Game of Thrones: The Stag's Storm

Varys could not be trusted, Littlefinger thought. In a sense, the two of them occupied the same niche.

Littlefinger and the Spider were equally affable, always smiling, seemingly capable of befriending anyone. Both were lowborn, with no pedigree to speak of, no vassal lords, no mighty cities or ancient castles, no ancestral holdings to shelter them. They lived on the king's favor. Littlefinger's greatest strength lay in his dazzling financial tricks, while Varys's lay in intelligence.

But that was precisely why Littlefinger dared not trust Varys amid the chaos. He did not know what Varys sought, just as Varys could hardly see through him. None of that mattered, though. When it came to making trouble for the Seven Kingdoms, Varys would still play along.

Eddard was coming too. Littlefinger thought of that name and recalled Eddard's troubled, long face, which always seemed tinged with sorrow.

"Poor Eddard. You're more an Arryn than a Stark. As High as Honor, As High as Honor," Littlefinger murmured. "But in this game, you either become a player or a pawn."

As High as Honor was a fine phrase. It was precisely old Jon's rigid pursuit of honor, and the advancement he had granted Littlefinger, that had made Littlefinger ever bolder. Had he encountered a true Stark like Cregan, the Wolf of Winterfell, he might have met the Stranger long ago.

Littlefinger gently lifted his green velvet clothes. An ugly scar still stretched across his chest and belly, the healed flesh crawling like a centipede. It was a "gift" from Brandon, the Wild Wolf, and had stayed with Littlefinger ever since.

Years ago, Petyr had challenged Brandon, who was much older than him, to a duel over Catelyn. Brandon had won easily, but spared Baelish's life at Catelyn's request. Catelyn had never spoken to him again afterward, and had burned every letter Petyr sent her after Brandon's death.

Littlefinger could never forget the look in Brandon's eyes: contempt, disdain. Brandon had not killed Littlefinger, but Littlefinger had never escaped that day.

"The North remembers! And so do I." Whenever he saw that scar, Littlefinger felt he could once again see the path ahead. Those who had humiliated him, those who had despised him.

"Stark did not kill me, so I will spend every remaining day of my life taking revenge on this ugly world. I will climb, all the way to the top." Littlefinger felt ambition burning through him like fire. He could not give up. At this point, he had no reason to give up either.

The Masters of the Four Stores were all Littlefinger's men, as were the royal accountants and assessors. Even the heads of the three mints were men he had nominated. Beyond that, nine out of ten harbormasters, tax farmers, customs officials, road toll collectors, shipmasters, and wine factors were his men. Their backgrounds resembled Littlefinger's own: merchants' sons, petty nobles, and foreigners.

Littlefinger was not satisfied. For now, Master of Coin seemed to be his ceiling. Only a new opportunity, a fresh wave of chaos, could bring him a new position.

"Tywin, Renly, Stannis, Eddard, and that half-dead kraken. They think they are the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, great men, yet they fail to see who starts the wars. It is a little man like me who drives them."

Littlefinger had always watched the realm's affairs carefully. The stag's dynasty was inherently unstable, and its king was a bastard who loved nothing but hunting, tourneys, fine wine, and rich food.

The direwolf and the lion were at odds. The stag brothers were at odds. The sun was dissatisfied, the rose was dissatisfied, and so was the kraken. Remove old Jon, and the situation in King's Landing would spiral out of control. Littlefinger could not help feeling rather pleased at the thought.

"Right, I must not forget the new opponents on the board." Littlefinger's eyes lit up as he remembered the king across the Narrow Sea. Once the chaos began, those people would surely be eager to join in.

Littlefinger also remembered the enormous, towering trebuchet across the Narrow Sea. The king's bastard had once threatened him with it. That boy was wild and strong, and at certain moments he reminded Littlefinger of Brandon, long dead: the threat posed by a warrior.

But what of it? Littlefinger simply felt that a child could not play this game well. His outward aggression and coldness only proved that he was still a child. Once Volantis and Lys made their move, the boy would have his hands full saving himself.

Just then, Littlefinger heard another knock at the door.

"May I come in, my lord?"

"Come in." Littlefinger recognized the voice. It belonged to the free knight he had recently recruited. Rosso Brune had an ordinary face, gray hair, a flattened nose, and a square jaw. He was burly and strong.

Littlefinger knew that pedigree and martial strength were his weaknesses, but he had not given up on using gold to recruit capable men to his service.

Rosso wore patched brown breeches and a weather-beaten leather vest. Only his leather boots might have been worth a little money.

"How was the gold?" Littlefinger asked with a teasing smile.

Littlefinger was short and of average build, but he had a handsome face. His eyes were gray-green, a small tuft of beard adorned his chin, and a little gray threaded his dark hair.

