The maester came a few hours after dawn, just as he had for the past three days. On the first morning, it had been with two servants, one carrying a platter of bread, bacon, and trout, the other a platter of fruit and lemon cakes, and a flagon of goat's milk sweetened with honey. The maester had expected to join them at table, but Arthur had requested to serve as taster for the king, and His Grace refused the food instead.
Each morning after, Arthur would accompany the maester to the kitchens to oversee the preparation of the food. A servant came and collected him for the other meals, when Maester Colemon was said to be tending to Lord Robert.
Arthur's time in the kitchens served two purposes. To ensure the king's safety, of course, which was of the utmost importance, but also to listen to the servant's idle chatter. They seemed to know little and less of the young lord's health, though. Arthur did learn that Lady Arryn enjoyed the company of many Vale lords in the High Hall each day, so it could not be nearly as bad as the maester made it seem. Lysa's boy had been a sickly thing from the day she bore him, yet the maester would have them believe that the Stranger might take him any day now.
"Good morning, Your Grace . . . sers," the maester said carefully, his expression guarded.
"I expected the Lady Arryn," Jon stated pointedly, ignoring his pleasantry. "It has been three days, maester."
"It would be better if we spoke of this while we broke our fast."
"I have been patient, maester, but no longer. Bring a message to Lady Arryn. Tell her that I am tired of awaiting her pleasure. I ride down the mountain on the morrow, whether we speak before I depart is entirely up to her." The king's voice cracked as he tried to conceal his rage.
The maester nodded and turned on his heel, leading Ser Arthur from the chamber.
The king let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't understand her. What is she playing at? Why allow me to enter the Eyrie if she won't hear what I have to say?"
"It is not for the sane to understand madness, Your Grace, only do their best to avoid it." That was true, though Barristan doubted that Lysa was truly mad. More likely that she simply found it amusing to play with His Grace's patience.
Jon sighed and sat down. "Not so easy to avoid when the mad possess the men I require to win the war."
"The war cannot be won from a bedchamber."
"I meant what I said, Barristan. If she will not see me today, then we will leave the Eyrie and ride for Gulltown."
"Your tone with the maester gave me that impression, Your Grace. I would not suggest using it with Lysa Arryn, though, if you wish to gain the Vale. She seeks to humiliate you. Do not let her succeed."
His Grace stood from the table and took to pacing. The uneasy silence stretched on several long moments before he finally spoke. "I let my anger get the best of me."
"I don't fault you your anger, Your Grace," said Barristan, "but your resolve must be as hard as iron if you wish to best her. She lives for these queer sorts of games. Making you wait is only the beginning, of that you can be certain, and the cost for losing will be dire. Her power is well loved by the vultures who circle her. Arthur and I will defend you to our last breath, but if we slight her, her vultures will make a gift of our heads."
"She may well take them regardless," Jon sighed, stilled, and met eyes with Barristan. "I take your meaning, ser, and I will be ready if Lady Arryn will see me. I have not changed my mind on what I am willing to offer. Even if it means that my reign will be filled with suffering her presence."
His Grace shuddered and returned to pacing then, and Barristan knew that he wished to be left alone with his thoughts. He touched the hilt of his sword and said a silent prayer to the Father, beseeching him to bring good sense to Lady Lysa. The sword had been a gift from his king. Unlike the one he had thrown down at the boy Joffrey's feet, it was plain, without decoration, but it was well forged, a study blade that would serve its purpose when the time came. He hoped he would not have need of it that day.
Swords had always been a simple matter to Barristan. On the battlefield, where sword and axe are forged anew in the heat of battle, it was easy for a man to lose his sword. Barristan had lost many throughout his years as a knight. The sword that slew the last Blackfyre was lost shortly after, when an arrow took Barristan's mount in the throat and sent him tumbling from the saddle. He had never thought about losing it for long enough to care. He thanked the Warrior that his foot had not caught in the stirrup, found a morningstar discarded by the dead or fled, and pursued the fleeing Golden Company afoot.
A blade was just a warrior's tool, no different than the hammer of a blacksmith or the reaping hook of the smallfolk. Barristan had never understood why men named their steel as if it were a mewling babe or some god to be worshipped. It was not something to become attached to, though some men treated it as such, too scared to pull their sword from its scabbard, even if it meant their lives. Names were for the blades worth remembering, such as Dawn, the ancestral greatsword of House Dayne, said to be forged from the heart of a falling star. That was a blade worthy of the name it possessed, but it was gone now.
