Here goes.

Support the original release or Aerys will make you fight fire.

The Tower of the Hand rose great in the distance, a great sight for anyone looking at it from the rooftop of the Dalmorton Inn, the inn on the hook. There were many inns on the Hook, but this one was called that for three main reasons. One, it was actually called "inn". Two, it was favoured by visiting highborns due to its high standard of cleanliness, and finally, it had "The Inn on the Hook" carved into the doorway, courtesy of a drunken patron on the opening night.

The one man on the roof, drinking in the sight was Ean Dalmorton, highborn in name only. There were many families who had two names, but owned neither lands nor keep, but whilst others saw this as mocking, he took it in stride. The floor was all the lands he needed, the building all the keep. No point in changing that. There were times, however, that he prayed for just one knight, instead of his son and a cheap sword and hauberk, to be on guard at night.

The proprietor was supposed to be his father, but living to eight-and-seventy when few common folk lived past sixty had taken a toll on him. His portly features had been melted away by the ravages of time. The old man still continued to help though, even on what would soon be his deathbed, slaving away at sums. He had never learned to write, but he had taught himself to count. Nothing fancy, but with enough nails to act as units he could find out anything.

Ean Dalmorton was big for his height, not quite obese but bulky with more fat than muscle. He had never been especially handsome nor plain. A man of fifty, his mop of mud brown hair had turned grey from both age and a stressful life in King's landing, with him discovering more and more white flecks in his temples and the upper parts of his stubble every moonturn. His face was rather normal, his eyes a flat and muddy brown, like his hair, his cheeks large and pink and positively carpeted with pockmarks. In short, he looked more trustworthy than most innkeepers (and this was true. Most times. He was still an innkeeper, though.)

This inn had been founded right after the Dance, the very day Cregan Stark left for home, more than two hundred and fifty years ago. The Dalmortons had been granted land by the Greens and Aegon, for volunteering to help in the bringing of one Ser Arryk Cargyll to Dragonstone. For this, they had earned Lord Cregan's wroth but his ancestor, Ryman Dalmorton, had managed to avoid detection. In celebration, the inn was opened. Like other inns, they attracted large attention on opening night, but Ryman's upbeat demeanour kept patrons coming back.

It was business as usual for many years, the earlier ones, of the fifteen that Ean had been running the inn in all but name. Patrons came, drinks were served, food was served. Tiles games were held and brawlers ejected. Money came in and was spent, winter came and then summer. It was much of the same in these other years, but in them, he had been subject to some visits by the man, who he only remembered as "the man", as had origins, but somehow he handled himself in such a cool, businesslike manner that he had somehow managed to almost entirely to detach himself from his path

The man was in his late thirties the first time he saw him, in his eighth year of running the inn. He was short, slim and angular, with a bookish, proud look and glaring grey eyes. Given the rank of serjeant on arrival in service of the Hand, that was most likely a mere cover. From what Ean gleaned from the man's introduction and occasional whispers in the Dalmorton Inn, he was more of an asset, offered up by a merchant from Gulltown to Lord Jon Arryn, to aid the Hand of the King in the sacred art of espionage. In short, he was a hedge spymaster for hire, and a good one.

The man had appeared to him as he was closing, walked in just before his son closed the door. The man gave no name and few answers to his questions, but he gave a good talk. His voice was reedy but compelling. In short, Ean would be reimbursed for every man who spilled his secrets to a spy of his whilst in the inn, whether through Ean giving him a stiffer drink or wheedled the story out of him himself (or both). Ean would also throw out other spies who worked for Littlefinger or the Spider, or report them if they were unknown or new.

