motion. This man was to blame for the deaths of thousands of lords, knights, and common folk alike. His smooth voice, his obliging manners, and his irrefutable logic had plunged the realm into countless calamities and brought forth rivers of blood.
"We regret that this vile traitor deceived our lady, Lysa Arryn, and dragged us all into this needless war," Lord Royce said loudly and clearly. "We are prepared to lay down our arms and acknowledge defeat."
"What of Lady Lysa Arryn and her son?" I asked.
"They await your decision, Your Grace."
"Tell them I give my word that neither she nor Lord Robert will come to harm, and that I invite them as my guests."
"She agrees to these terms," Lord Royce bowed.
"Good," Jaime nodded. "We will await her here."
"As you wish, Ser Jaime," Bronze Yohn agreed.
"Where is Arya Stark?"
"At the Eyrie, Your Grace."
"She must be brought here!"
"We will deliver her," Lord Royce glanced back. Two of his men stepped out, were returned their weapons, and rode off to fetch their lady and Arya. Watching them go, he turned back to me. "We have something else that will undoubtedly please you."
At Royce's signal, his men brought forward a very tall man, his hands bound behind his back, his face disfigured, his clothes torn in many places and stained with dried blood. I had never seen him in person before, but Joffrey's memories did not fail me—this was Sandor Clegane, known as the Hound, once Joffrey's sworn shield.
The Hound looked at me coldly and with malice. For a moment it seemed he wanted to curse or say something, but he held his tongue. My men stirred uneasily. Everyone recognized Clegane, and few were glad to see him, considering him a traitor and a sadist.
"This man was protecting Lord Petyr Baelish. Several men died before we managed to bring him down and bind him," Lord Royce explained.
"Was he alone?"
"No. Two others were with him—the Kettleblack brothers."
"Where are they now?" Jaime stepped forward.
"They are dead."
"I want to see their bodies," Jaime said sharply, and I merely nodded when Lord Royce glanced at me.
"A pity that bastard died so easily," Tyrek Lannister, standing just behind, stepped forward and stopped over the body, rocking slightly from heel to toe with his hands tucked behind his belt. He looked irritated and angry.
*
The war was over.
I stood for a long time in silence over Petyr Baelish's body. Death had not erased the faintly mocking, ironic expression on his face, partly hidden by his pointed beard. The wind stirred his dark, graying hair. This man had done so much evil, caused so many deaths, that I found myself at a loss for words.
It had all begun with him—and with Varys the Spider. The Master of Whisperers I had removed from the board quickly enough that he never even realized what had happened. But with Littlefinger, I had had to struggle. I could hardly believe it was finally over.
He had been clever and cunning, hungry for power, glory, and influence. And now he lay upon the cold, frozen ground. Thus passes worldly glory…
"We will take Littlefinger's body to King's Landing, where he will be publicly drawn and quartered," I turned to Robert Brax. "Find some men—have them take him to Gulltown and load him onto one of the ships."
"At once, Your Majesty," the young man bowed and went to carry out the order.
*
"May I?" Colin Estermont peeked into my tent. Turquoise lifted her head, let out a heavy breath, then calmly closed her eyes again. "A letter from Ser Orm."
I broke the wax seal, bearing the crossed quill and sword—the Crown's Guard had already adopted its own sigil. The paper was slightly damp; the raven must have flown through rain.
Your Majesty, Harald wrote. Asio Kopin reports that a vast fleet has entered Volantis, under the command of Daenerys Targaryen and Oberyn Martell. With them are Barristan Selmy and Jorah Mormont. They have over a thousand ships, three dragons, and, by the most conservative estimates, more than thirty thousand troops. The majority are mounted Dothraki and the so-called Unsullied, along with a mercenary company known as the Stormcrows.
(End of Chapter)
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