Arthur returned shortly thereafter, alone, save for two servants. "Where is the maester?" Jon asked.
He shrugged. "He brought me to the kitchens then went to deliver His Grace's message. I did not wait for him." Two servants came from behind him with platters of food, which they laid on the table, bowed, and hurried out once more. "Maybe the boy is having another fit."
"I pray that is not the case," Barristan said, "or Lady Arryn will use it as excuse to decline the king's request."
"Has she needed an excuse yet? She has yet to give good cause for keeping me confined to this prison."
"A rather comfortable prison, Your Grace," Arthur jested dryly, waving a hand toward the featherbed.
"A prison, nonetheless," Barristan interjected. "What did you hear in the kitchens, Arthur?"
Arthur took a seat at the table, cut a chunk of bread from the loaf, slathered it in butter, and took a bite. He reclined in his seat. "Lysa invited two knights, Corbray and Lynderly, to table this morning. . . and possibly to bed if the servants are to be believed. Another argued that Ser Lyn would be more interested in the boy than his mother. There could be some truth to that, who I am to say."
Barristan nodded. "There was gossip at court about Corbray, of the same sort that was spoken of Lord Renly. I paid little mind to it. A man would be hard pressed to find looser tongues than those of the lords and ladies of the court."
"Did they mention Lord Robert? Anything about his condition?" Jon asked, taking the seat across from him.
"Nothing we haven't already heard before. The boy is yet to be weaned from his mother's teat. The boy throws tantrums if his mother does not help the servants bathe and groom him. The servants will not talk of his affliction, at least not with me present."
"A wonder that they speak around you at all, Arthur," Barristan said. "One would think that Lady Arryn would not want secrets so carelessly reaching us."
"The servants know nothing worth hiding," said Arthur, "or Lysa is smarter than we give her credit. Gods know she is cautious where that boy is concerned. I doubt she cares if we know that she shelters the boy from the world, and we shouldn't care either. It is of little import."
"Of little import?" Barristan questioned. "How could it be of little import? That boy, as you name him,is going to be Lord of the Vale when he is a man grown. He needs to be raised properly."
"Lysa already presumes to name him Lord of the Vale and the true Warden of the East. Maybe if the Kingslayer truly wants the title, all he needs to do is suckle at Lady Arryn's breast." Arthur chuckled and poured himself a cup of ale. "What difference does it make if he still takes suck from his mother's teat? Robert, I mean, not the Kingslayer. His Grace will not be the one to wrest him from it."
"Arthur is right in that," Jon said. "We can only hope Lysa will see reason, however small that hope may be. Lord Robert will not go against his mother."
"We shall see." Barristan sat stiffly and grabbed an orange from the tray. As he peeled it, he mused. He did not know why he argued for the young Lord Robert. It might have been for his father, Jon Arryn, who Barristan had always held in high regard. The son seemed to have little of his father in him, but perhaps, if the gods were good, he would inherit his father's good sense as he grew. If he remained in the shadows of his mother's skirts, though, it would be a roll of the dice.
Or perhaps he argued for the man that Lord Robert was named for; the late King Robert, whom Barristan had served until his death. He had been terrible king, for he never wanted the crown or the responsibility that came with it, but Barristan had respected him as a warrior. Lysa's boy would never be half the warrior Robert was, yet they were similar, despite their span of years, in some regards. His namesake had never been one to listen to good sense when it went against his desires either.
The maester returned just before the midday meal. Short greetings were exchanged, but he made no mention of Lady Arryn. He left as quick as he came, with Arthur following close behind.
"Did you see how he wouldn't meet my eyes, Barristan?" His Grace remarked, assuming the worst, as was his wont.
"I did, Your Grace, but there are many possibilities as to why that might've been. It does not mean Lysa has refused your request."
"What else could it be?"
"Maesters are sheep in grey wool, bound by oath to serve their masters faithfully, but they get little choice in the choosing," said Barristan. "I very much doubt that Colemon enjoys serving Lysa Arryn, even if he is protective of young Robert. I spent no small amount of time with Colemon during Jon Arryn's last days when King Robert would not leave his side. We did not speak much, but he attempted everything he could to save his liege. And while he was purging the Hand with pepper juice and wasting potions, Lady Arryn was making preparations for his funeral feast. Lord Arryn had even seemed to recover, if only for a short time, until Pycelle sent him away. But never mind all that. What I mean to say is beneath the robes and chain, he is still a man, you may yet find a friend in him."