This was the first time he was ordered to do something by the man. Ean had bristled when he had heard this: Hand's man or not, the man had no control over him. Ean only complied when the man pulled out a small pouch that he said contained golden dragons. The man had provided him on how to get this letter, from Lord Stark in Winterfell. Apparently, Lord Stark wanted the letter to be only seen by Jon Arryn, and absolutely no-one else (he had got that point by the man reinforcing it by repeating the word "absolutely"). It had apparently gone flawlessly so far, with it only hitting relatively loyal men without little ambition. It had gone from:

Winterfell to The Eyrie to Maidenpool to Rosby to the rookery at the Iron Gate. A long way for a raven to travel. Notably, it had given no reason for the Grand Maester or anyone else to believe that it had arrived in King's Landing. The seal appeared legitimate, Stark direwolf grey, hard but somewhat smeared, as if the person was sealing the letter in a hurry. He wondered what Lord Stark had been worried about.

So Ean set out from the tavern, leaving it in the charge of his son. Walking along the Hook, in the northeastern direction, he passed neighbours and regulars on his way. Men opening their stores in the new day, carts being pushed along the street, the sparse morning watchmen making their rounds, and so did the criminals. Reaching the pathway to the Red Keep, he turned completely, walking towards the central square at the foot of Visenya's Hill.

It would have been shorter to go as the crow flied, but trying to perform that would involve him trying to navigate the wynds and alleys of the area between Aegon's High Hill and the Hill of Rhaenys. It was, admittedly, the least clustered part of the city. However, he didn't know his way through most of the small streets and buildings there, and the city was still King's Landing. That was no shortcut at all.

Reaching Visenya's square, he would have felt the urge to look around it if he had not been there often. He had thought, and he had a job to do, and his determination, mixed in with some fear of the man, made him advance. One step and another, moving forward and towing his body with them, he reached the barracks of the Iron Gate. There, he went straight in (confidence, that was the key) and straight to the personal quarters of one Commander Ardrian Stone, the Bastard of Old Anchor.

Unlike others, the young commander (only three-and-twenty, and yet commanding since the old Ser Marq Stokeworth from the days of the Mad King was disembowelled by a drunken and disgruntled cadet on the day of Prince Joffrey's nameday the year before) had not been given a high place based on his birth, instead serving as a watchman for a year. He had not even announced that he would be joining. The tale went like this:

Ardrian Stone was born to a steward's daughter and the Lord of Old Anchor, when the Lord was but fifteen. The Lord loved his son dearly, but he had a duty, so he arranged a marriage for himself with a comely member of House Piper. That all changed during the start of Robert's Rebellion. It was past time he be married, but the Lord wanted to perform his duty to his king first. However, he suffered a crippling injury at Gulltown when he fell off a ladder whilst storming the port. His groin had to be operated on, and he lost the ability to sire heirs, and he soon died on an infection.

All knew the Lord wanted Ardrian to succeed him, but it was not to be. For some reason, the bird requesting legitimisation of Ardrian Stone was lost. Ardrian was cast out of Old Anchor when his hated uncle succeeded his father, he was a mere hedge knight, going by the name of Ser Kevan the Agile, posing as a lightly (and poorly) armoured but deadly swordsman with a shield that featured 3 robin eggs in a chevron layout, on mud brown. He was more well known for his proficiency in melees and especially mock duels, once taking down Lord Parris Crane in a sparring match. It was never announced, but all heard of it. Ser Parmen had represented House Crane at tourneys ever since.

Rumour had it that 3 years ago, when a tourney in honour of the visiting Tyrells was held, Ser Kevan the Agile took part. Along came three scions of House Crane: Ser Parmen, the great lancer, Lord Parris's brother's son, Lord Parris's cousin's son, Ser Parker, an upjumped squire, and Lord Parris's heir, Ser Parcival, a chivalrous but boastful knight. Unlike the tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, Ser Kevan unhorsed Ser Parker, but his shield was split and helmet caved in by a single pass of Ser Parmen's, leaving him bleeding and delirious.

He should have died that day, but old Ser Marq saw him and took pity, giving up some of his 30 hard-earned Stags to get the man to a healer, Rik of Cherrywood Hamlet, a Riverlands hedge maester of surprisingly generous repute, having trained at the Citadel and served under Lord Steffon Sweet, until Rik took issue with the Lord instructing him to save his 20 year old son from food poisoning by bad honey instead of the 11-year old Yohan, the castle septon's helper. Rik healed the boy. To this day, they wandered between the Red Mountains and the Neck, healing all with what they could.