Littlefinger knew he was not a dazzlingly handsome man like Rhaegar, Robert, or Brandon in their youth. Instead, he used an affable smile and a humble manner to make others like him more.

"Very good," Rosso Brune answered dully.

"Then why haven't you bought better clothes?" Littlefinger asked him.

"I'm used to these." Rosso remained expressionless.

"As long as you are loyal to me, I can give you better things, and more gold." Littlefinger laughed louder. He admired just this sort of man: middle-aged, ordinary-looking, calm and taciturn, loyal, and no slouch with a weapon.

"As you command, my lord. I only want gold," Rosso answered coldly.

"They say you were once a distant relation of House Brune?" Littlefinger asked.

"Not after they threw shit at me. My only faith is gold, and everyone knows you are one of the richest men in King's Landing."

"Good. I like your loyalty." Varys's power came from intelligence, while his own came from gold. Littlefinger was very satisfied with a down-and-out sellsword whose only concern was money.

"Just stay at my side. Before long, King's Landing will host a lively tourney. Enter as you normally would. Any gold you win will be yours."

"As you command." Rosso's answers grew shorter each time.

Littlefinger was very satisfied with his new subordinate, but he did not trust Rosso completely. He had other men of his own, and he would have them watch one another.

Across the Narrow Sea, archers practiced shooting in rank after rank in the courtyard of Wolf's Den.

The Grey-and-White Wolf Pack Banner billowed fiercely in the wind, like wings slowly unfurling.

"Nock! Draw!"

"Loose!" Black Billy shouted. Arrow Maker watched the soldiers shoot with keen interest. Longbowmen were indispensable on a land battlefield.

The soldiers shot at their targets, arrows hissing in a seemingly endless stream.

Chapter 94: The crypts of Winterfell

Gendry, Qyburn, Arrow Maker, and the others watched the archery practice below from a hastily built platform.

The Wolf Pack's banner flew high here, its gray-and-white wolves roaring. The soldiers were spirited and eager, like a pack of wolves racing forward.

Targets had been set up in the tourney grounds, where the archers were training.

"Draw! Loose!"

"Draw! Loose!" Black Billy shouted. The ten longbowmen in the front rank drew and loosed, their arrows passing through the targets as smoothly as blades cutting silk.

These longbowmen from the Summer Isles were extraordinary. Their skin was black as coal, magnificent cloaks woven from green and orange feathers draped their shoulders, and they held goldenheart longbows.

The Summer Isles produced fine archers and fine warships. Goldenheart bows were the best bows apart from dragonbone bows. Gendry had considered dragonbone bows too, but acquiring them was far too difficult. He himself possessed only one dragonbone longbow, a priceless treasure.

Black Bakk, the Golden Company's commander of archers, had fifty Summer Islanders armed with great goldenheart bows under his command, much to Gendry's envy. Great goldenheart bows were difficult to find, but Gendry had used every means at his disposal throughout the Disputed Lands and between the twin cities to recruit a hundred Summer Islander sellswords who carried goldenheart bows. He had incorporated them into his army as the elite of his archers.

Thwack! Thwack! As the longbowmen struck the bull's-eyes, the soldiers could not help cheering. Then the blare of a long horn sounded, signaling the next squad to step forward.

"Customs, terrain-if you want to shoot straight, you must consider these things. But whatever the circumstances, you must shoot fast and shoot well, lads. That's how you survive a war," Black Billy shouted.

Black Billy was still the Wolf Pack Company's commander of archers, but the number of men under him had greatly increased. Elite goldenheart archers, yew archers, and large numbers of skilled men now served under him, making him feel the weight of his duties all the more.

The Summer Islander longbowmen withdrew, and archers carrying yew longbows took their places. The longbowmen put on gloves; bowstrings were dangerous things. Though yew bows lacked the range of goldenheart longbows, these archers performed respectably, with quite a few hitting the bull's-eyes.

Gendry was very satisfied too. His longbow corps would give Westeros a little taste of shocking firepower. Longbows brought death and lamentation. The most famous example was Bloodraven's Raven's Teeth, who had shot down Daemon Blackfyre, the Warrior, on the Redgrass Field.

In Westeros, knights often placed too much emphasis on swordsmanship rather than archery. The knights of Westeros might behave that way, but the standing armies across the Narrow Sea had to take archery seriously.

Used properly, bows could inflict casualties that could not be underestimated. More important was the cost of training. Swordsmanship and horsemanship could not be mastered overnight; longbowmen were somewhat easier to train.

"Littlefinger has received our gift," Maester Qyburn said softly.

"I hope he enjoys it," Gendry said with a smile. Littlefinger always liked scheming against others. He ought to have a taste of it himself.