"Maybe so," the king said, "but atop the man there is still a maester, Barristan. One who has shown no hesitation delivering Lady Arryn's lies, whether he wants to do so or not."
"I apologize for the way I spoke to you this morning, maester," His Grace said, attempting to make conversation while a servant laid a salad of sweetgrass, turnip greens, and spinach, topped with chopped almonds on the table. Another servant brought a bowl of plum sauce and a flagon of wine. "You did nothing to warrant it."
Maester Colemon took a seat at the table and spooned some of the thick plum sauce over his salad. "Your Grace has nothing to apologize for. You are a king."
"Even a king must be courteous."
The maester took a bite of the salad, chewed it slowly, then swallowed. "Must he? I did not think a king must do anything."
His Grace bristled at that, but he filled his mouth with wine in place of words.
Barristan poured himself a cup and took a sip; pale and sharp it was, spiced with nutmeg and cloves that did not overwhelm the senses. When the salad was cleared from the table, crisped capons basted in honey and lemon were served. It was a much finer meal than they had been served thus far. Barristan did not know whether that was for good or ill. "Maester?" he said.
Colemon looked up. "Is the food not to your liking, ser? I could have something else brought."
"Thank you, but no, this will more than do. I only wanted to inquire as to the young lord's health. You seemed very worried the last we spoke of him."
If the maester was surprised by the question, he hid it well. "Much better, ser, much better indeed. Not a single fit in the past two days, gods be praised."
"Gods be praised," Barristan echoed. He took a sip of wine and set the cup aside. "Now, despite His Grace's manner this morn, his words were true. The gods will grow old waiting on Robert to be in good health, sad as it is say, nor will the Lannisters await Lady Arryn's pleasure, which although you may not be able to admit it, we both know is the true cause for delaying a meeting with His Grace. So, while the fine meal and excellent vintage are greatly appreciated, I think it time you give us Lady Arryn's reply."
Colemon nodded solemnly. "Of course, I never meant to insult His Grace. I only thought you all may wish to eat beforehand. There is still dessert yet to be served if you'd prefer to wait until after. The berry tarts will have surely gone cold by the time we're through speaking."
"It would be better if we spoke now, maester," said Ser Arthur. "I doubt any sweet will soften the bitterness of Lady Arryn's words."
"If that is His Grace's wish?"
"It is, maester," the king said, mildly impatient.
"Very well," said the maester. "My lady was not pleased with your urgency, as she still fears that the presence of a stranger may worsen Robert's condition, but she understands that you have a pressing need to speak with her that cannot wait any longer."
"Could I not speak with Lady Arryn without her son present?" His Grace questioned. "If Robert's health is in question, then perhaps it would be best if we met alone. It would pain me greatly to know that I brought some ill to the boy by our meeting."
"Your concern and prudence are sorely appreciated, Your Grace, but it will not be necessary. Lady Arryn believes that Robert's condition would not be affected if he were surrounded by his steadfast companions and vassals."
"That's hardly appropriate," Barristan said at once.
"Next she'll ask for our heads and say it is for the boy's health," Arthur added darkly.
"Be quiet, Arthur," spat the king, glaring at Ser Arthur, his mouth set in a hard line. It fell to a frown when he turned to the maester. "Surely that is not necessary. I wish to negotiate with Lady Arryn, not petition her for fealty before half the Vale. A private audience in her solar would be much more appropriate."
"You may be right," the maester sighed, "but she insists that it must be in the High Hall, with the lords she has to guest in attendance. It is the only way she feels safe meeting you, sire. Otherwise . . . she wishes you safe travels on the High Road and good fortune in the war to come."
"There is no other way?" Ser Barristan asked.
"There is no other way. Lady Arryn is waiting in the High Hall, and her guests have already assembled. If you decide to speak with her, you can join her there when you're ready. But first, mayhap you would like a berry tart? The warmth will have left them, yet the taste remains."
"I doubt that very much," Jon muttered in a voice so low only Barristan could make out the words.
"Apologies, Your Grace, I did not hear you," said the maester.
"I had only meant to thank you, maester, for the offer, but it would seem my appetite has departed the Eyrie without me. You've given me much to think on. If you would excuse us, I must discuss Lady Arryn's message with my Kingsguard before I reach a decision."
"Of course, sire, sers, I will take my leave of you." He called the servants in, who collected the platters and left quickly. The wine was left, though. "Your Grace." The maester turned back as he reached the door.