Ser Ardrian Stone was meant to die that day, but he was resurrected, due to skilled treatment, prayer and some pieces of silver. Grateful, the Bastard of Old Anchor enrolled to pay off his debt, as a mere watchman. He lived amongst those whom, even as a bastard, he stood above, but he was well-liked and good-humoured and incredibly quick and clever, a man born for the role.

Catching petty thief after petty thief, knocking brawlers senseless, tossing out the very drunk, the man hardly ever lost his cool, and dealt with King's Landing "like the way Jaehaerys did", as a woozy lot of patrons at his very own tavern once dubbed his methods, all at once. (One man said "and the way the Usurper should!". Ser Ardrian escorted him out, apologising all the while.)

But all dreams had to end, along with lives, and the tale of Ser Marq Stokeworth. The cadet who killed him was meant to be sent to the Wall to defend against the Wildlings, but while in custody, the cadet, apparently, had his face, chest and arms kicked inside out by a pair of very accurate horses. Tragic, truly. The two gold cloaks guarding him were found with blood on their hands, literally, but they said that they were innocent. They were found not guilty at the subsequent court martial.

So that was what brought them here. Ean Dalmorton straightened and brushed some dust off some of his affluent, slightly-above-average clothing (such as those worn by merchants and craftsmen): a faded doublet, slashed with grey, under a musty brown cloak. He then rapped on the door smartly, or at least his best interpretation of that word.

"Come in." was the answer, curt, but in an even, calm tone. Ean entered the quarters of the Commander.

"Hmm." Ardrian frowned quietly. "I know you, but I know not from where." Ser Ardrian dressed simply enough, a plain white doublet with his shiny but scratched chestplate over. His leggings were fine fabric, a light shade of brown. His golden cloak was fastened by a brooch made of gleaming bronze, in the shape of an anchor.

As for the face, Ser Ardrian had stubble of gold covering his chin and cheeks and jaw. His short, flaxen blond hair had locks that came down to his inquisitive blue eyes. His arms, bare, were clean and muscled, and his long legs gave him a good pace as the tall man rode and crossed the distance in a rather short amount of time.

"That does not matter, though, as I take it the man in Arryn colours sent you?" asked Ardrian Stone.

"Y-Yes, Ser."

"In that case..." The Commander trailed off as he padded away to the center of his quarters, where his personal desk was. Moving the desk, he then crouched, took his dagger out of his pocket, and prised open a loose floorboard.

The Commander took out the scroll and placed it in Ean's hand. "For the Hand's eyes only."

"For the Hand's eyes only."

On arrival back at the Dalmorton Inn, Ean thought he could sense the man's silent laughter as his son showed him the contents of the pouch. Ean cursed. The man was no liar, as it did contain golden dragons: two of them. The rest were mere groats.

The screams were like a bard's music to his ears, truly.

Indulging in one's hobbies for one's own amusement was a necessity, if you were born like him. He thought that a life of abstinence led to depression, and from there to impulsiveness, foolishness and destruction at the hands of a foe.

If you led a life based on nought but indulgences, however, you became a hedonist, a beast who gave in to the wildest temptations of man. Needing stimulation, they cut their way through foe and friend alike in their crazed antics, seeking pleasure with a berserk stupidity and insanity.

It was his rule as a protector, if only for selfish reasons, to shield the masses from the wolves. It was not his role to hunt men, who tempered their indulgences and had the rationality to make themselves useful to the men known as the Lord of the Dreadfort. Not his job at all. Leave that to the Starks.

The Starks never knew how to grow up like him. He was not a good man. He could comprehend good, but the notion seemed odd to him. Why prevent your true self from appearing when you could indulge in pleasure with the same consequences? That was not prevention, but limitation. A man should never suffer limitations from his self, when he could aspire to greater.