Gendry's scheme struck directly at Littlefinger's weakness. Littlefinger's power came from money and Lord Jon's trust in him. Yet Littlefinger had little martial strength. Most noble knights of any standing disdained serving him, leaving him to recruit from the ranks of sellswords who loved money more than life.

"But..." Qyburn hesitated. "Rosso has spent years as a wandering sellsword. What if he truly joins Littlefinger? Sellswords are often fond of gold."

"A man making his way in this world ought to have something he values more than gold," Gendry said. "Littlefinger believes in gold. I believe in friendship." A hero who would conquer the world needed a measure of heroic spirit. That was the source of his confidence.

Hearing Gendry's answer, Maester Qyburn said no more.

Suddenly, thunderous cheers rose from the soldiers in training. The Archon of the Twin Cities Alliance, the Commander-in-Chief of all its legions, was going to shoot in person. The soldiers looked up toward the platform, toward the black-haired young man standing upon it.

"Your longbow, Archon." Grey Wolf approached and handed Gendry his longbow. The Double-Curved Dragonbone Longbow was jet-black, a priceless treasure even in the eyes of the Dothraki.

Gendry took up the dragonbone bow. Wind speed, terrain, his sense of direction-at that very moment, everything felt just right. If he missed this instant, there would be no more perfect shot.

Gendry exhaled softly, then drew and loosed without hesitation, sending an arrow from the platform toward the bull's-eye. A dragonbone bow outranged wooden bows by far, but shooting from the platform still made this the longest and most difficult shot.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! The specially made long arrows pierced the bull's-eye unerringly, as though they had eyes of their own.

After a brief silence, the soldiers' cheers erupted with the force of a crashing sea.

"Long live the Wolf Pack!"

"Long live Wolf's Den!"

Listening to the soldiers' cheers, Gendry lowered the black dragonbone bow in his hands.

Those faces, those young faces-they fought for him, and he would not fail their expectations.

Power was power: the strength to crush every scheme and plot.

Winterfell, the crypts of House Stark.

"I heard the war horns sound." Lord Eddard wandered alone through the deep, cold crypts. Shadows shifted with the light, as though all the dead had come alive.

Eddard's father, Lord Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna. Rickard's father, Lord Eddler, Lord William and his brother Athos the Restless, Donnor, Beron, Lord Rodwell, one-eyed Lord Jonnel, Lord Barth, Lord Brandon, and Lord Cregan, who had once dueled the Dragonknight.

Eddard gazed at the statues, looking down the line from Lord Cregan. These were the Stark lords of the generations closest to his own. The she-wolves of Winterfell had fought a bloody struggle over the succession, and Eddard's line descended from the victors.

"This may be the last time I see you." Eddard's eyes brimmed with sorrow. The south was a place that had brought him grief, but now going south was his only choice. He had to leave this place, leave Winterfell, where his ancestors lay buried.

"Brandon understood everything. Brandon would not have been like me, with no choice but to follow his lady's and his maester's advice. But in the end, I am the one who must drink this bitter cup." Eddard gazed at Brandon's face, but his elder brother would not return from the river of time.

"South, south."

Eddard turned it over again and again in his mind. The cold pierced his bones like the fingers of a White Walker.

Rickard's journey south had ended in tragedy. King Torrhen's journey south had ended in submission.

And my journey south-what would my journey south mean?

Suddenly, Eddard noticed Lord Cregan's statue on the other side, a direwolf still at its feet. The famed sword that had once captivated a realm had long since rotted away.

In his youth, Lord Cregan had been handsome and fierce, the Wolf of Winterfell. Many years later, however, he had gained a new name: the Old Man of the North.

"Cregan, Cregan." A spark lit in Eddard's mind. What had Lord Cregan's journey south been like? He suddenly felt an urgent desire to learn this ancestor's story. He needed to see the maester.

Chapter 95: The king's plans

"Come, Eddard." Eddard's drowsiness had not yet faded, but he was about to be forced into the morning chill. His attendant knocked on his door to inform him that the king was waiting.

Eddard came to the stables and found his mount ready, while the king was already on horseback. Wearing thick brown gloves and a heavy fur cloak, the king looked like a fat bear astride a horse.

"Up, Stark," the king roared. "Wake up! We have matters of state to discuss."

"As you command, Your Grace. Shall we go to the council chamber?" Eddard said.

"Oh, enough! I hate those chairs, and I hate that long table. Besides, there are too many loose tongues in the castle." The king's breath steamed in the cold air. "Why don't we ride out? I've been wanting to see your northern scenery. Though, truth be told, it's far too cold here."

"This is the North," Eddard said helplessly. Perhaps only the Starks could endure the endless long winters. Leading the people of the North through winter was the duty of northmen.