The king looked up from the table. "Yes, maester? What is it?"
"You should know. . . my lady's guest are flies buzzing about a ripe corpse. I have tried to counsel her to send them away, but they amuse her. And to keep her amused, they will dance to any tune she plays." He left without offering an explanation, yet his meaning was clear enough. There were no true friends of the Targaryens here, only leeches.
A heavy silence fell over the chamber, as if the world had gone rigid under the weight of indecision. Barristan could offer no advice to his king that he had not already given. The chance of death was ever present, and it would do no good to remind him of it. And if they were to leave, the realm would hear that the last Targaryen is a coward.
"You shouldn't have said that to the maester, Arthur," Jon admonished, breaking the silence. He stood from the table and moved across the chamber.
"Why?" questioned Arthur. "Am I not allowed to speak the truth now, Your Grace?"
The king washed his face and donned his crown. The crown, forged at the command of his forebear Maekar, made him look older than his sixteen years. It was a warriors' crown, unmarred by the extravagance that tainted so many other crowns, and it lent fierceness to the young king whose brow it sat upon. Jon whipped around to look at Arthur. "You are always allowed to speak the truth, but the maester can't be trusted not to bring every word we speak back to his lady. He is, after all, just a raven in truth, and a raven flies two ways, Arthur."
Barristan rose and belted his sword about his waist. "I don't think so, Your Grace. I told you that there was still a man beneath the maester, and I believe his warning was sincere. . ."
". . .But nothing we didn't already know. I told you that there is a maester atop the man. His warning could be some ploy of Lysa's to get me to leave the Eyrie. Perhaps she is frightened of what secrets Lord Stark may have told me, and she does not want to risk any of them reaching her guests."
"There is much we don't know," said Arthur, stepping up behind the king to pin his cloak around his shoulders, "but you should think hard before deciding. It is certain she will seek to humiliate you. She would like nothing more than for you to give her a just reason to kill you."
"I have already decided, Arthur."
The king was still a boy in many ways, but in that moment, he appeared much older. Rhaegar would be proud, Barristan thought, a melancholy washing over him, bathing him in an all too familiar feeling. But there was no time for such feelings, so he pushed them aside and brought Longclaw to the king. "The agreement we made has aged poorly these past three days, Your Grace, and I doubt her guests will be lacking their arms. If you are set on this decision, then I must insist you bring this."
"Little good it'll do us," said Arthur, "but I agree with the Lord Commander."
"Alright . . ." Jon did not look convinced, but he belted it to his waist, nonetheless. "And if her guards refuse to let us through because of this?"
Arthur let out a short bark of laughter to show his disdain. "I have a feeling she is more anxious for this meeting than you are. After all, the enjoyment she gets from making you wait does start to wane after a time. I doubt a few swords give her more than a moment's pause. She'll have more than that surrounding her and that wretch she calls a son."
"Then we had best not keep her waiting any longer."
The maester was waiting for them outside the chamber. He peered anxiously at the swords at their waists, but he did not look surprised. "Your Grace," he began, ever cautious in choosing his words. "You gave a solemn oath that you would leave your weapons in your chamber."
"Aye, I did. I also assumed that I would be granted a private audience with Lady Arryn, where there would be no need for a sword. I told you when I arrived in the Eyrie that I don't trust her guests, and if they decide they want to win favor with Tywin Lannister more than with your lady, I doubt she will be able to stop them."
"There is still no need for a sword. Lady Arryn's own guards will be present to stop any who would be so bold as to dare make attempt on your life."
"Then that is more swords to make Robert feel safe, but they do nothing for me. They could just as easily be turned on me. He will have dozens of swords at his command, I ask only for three. If that is not enough to make him feel secure and keep him in good health, then he should not be present."
"Your concern is not without merit, Your Grace. However, the surprise could be detrimental to Robert's health, you see. I will need to inform Lady Arryn of this, she will not be expecting the agreement to have changed."
"Lead the way, maester, we can wait outside the High Hall while you talk to her. If she does not accept, then we can take our leave from there."
The maester smiled politely, nodding. He led them away from the chamber that had been their prison for the past three days, down a set of stairs, and across a bridge before they came to the entry of the High Hall. Two guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks stood at either side of the carved wooden doors, barring the entrance with crossed spears.
"Let me past," the maester ordered.
The guards were unmoved. "We have orders," grunted the larger of the two.
"Yes, yes, I know your orders well, but there has been a change. I need to speak to Lady Arryn. His Grace and his knights will wait without until I am through."