It was everyone's right to do as they wished. The strongest and smartest would reign, or those who avoided capture and killing and lived safely, alone. He had been given the lordship, no doubt. But he had dealt with problems when they sprang up in the way that they were meant to be dealt with. He had earned this. Earned the resources to crush those who were a threat.

The wife of the miller screamed. Good of the Starks to believe that she had died. He had been quietly wroth at her actions. Well, no, at himself, mostly. He had left a gap unfixed. It grew into a crack, but thanks to the Squid of Winterfell, it would never evolve into a ravine. He meant to make her feel this.

So far his torture technician (as he styled him: this was honest praise and admiration for such a master of his craft.) had gone through the preferred method: flaying. Sadly, this skin would lever be enough of a worthy person's enough to lay on the Bolton wall of fame. Maybe as a carpet? No, it would wear out too easily, and skin can get dirty and unsanitary easily.

He had decided to experiment with a few new techniques. The woman had been beaten with fists, whipped with rope, strangled with a noose. She had been burned with a hot iron rod and blinded by a red hot poker. She bore knife wounds on her red flesh, oozing flesh red blood.

The pain had not been enough: it appeared the insanity didn't come from him, she was clinging on to life after a ridiculous amount of punishment for the sake of, as she put it, "Watching her son take over your Dreadfort". He resorted to a most drastic topic.

He ordered three baby foxes in, along with some fresh clothes dripping with river water. By the same he entered himself, she was broken by the remembering of the incident that had chased this whole mess. She died of fear. Yes, actual fear. Roose Bolton allowed himself to be proud for once: he was not arrogant, but he would be lying if he said it did not feel good to able to kill someone with fear even more effectively than the Old Lion.

He had not killed anyone using that before. Well, not directly, at least. But it was present in this old time, the Codex Andalos. It was known that the Valyrian dabbled in magic, and apparently they could control dragons through a distorted form of mind control. That could be altered to use on foes.

The mind triggered a forced look at a traumatic scene, making them remember their worst nightmare as if the person or object in it was really there again. He was glad he had hired this man, Smyrmoff. Amusing name, but the skill of a genius was always at work in the dungeons.

The man was a disgraced Ibbenese, leading a band of mutineers that took over a whole whaling boat. When the Ibbenese whaler powerhouses banded together a crew of light boats packed dense with militia and soldiers, Smyrmoff and his merry men headed due northwest, landing just off the mouth of the Weeping Water.

When he had sent out a tracking party, Smyrmoff sent a rider out, proposing the selling of his men into slavery as Lyseni manwhores for his own life with the spoils. He disliked slavery, however, and simply offered his life for their deaths and share of the treasure. The leader of the now depressed and regretful mutineers had agreed.

A few put up a token resistance, but Smyrmoff was found inside the beached ship, gloating to some tied up and scared wenches he had bought in Braavos. Lord Bolton let him do what we wanted, provided he buried them himself. They were still somewhere, in the Dreadfort, though their torture had left them so hard to look upon he decided to place them elsewhere. He was slightly disconcerted about what happened to them. Slightly.

The spoils included fairly pricey oil from blubber, a small fortune in salted whale meat, a smaller fortune all in gold and silver, a dozen of the Braavosi wenches (sans one who had died of syphilis. From Smyrmoff's smirk, Lord Bolton knew what had happened. They could be a valuable commodity yet, so he had them tucked away, much to the torturer's chagrin. There were no courtesans), two fairly well-off whalers worth a good random, and a collection of spears, scorpions and harpoons.

After a while, Roose Bolton tired of the screams and headed upstairs, to the maester's quarters. The familiar feel of the leeches purging the bad blood from him left left him feeling quite satisfied. However, as he returned to the solar, he pondered what was changing in the landscape of the North, in terms of politics. It seemed that he was always a leech-width away from disaster, or at least failure or a pyrrhic victory (Hmm. Valyrian words. Maybe Domeric's reading of histories had rubbed off on him).

