The steward steamed into his room without knocking. “She’s dead!” he yelled, his hands covered with blood. “Cersei Lannister is dead!”
I know. Petyr Baelish was already dressed in his finest; a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves, and a silvery cape patterned with mockingbirds. His hair was combed, and the whiteness dyed away. “And have the Windblown at the Mud Gate stalled Ellaria Sand all they can?” He confirmed. “Good. Have them flee.”
The steward’s shock turned to confusion. “My… lord?”
“Your Grace,” Petyr corrected him kindly. “Leave Cersei’s crown on the throne, if you would be so kind.”
The steward was still trying to process what had happened. “But the war…” he said, stuttering. “Ellaria Sand is ally to Daenerys…”
And also to me. “Queen Daenerys is dead,” Petyr told the steward. “Don’t worry,” he said to the steward’s blank face. “When an heirless Queen dies, the Hand ascends the Iron Throne. Do I need to remind you of this?”
The steward’s mind seemed to clear somewhat. He gave Petyr a long bow. “Of course not,” he said. “I will do as you asked.”
He left, giving Petyr the time to revise his plan, to check for holes. There are none, a gleeful voice told himself. It had not all gone according to plan. He had to improvise, to take decisions harsh, to gamble everything for gains marginal. It was not smooth sailing, but all waters to home were rocky.
I’m not alone, he kept reminding himself, to ward off the fear. He had five-thousand Arryns inside the Red Keep, and a thousand Second Sons on his side. Dorne would not oppose him. He had sent Ellaria Sand battle strategies; promised her Dorne would be granted safe passage through the Mud Gate, and had delivered on that.
“The Queen commands you to stall, not attack the Dornishmen,” Petyr recalled telling the lieutenants of the Windblown. “You are not to attack unless we order you to.” They had hired fifteen-thousand men, yes, but loyalties of sellswords were as fickle as the wind. Ellaria Sand would know he had done her a good turn.
Ellaria had conquered the Stormlands, which meant the Crown already had Dorne and Storm’s End on its side. If there came the need to solidify the alliance with her, he had another good turn up his sleeve. Dorne wished to be an independent country, ruled by its own men, before the marriage of Princess Myria Martell to King Daeron II. For the sake of keeping six kingdoms, I can give away one.
He even had the Righteous Saviors keeping him on the throne. Mhaegen the Maiden was a tougher nut to crack than he thought, but he was off to a good start. His plans for the city’s commerce (and more importantly, the bag of gold dragons) would have registered with her on some level. The Righteous Saviors did not like him as much as he hoped, but after Cersei Lannister, any king looked a god.
Randyll Tarly, bless him, would back the crown even if his family were held under swords. He would secure for him the allegiance of Highgarden. Robin Arryn would give him the Vale. Casterly Rock may produce complications – Harys Swyft, the castellan, was not more than wrinkles and old bones, but Jaime Lannister was still alive. Petyr knew the Kingslayer was without his sister, without army, without hand, without support of the people, even bound by oath as Kingsguard. He would grant him sanctuary in his home, but should he attempt mutiny, crushing him would be easy. The man has no political mind.
As he went north, alliances became hazier. His plans for the Riverlands had been foiled. Petyr thought of Andar Royce, the fool who tried to manipulate Robin and seize control of the Vale from him. His plan was to make Yohn Royce Warden of the Riverlands, and once Daenerys killed him, for Andar to be selected by Petyr as Riverrun’s successor. Petyr pictured Andar’s cunt face; trying to measure ruling the Riverlands against his pointless game with Robin in the Eyrie. The man hasn’t taken a true gamble in his life. He would have taken Riverrun with both hands.
But he had underestimated Sansa, Brienne, and the Blackfish. They had sabotaged his plans. Petyr had carefully cushioned his betrayal of King Edmure Tully with many promises to Sansa. He promised her he was Cersei’s enemy, that he would kill her. He showed her the Blackfish, alive in his protection, away from the Lannisters. Petyr thought that would be enough to make Sansa believe he was helping the realm, and not himself, but he was wrong.
On their journey from the Twins to King’s Landing, when he did not see Brienne beside Sansa, he knew she had sent her to watch over Brynden. He had chosen not to interfere. It still could have swung my way, Petyr thought with rue. The weather was too fierce for either Brienne or Brynden to survive. House Tully would have fallen… but the smirking eunuch somehow managed to find them in snowbound lands. What more, he even found Edmure’s wife and babe. Daenerys roasted Riverrun, and cost him an ally at the Neck. I won the war, but Varys won that battle.
When it came to Winterfell, Bran’s return had made things much easier for Baelish. He was worried Sansa would be the sole Stark alive, what with Jon Snow being as reckless as he wanted. But Bran would keep the north together instead. Petyr knew nothing of the Stark boy, but he knew northern lords, that they would stand up for him. I saved their skins at the battle at Winterfell, after all.
He had won the game, but he knew it could have gone wrong. If Daario Naharis and his dragonbinder had not made it in time, Daenerys would have won the war with ease. It was just as well Petyr made allies with the northerners, the Vale and Ellaria Sand. If Daenerys had his life under her mercy, they would have stood up for him, mayhaps even offered him a seat in the Council, and Petyr could continue playing the game as Master of Coin.
He would not thank the gods for his fortune. All that he had achieved was down to him. After the Battle of the Bastards, any other man would have waited out the snows, left seeds to sprout until winter was over. Instead he was active, never pausing his moves, never allowing the other players time to catch up. He recalled the raven he had sent to Cersei Lannister, the promise he would create war between Stark and Targaryen in return for being named her Hand. I had been away from the capital for too long.
Cersei was desperate. The assent could not have come any sooner.
Delivering on that promise was easy, but expensive. Petyr’s network of spies was not as comprehensive as the Spider’s, but he had heard interesting tales from the House of Black and White, of the careless servant of Braavos who once wore the name of Stark. He needed a Faceless Man to kill one of Daenerys’ men, but it could not be any man. It needed to be the Stark.
Hiring her to kill the three Freys, Tyrion Lannister and Cersei nearly bankrupted the Vale’s finances, but it had to be done. Winning always comes at a cost.
For a moment, he had considered killing Varys instead of the Imp. After Tywin died, they were the greatest players of the game left, and it would have been poetic justice to use him as pawn for his plans.
But Petyr had no time for poetry. He kept sentiments aside when playing the game, and that would mean killing the Targaryen’s Hand over her Master of Whisperers. Those sentiments were best saved for Sansa.
Sansa. Her flickering loyalties made him still unsure if Winterfell would stay in his hands. He ought to trust her more than he did. She was heavily guarded in her chambers by Brienne and her household guard. Petyr had some Arryn men keeping a lookout. If she would try to profit from the chaos he had so carefully honed, he would know of it.
Sansa was in the way, but he would not stop trying to conquer her. She was the woman Westeros thought he was not worthy of, so he would do everything in his power to prove them wrong. She was turning out to be a better game than the one for the throne. She knows that I care for her, but she refuses to move the way I wish her to. But there was hope. If Jon was slain at the Wall, she would have nowhere to turn to but to him. Time may heal the bloody trail of his rise to power. If not that, the lust of being Queen of Westeros would help.
All Hail House Mockingbird, he pictured the bards say. Everyone would hate it, but they would say it anyway.
*
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