The guards uncrossed their spears and let the maester enter the hall, then crossed them once more. A shaft of sunlight shone through a narrow window set in the white stone wall as the sun made its descent to the west. A portion of their own descent would have to made at night, yet the king was determined to leave today. If Lysa came to an agreement, though, perhaps he might relent.
After several minutes, the doors to the High Hall opened and the maester slipped out. He spoke quietly with the larger guard for a moment, then the spears uncrossed, and the guards stepped aside. "If you'll follow me, Lady Arryn has agreed to allow you to keep your arms, on the condition that you keep them sheathed."
"There is nothing I want more than for there to be no cause to unsheathe my sword, maester."
"There will be no cause, I assure you," said the maester, opening the carved wooden doors wide.
As they walked the length of the hall, between rows of slender pillars of white marble slashed with blue veins, the only sound that greeted them was the plucking of a woodharp. A young man leaned against the Moon Door, cursing quietly to himself as his finger slipped and hit the wrong string. He smiled at Barristan as they passed, almost arrogant in his demeanor, brushed a stray blond curl from in front of his eyes, and inclined his head before returning to his woodharp. The song sounded almost like the "Dance of the Dragons", but if that was the case, the singer clearly didn't know it well, nor did he know it's true meaning.
Two weirwood thrones stood at the end of the hall, atop a small, raised platform of white stone. Lady Arryn sat the smaller of the two thrones, as befit her status as the young lord's mother, though Barristan figured she would rather be in the lord's seat. Lysa was dressed in a cream-colored gown, a necklace of turquoise and moonstones dangling from her neck. Her long auburn hair, woven into an intricate braid, was draped over her right shoulder. Her years in King's Landing had not been kind to her, yet her time in the Eyrie seemed to have brought a little color back to her face, if nothing else.
Lord Robert Arryn was sat on the throne beside his mother, a large pile of cushions beneath him, dressed in a cream and blue doublet. He seemed to have gotten frailer since the last time Barristan had seen him, when King Robert had proposed that his namesake be fostered by Lord Tywin at Casterly Rock. The Lady Lysa had refused his offer brusquely, yet Barristan had also seen the fear hidden in her eyes. That fear, and the madness that came from it, may well mean death for the boy if nothing changed. The shaking sickness was a mysterious illness that the maesters knew little and less about curing, yet even an old, grey knight like Barristan could tell that the boy was getting worse since his time in King's Landing. He needed sun, companions, and for his dolls to be replaced by a wooden sword. Even that might not be enough to save Robert, yet it was better than treating him as if he were still a babe.
Lady Lysa was a ripe fruit to the knights and lords of the Vale, and many still gathered to fight for the honor of plucking it. Lord Hunter, whose gout and age had near hobbled him, was seated in a cushioned chair, his sons close at hand. A younger man with fierce black side-whiskers and the Royce look to him could only be Nestor's heir, Ser Albar. Several other of the Vale's principal Houses were represented. Barristan noticed Ser Lymond and Lord Jon, both of House Lynderly, whispering with each other, Ser Roland Waynwood, knighted only a few years prior, the heir to Redfort, Ser Jasper. Others sported sigils he was not familiar with; broken lance, winged chalice, pily grey and black.
Ser Lyn Corbray stood beside Lady Arryn, one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other resting on the back of the throne. He leaned down, whispered something in Lysa's ear, and they both smiled.
"Ser Barristan, I recognize you well enough, but you will have to introduce your companions. I see a crown atop one's head, yet where is the silver hair and violet eyes? I see a knight in a white cloak, yet he looks nothing like the stories that were told of the Sword of the Morning."
The king did not share in her amusement. "My lady," he said, "my name is Jon Targaryen. I got my coloring from my mother, Lyanna Stark, but my father was Rhaegar Targaryen."
"Rhaegar was wed to another," said Lord Eon Hunter. "A Martell girl . . . Elia, a sister of Lord Doran Martell, if memory serves. Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but that would make you a bastard."
"The High Septon annulled Rhaegar's marriage to Elia Martell and wed him in secret to my mother."
"Why would the fat one do that?" asked Ser Albar.
"It was the High Septon prior to him, and his reasoning is unknown. Some private records of his may be at the Citadel, but there is no way to certain. It is possible that he may have done it so Rhaegar could sire more children. Elia's health was delicate and birthing her son had nearly killed her. My mother broke her engagement to Robert Baratheon and wed Rhaegar for love, foolish as that love was, but it is hard to be certain if my father loved her."