House Bolton was on the cusp of silently grasping power, more power than it had had before it was subjugated. Roose Bolton knew he would probably not survive to raise another child, let alone a grandchild. This was all due to the cursed disease. Because, for whatever reason, Bolton men had weak hearts.

There had been many an account of a Bolton army losing due to the Lord of the Dreadfort dying from a burst heart on sight of the army. Of corse, he doubted it was actually due to a burst heart. They probably just stopped for whatever reason, and lies and time twisted the truth to create semi-realistic accounts (he didn't need to read as much histories as his bookish son to know that).

Domeric had the name of House Bolton to live up to, and the plan was almost in motion. Domeric Bolton would succeed, no doubt about it. He would succeed, for his lance would be the surest. It was simple. The report from Winterfell showed that Domeric had thrown himself into tilting, tilting, tilting, constantly. Roose Bolton admired his determination, if nothing else.

Eddard Stark apparently wanted to call a Great Council for all the Northern leaders to attend, and thought it necessary to inform the heirs of the Houses, those that he seemed old enough (teenagers, at least) of course, to join them. Roose still needed to deal with the aftermath of Ramsay's little games, so he had sent Domeric ahead.

It had said that he actually leaned forward, and dug his feet into the horse's flanks, in order to get a better grip. Jousting had not known invention for many decades, so it was good that Domeric was (unknowingly) preaching Roose's philosophy: to always have a trick up your sleeve. Bar anything unexpected, things would go well.

He still worried, though: would Domeric be strong enough to continue walking the path of the head of House Bolton, the path that none in the path had strayed from? He was anxious that Domeric would simply be too weak, far too weak, to effectively rule his people.

House Bolton's land stretched from the edge of the Hornwood, to the Shivering Sea. It bordered the Lonely Hills and the lands owned by the Manderlys of White Harbour. They were efficient and obedient. Compared to some Lords who led their lands to ruin through sheer, unimaginable incompetence, life was good under the Dreadfort.

Would Domeric be able to achieve Roose's vision? A Bolton in Winterfell. Control of the North, their rightful place, because they alone had the ambition and the wits to claw their way to the top. He had other beliefs, and this was one of them: It is not wrong to have more.

The Gods gave them the chance to grasp more, so why exercise restraint, other than for practical reasons? Eating too much would make him a glutton, and drinking too much would make him a drunk. But more power would not change him. He knew how to deal with it, how to use it well.

Ambition on its own is stupidity. It is knowing how to use that ambition as a catalyst for good things to happen to you. Roose Bolton was not emotionless, or at least, he did not lack for wanting of pleasure. He enjoyed fine ales, and well roasted joints, rare and bloody. He used wenches and hunting (not foxes, that brought up foul memories) and riding frequently for entertainment.

Power made men feel good, but that was only secondary. He had a legacy to uphold. Generations like upon generations of those of the blood of the Red Kings had come before. He was loyal to his name because he was born of it. He was chosen by the name, not the tier way around and he owed it to the legacy of the House of the Dreadfort to increase his House's power. Everyone expected it of him, and thus he had to succeed.

He wanted power. That was his ambition. It was because power would grant him more things, and unlike others, he could control his power, instead of it controlling him. Having too much of anything is poor. Except power. That is because power is only a shadow, Shadows exist because light hits an object. Power only exists because men want to feel safe, so they appoint someone who is strong.

His philosophy could be summed up more simply in fewer words though: you may do whatever you wish to, as long as you are good at it. Use whatever resources you have, because those were given to you by the gods. Ambitions and pleasures are to be embraced: they are a goal for you to work towards, and a part of who you are. This may have not be shared by the men of House Bolton (and historically, House Bolton had a disproportionate number of men in it), but he wished that Domeric would see the practicality in it.

Would Domeric see the truth on his own? He doubted it, but would it be better to send him down his own path? Domeric may be more suited to walk down a differing one. If he sent him down, would he doom his House? He needed to find out. So, Roose Bolton decided to send a letter. He had to send a letter to Winterfell to request permission to come quickly. He could adjust his plans for Domeric if need be when he was present there.

He padded over to the Maester's quarters, and proceeded to instruct the man in the rookery to dictate the text, but the Lord was interrupted by a raven's arrival. It was from King's Landing. The maester handed the scroll to him. He broke open the seal without any hesitation. This was what greeted him:

Lord Roose Bolton, of the Dreadfort,

I am troubled to inform you that a most troubling incident has occurred. The most loyal and diligent, Hand of the King, the Lord of the Eyrie and Lord Paramount of the Vale, Jon Arryn, was poisoned...

Oh... dear.

All was going according to plan.

The Master of Coin, a certain Petyr Baelish, was sitting in his study in King's Landing, thinking on this fact, whilst also poring through the account books. The climate of politics in King's Landing would be changing, and many spies and helpers for the Arryns wolf be ripe for conversion.

Spies were very valuable anywhere, but especially across the Narrow Sea, and even more especially in Braavos. The ones that were most relevant now, were the ones serving directly under him in King's Landing. Each was driven by greed, and not true loyalty, but that didn't bother him. The only fools he used were as pawns and scapegoats, and only a certain wind of fool doubted just how much he could pay them.

He had to gain entry somehow into the study of the Lord of the Eyrie, something which would not be actually that troubling at all. He would have Lysa order the guards to allow him to enter. Lysa would be so nervous after Arryn's poisoning, and so he would say that she had to affirm her position as House Arryn's head. Yes, that would work. Lysa was truly his most precious and treasured helper... for a pawn, that was, of course.

Of course, Lysa Arryn was not entirely an idiot, that was a testament on how she had managed to avoid detection for so long (there was only so much he could do for her, after all). However, she could always be counted on to trust him, and only really him. She was raised by Hoster Tully in the ways of a Lady of a Great House, and for that Littlefinger was actually careful.

Because when Lord Arryn died, Lysa would be the ruler of all of the Vale of Arryn, from the Mountains of the Moon to the Narrow Sea. Them not participating in the wars to come was crucial, and that was why he had inserted two Braavosi washerwomen who had trained in the arts of anti-assassination and anti-sabotage. Nothing on the Faceless Men, but they would do, and Lysa wasn't worth buying such expensive assets.

Once he was in the study of the late great Old Falcon, he would have access to all of his private accounts, including one which had been part of a system introduced under Aegon the Third, to always have an account for safekeeping with the Iron Bank of Braavos. Over time, it had accumulated to a quite nice amount, all his now.

It was really incredible how lucky he was, in this at least:

He had to gain access quickly, though. He knew that there were tunnels favoured by rats, ratcatchers, and little birds in them. The rats plagued everyone all the time, the ratcatchers plagued Helaena's son in the past, and the little birds would plague him right now if he wasn't careful. So, he would also tell Lysa to order the Arryn men to keep a watch on the Tower of the Hand.

In case he forgot anything, though, one of his men was already in the rotation (he had made sure Lysa bought his words of trustworthiness about the man's skills). It was notoriously tricky to convert to his cause or vibe: the Valemen were pious and loyal, as they were always famed to be from their strong knightly tradition.

Peter Baelish knew of some of Lord Arryn's businesses that he owned and businesses in his pocket, most rather small places, but there was a place: a customs office, with a man from Gulltown appointed as its head. This office controlled the trade from Tyrosh. He couldn't let the Eunuch have those, who knew how many friends he had from that area.

Another was a small Lyseni-Westerosi shipping company, which also dealt with the Free Cities, but this one dealt in slaves: he doubted that Lord Arryn knew this, but an underground business like this could prove to be of good fortune to him. He didn't have to worry about the Eunuch touching this one, though. As it was in Lord Arryn's contact, he thought about using it as the subject of a smear campaign, but he ultimately decided against it.