"So, you have nothing to prove that you are a Targaryen other than words?" Lysa smiled as if she shared some private jest with the king. "And the knight claiming to be Ser Arthur Dayne?"
"Ser Arthur can speak for himself, my lady."
Arthur removed his helm. "I am Ser Arthur Dayne," he stated solemnly. "Lord Stark spared my life in exchange for my oath to keep the secret of His Grace's birth."
Lord Robert squirmed in his seat and pointed at Arthur. "Mother," he said breathlessly. "You told me the Sword of the Morning was dead, you told me . . . that can't be him." He looked uncertain. "Can it?"
"It can and it is, my lord," said the king.
"Is it?" questioned Lysa. "I have my doubts. This could just be some hedge knight or commoner you dressed in a white cloak. He is not even marked by the kiss of the Dornish sun. How are we to know the truth?"
"I have been in the North for the past sixteen years. There's not near as much sun there."
"And what does a knight of the Kingsguard do in the North for sixteen years?" Ser Lymond Lynderly asked.
If the question was meant to shake Arthur's confidence, it achieved the opposite. His voice never wavered. "I worked with my hands, disguised as a carpenter among the smallfolk of the North. I received strange looks at first, after all, a Dornishman in the North is a rarity, but soon enough they accepted me. And I bided my time, waiting for my king to come of age and for Lord Stark to see the error in his judgement."
Ser Lymond was not convinced. "Clever words, ser, but words are winds."
"What of Dawn?" asked Ser Lyn. "Surely a knight of your renown would not part with the legendary sword of his House?" The gathered lords and knights murmured their agreement.
"Quite right you are, ser," said Lord Eon. "If you were to show us Dawn, there would be no doubt you are Ser Arthur Dayne."
Arthur's mouth tightened. "Dawn was lost to me after my fight with Lord Stark."
"Convenient," Ser Lyn said, a coy smile on his face.
Lysa Arryn lounged in her throne, amused. "So, all you have is the word of men who can't be trusted, and some papers that may be at the Citadel. It's a clever story Lord Stark has spun, but why should my son listen to another word of it?"
Arthur ran a finger down the hilt of his longsword. "It would be my honor, with Lord Robert's permission, to demonstrate my skill at arms. If Ser Lyn is in agreement, we could duel to first blood. You will see that I am no hedge knight."
"My lady is a greedy wench, ser," said Corbray. "She spilled the lifeblood of your sworn brother, Prince Lewyn of Dorne. If she were to come out to dance, your first blood would be your last."
If Barristan was not mistaken, a note of fear had crept into the man's voice. Prince Lewyn had been wounded when Ser Lyn had finished him off, something only a craven would boast about. But Arthur was not wounded and speaking of Dawn had angered him. Were they to fight for true, Ser Lyn would not survive for long. For that reason alone, Barristan hoped Lady Arryn would decline. Killing a knight of the Vale was shaky ground to attempt building an alliance on.
"I want to see them fight," Lord Robert said. "Mother, make them fight."
"No, sweet child," said Lysa, "despite his arrogant words, the man has been given guest right. It would not be proper for brave Ser Lyn to kill him."
The boy huffed and clenched his fists. "I don't care what's proper. I want to see them fight." When his mother ignored him, Robert hopped out of his seat and went to her. "Mother, I want to see them fight. I command you to make them fight." He started to shake.
"Maester, I think that my Sweetrobin is tired and in need of a leeching. Take him to your chambers and keep him there until I come."
"Of course, my lady." The maester grabbed the young lord's hand and tried to gently lead him away, but the boy stood firm. "Come with me, my lord, your blood needs thinning," he insisted.
Robert yanked his hand from the maester's grasp. "I don't want to be leeched! I'm the lord, you have to do what I say!" His shaking was getting more violent.
"Ser Marywn, assist in getting my son to the maester's chamber." Lysa rose from her throne to go and kneel in front of Robert. She smiled and stroked his hair. "Sweetling, I need you to go with Ser Marwyn and the Maester. I am sure Ser Marywn will tell you stories of the Winged Knight if you behave, isn't that right, ser?"
"It would be an honor, my lady. There were no stories I enjoyed more in my youth than those of the Winged Knight."
"I don't want to go," said Lord Robert, quivering, his voice barely loud enough for Barristan to hear.