On other subjects, Lysa was getting needy. She was so nervous in front of her husband during the days before that she had demanded (or as close as that cowardly fool could get to "demanded") his attention. Luckily, the manwhores he had hired had taught him a trick or two, so he knew exactly how to butter up Lysa into doing what he wanted. He might even ask her to name him Warden of the East... no. Best not. Too risky. His Grace would take issue with that.

The visit to Winterfell was good, as it was left to the Small Council to govern the realm. Littlefinger had no doubts that he was going to name Lord Stark as Hand. Technically, Lord Arryn was still Hand, due to the old man apparently stubbornly refusing to die, but acting Hand worked fine. Such an inexperienced and unpolitical hand would make him be of the easy type to manipulate, once the small two hiccups (well, one small, scar-shaped one and one woman-shaped one that pained him even now.) were out of the way.

However, it would m be best to start now with his machinations. Namely, reducing the Eunuch's power. Stannis had gone off to Dragonstone, leaving the Small Council at 5. He knew that the Eunuch would also attempt to lessen his power, and so Littlefinger attempted his first move. He called a serving girl and asked her to send a message to the Commander of the Goldcloaks at the Dragon Gate, on foot.

The message was actually two: one inside of the other. He had specially sealed the exterior one so it would be right, this preventing the interior letter from falling out. These letters and their contents would be crucial for his success here in King's Landing in the months to come, as they would win him support of the other Council members. Here was his plan:

The exterior letter was to Ser Marten Stokeworth of the Dragon Gate, the Commander. The letter instructed him to copy down the exact words in the interior letter and tell his family in Stokeworth to copy them, then send them to the rookery in the Red Keep. If all turned out well, he could turn both against the Eunuch.

The interior letter was quite lengthy, hence its requirement to be written separately. It listed transgressions against House Stokeworth by alleged spies of Varys. It detailed various made-up spies being found in the walls and cellars, both hidden and in their staff.

Stokeworth was loyal to the Baratheons, and the w Maester, Pycelle, was a sycophantic, Lannister-serving, gullible old fool, who had less wits than even the pea-brained Lord Merryweather. Once these acts came to the Grand Maester's view, Littlefinger would act to him as Renly did to Robert, and agree with him. He would be sure to treat Renly to a nice dinner before that.

Or perhaps blackmail? He did know a nice secret involving one of Renly's "friends", and in the wars to come another king under his partial control would come in handy, especially if it broke Stannis before the biggest threat reared his head, yes, that would be good. Once Lord Stark was in King's Landing as planned, he would be killed, along with the King, once Lord Stark learned of the "big secret". The North would ride down, with or without Stannis on the throne as their goal, Stannis would die by Renly, and then the Stark-Tully faction, the Lannisters, and the Baratheon-Tyrells would fight it out for the throne and revenge.

He trusted Lysa to do her part and keep the Vale ready for his arrival until then. But he had closer fish to cook, now, so anyway, once the three Council members against him, and perhaps a fourth, Ser Barristan, who was to stand against the Eunuch as well, he would offer a proposition: to seek out the Eunuch's spies in Lord Arryn's businesses. Once they agreed and the orders were given to Slynt via Ser Marten Stokeworth, they would be rounded up.

Littlefinger had worked closely with Lord Arryn on many occasions, despite his relationship with the Tullys. They were both Valemen, after all, and although they never liked each other, Lord Arryn distrusted the Eunuch more. Thus, a practical relationship was formed, and their spycatchers and spymasters and spies cooperated to root out the little birds.

He had uncovered many, but he always deliberately kept the information to himself. The Hand was in control, but the information he received was false. Anytime a rival for a position coveted by Littlefinger's allies popped up, they were arrested by the Hand on suspicion of spying on Arryn men. Sometimes, he came across spies for Varys or even the Queen, but he let them be and let his own spies feed them bad information.

Of course, the Queen was not always ignorant. Even she had her limits, though, and that paranoia of hers coupled with her pride, power and desperation to cling to that power made her a dangerous, if not exactly formidable or worthy for. She would eventually catch on to Littlefinger is he repeated the same trick again and again.