While the young lord fought with his mother, Barristan watched the others in the High Hall. Royce, Redfort, and Waynwood watched the young lord with thinly veiled disgust. That surprised Barristan. The three of them had hovered around Lady Arryn for several moons, hard to believe this was the first they had seen of the young lord's unruly behavior. The rest of the leeches' reactions were as Barristan expected; they turned away and pretended to have gone deaf.
"Do I need to have Ser Marywn go and fetch your whipping boy, Robert?" Lysa asked.
Lord Robert paled and shuddered. "No, I'll go."
"Do you promise not to give the maester and Ser Marywn any trouble?"
"I promise . . ." Robert put his head down, meekly took Ser Marwyn's hand, and allowed himself to be led from the hall.
"My lady," said the king.
Lysa Arryn whipped around on him in a cold fury. "I should never have allowed you to bring swords into the High Hall. My sweet boy can't take all this talk about fighting."
"Then as I told the maester, Lord Robert should not have been present. I am at war, my lady, and you question my honor and that of one of my Kingsguard. He is Ser Arthur Dayne, and I am the last Targaryen in Westeros. If you believe my words to be false, your son has left the hall, and Ser Arthur will gladly duel brave Ser Lyn."
"That won't be necessary," said Lysa, returning to her throne. "It makes no matter whether you are a Stark bastard or a Targaryen, coming to the Vale was in vain."
"And why is that?"
"The knights of the Vale must stay in the Vale, to protect my son from the wildlings."
"I know better than most about the threat of the wildlings, but they are unorganized and ineffective . . . and I am not asking for you to send the Eyrie's garrison to fight on the battlefield. I only ask for you to call your banners and raise a sizeable host."
Lysa reclined in her throne and called for servants to bring up a cask of wine. "The wildlings are a threat to the Vale, the Lannisters are not."
"The wildlings attack with well-made steel weapons, not the reaping hooks and wood axes of years past. Why do you think that is, my lady? Do you think they have learned to work a forge?" Jon spread his arms wide, awaiting a response.
"That's not possible," Ser Albar said. "Even if they could learn to work a forge, they wouldn't be able to steal the steel required to arm so many."
Jon nodded at the knight in thanks. "Roose Bolton, commander of my forces on the Green Fork, claims there were wildlings fighting in Tywin's van, and Tyrion Lannister now serves as Joffrey's Hand in his father's stead. A curiosity, to be sure? You sent him down the High Road to die, yet he survived, and now the wildlings are attacking in greater number than ever before. You see, my lady, my war is your war."
"He makes a fair point, my lady," said Lord Jon of the Snakewood.
"It is a wonder how the Imp survived the High Road," Lord Eon added.
"My father has stated many times that he smelt the stench of Tywin Lannister's hand in this," said Ser Jasper Redfort. "Just two moons past, the wildlings raided a village close to the Redfort that was frequented by Redfort men because of its . . . establishments. They killed seven Redfort men, a score of the smallfolk, and carried a dozen women off into the mountains."
Lysa Arryn was unmoved by his words. "Even if what he says is true, and we have no reason to believe his words, my friends, it changes nothing. The knights of the Vale must protect the Vale, not foolishly fight a losing battle with the Lannisters."
"My lady, with the Vale at our side and the Iron Islands close to coming to terms of an alliance, victory would be certain. My cousin, Robb Stark, has already routed nearly half of Tywin's great host. If the knights of the Vale join with my host at the Green Fork, together we could roust Lord Tywin from Harrenhal. With Tywin dead and his host scattered, the Lannisters will hardly have an army left to them. Robb will be waiting at Riverrun for Ser Stafford's fresh host to leave the West. When Lannister moves to reinforce Lord Tywin, he will be taken in the rear."
This plan was a lie, but it was a necessary one to tell. The king's plans had to be kept a secret for as long as possible, and several of Lady Arryn's esteemed guests would be sending ravens of what happened here in the coming days. No doubt some of those ravens would be to His Grace's enemies.
"And then Lord Renly will crush what remains of your army, and the Vale will suffer all the more for siding with the loser," Ser Lymond Lynderly said, his mouth a tight line.
"There would be four kingdoms beneath my banner once the Ironborn agree to terms, and Renly's host is near as green as the man himself."
"His commanders, however, are not green," Lord Eon retorted.
"Mace Tyrell, Randyll Tarly, Mathis Rowan . . ." Ser Albar raised a finger for each commander that he listed.
"I'll match Renly Baratheon commander for commander and a score will still remain to me when his are gone. He is of a little concern. The Lannisters are the biggest threat to the realm, and I mean to destroy them, root and stem. I thought revenge for your late lord husband might appeal to you, my lady."
"My husband would not have wanted me to risk the life of our beloved son avenging him . . . and I am no longer certain it was the Lannisters who killed him."
A shiver ran through Barristan at the certainty of her tone. "Who else could it have been?"
Her smile was triumphant. "Why . . . you, Ser Barristan."
"What are you accusing me of, Lady Arryn?" he asked, taken aback.
"I accuse you of nothing, ser, yet it is quite the coincidence."
Arthur put his helm back on, his cloak splayed out behind him, freeing the pommel of his sword. "What is?"
Ser Lyn stepped in front of Lysa and drew his sword, Lady Forlorn. "I wouldn't . . ."
"Your courage is greatly appreciated, Ser Lyn," said Lysa, bemused, "but there will be no fighting this day." She rose from the throne and stepped around him. "I do not accuse you, Ser Barristan, merely point out a coincidence. My husband, Jon Arryn, dies, then Lord Stark comes to King's Landing and shortly thereafter King Robert dies, turning the realm to chaos. Now you both serve a Targaryen that was hidden away in the North."
"A cleverly shortsighted recollection of what happened, Lady Arryn," His Grace said, "and utterly incorrect."
"Did my husband and King Robert not die?" she asked innocently.
"They did," Jon acquiesced, "but that is not what you are playing at. You attempt to lay their deaths at the feet of my Hand and Lord Commander. I will not play this game of words with you."
"I play no games and I accuse no one, boy. I only wish to show that you cannot be trusted. All you offer the Vale is death and revenge against men who might be my husband's killer. I won't leave my son, and the Vale, unprotected for that."
The king swallowed hard. "I do not offer the Vale only uncertain vengeance. I offer a mutually beneficial alliance, my lady, one that would bind the throne to the Vale in perpetuity. So many good men have come to the Eyrie, lords and knights alike, but what do they bring you that a king cannot. Lady Arryn, I have come to the Vale to ask for a marriage alliance."
"Interesting," was all Lysa managed. She returned to her throne.
"In exchange for the Vale, I offer to make you a queen. You will rule by my side in King's Landing once the war is won, until then you can remain here, in the Eyrie. Lord Robert will become my heir until a son is born to me. If I should fall on the battlefield, then your son would become king."
The servants chose then to arrive with the cask of wine. A cup was offered to Barristan, but he refused it. It was hard to tell what Lady Lysa's reaction might be, but either way he would need his head about him for what came next. She sipped from her cup, watching the king over the rim . . . then she started laughing. It started off soft at first but became more of a high-pitched squeal as she set the cup down and threw back her head. Ser Lyn was quick to join her, and before long half the court had joined their lady in her merriment.
"Marry you," Lysa said between breaths, "you're just a boy." A fresh wave of laughter rolled over her.
His Grace took a deep breath to calm himself. "I have counted sixteen namedays, Lady Arryn. In the eyes of the seven new gods and the old gods beyond counting, I am a man grown. There is no reason to decline the marriage proposal because of my age."
Lysa calmed herself and raised a hand for the laughter to stop. "That may be true, but I still decline it all the same. A marriage pact is not worth risking the life of my son to fight in your war."
"You should reconsider, Lady Arryn," the king said, anger edging into his tone.
Lysa just chuckled. "Should I? And why is that?"
"I will sit the throne, no matter how long it takes, and when I do, I do not intend to rule over a broken kingdom. If the Vale does not assist me in taking the Iron Throne, it will face similar . . . consequences as those I intend to inflict upon those who have allied themselves with the false kings. Think long and hard on that, Lady Lysa. A dragon's wrath is a fearsome sight to behold."
"Leave the Vale, boy. Quickly, while I still allow you to live," said Lady Arryn, her face turning red.
"Gladly," Jon snarled, turning on his heels. As he walked the length of the hall, he noticed Mya Stone leaning against one of the pillars. She looked nervous to see him approach, and she kept glancing down the hall at Lady Arryn, who was calling for more wine.
"Your Grace," Mya said, dipping her head anxiously.
"You told me once that you prefer night climbs, yes?" Jon asked, the anger starting to leave him.
"Aye . . . I do."
The king looked at Lady Arryn one last time, resigned, and shook his head. "Good, I have wasted enough time trying to make Lady Arryn see reason. It is far past time I left the Eyrie."