He had been using the Queen as a free assassin. He merely whispered in her ear about whatever Arryn was planning or the schemings of the Eunuch or the thoughts of one Stannis Baratheon. The rest just performed itself. The Queen executed the "traitor", leaving Littlefinger closer to victory whilst delaying his opponents.

The absolutely delicious tricks only followed up on this one. Because his foes, as long as he was careful, he could not be punished. Trying to out him as a deceiver would not work, because of how Cersei viewed him as an ally, and the others as enemies. She would execute them in the spot, maybe, and then grant the masses a gory execution for the councillors.

The Queen was distrustful of everyone. Petyr Baelish did not pretend like the Queen like him as her favourite or began grooming him for a higher job, but of all the fools spinning webs in King's Landing, his quick tongue and well and elegantly crafted persona of the absolute perfect lickspittle worked wonders on the Queen.

She always wanted to believe the things that made the most sense to her. It was best that he treated her as one treated her like she ought to be treated: a lost child. She believed everything and wanted power above all else. She would tear this nation, this kingdom of hers apart, and when the time came to pick up the pieces, he would be ready to scatter them and create absolute panic, which he could control. That was what would happen.

He had operated in the shadows for many a year, but soon, once he turned King's Landing and the new Hand against the Eunuch. He had a long time, as the Hand was likely to die any day now. Then, the war would start. That was how he would achieve the most of his power. More than Varys, more than the Targaryens-in-exile... they should have been keeping their eyes on him.

The reports were certainly troubling to the Spider. It seemed that Lord Baelish wanted access to Lord Arryn's residence in the Tower of the Hand, and he apparently had a way in. His little birds extracted this information in a rather... crude way from a sergeant serving under Marten Stokeworth.

The method involved a lot of blood, and a lot of Dornish lizard venom, but even as the pale body was being buried (though, was it twitching? Had he somehow endured? This was the man who was promoted for saving people and surviving while getting trampled under a drunken horse race, after all. Oh well.), Varys knew he had to act fast.

However, that was not what concerned him. The sergeant had let slip, apparently accidentally, of carrying a letter to the Commander of that Gate, Ser Marten Stokeworth, apparently involving false allegations about him. It was clear that Baelish was attempting a smear campaign. He was glad he had stumbled across this.

He immediately called one of his spies that acted as a double agent in Littlefinger's knowledge. He had to be extra careful with using him: a technique that Littlefinger often did was to create a lowborn puppet and raise them high: being lowborn, they were harder to find information on. This also took up positions that Littlefinger's foes (such as him) wanted to use, and allowed him to control them more directly, by using a puppet and not an underlying, which he had more control over.

He called this man, the double agent, and told him to make for the servant's quarters, and make sure he wasn't followed. Washerwomen here were easy to use in plots, as they had been in the past. He was confident that there were none of Littlefinger's spies there. Apart from the little birds, Varys made sure to attain the loyalty, or at least a more reliable form of servitude than Littlefinger's bribery could get him amongst the servants of the Red Keep.

The man would be led up to the quarters, and meet a pair of sisters, both washerwomen. Those two were good workers, but would not advance, because they had nowhere to advance to, except perhaps working as an overseer under the High Steward of the Red Keep. Those two, however, had the good fortune to be washerwomen for the Master of Laws, Lord Renly Baretheon.

Now came the second piece of this plot: Ser Jasper. A beefy knight who had earned his dubbing at Pyke, he was known for hating everyone and being perpetually angry. Varys had given up on using his as a pawn, but he had seen that, as the resident trainer for the ever-dwindling recruits into the Baratheon guard forced in King's Landjng, the knight was merciless in teaching them how to be "real men".

Hard to work with, considering the appearance of the Eunuch? Yes. Easy to manipulate? Also yes. Due to this, he was sure that if Ser Jasper, who had been known to beat and cripple cadets who japed about Lord Renly's relationship with one Ser Lorad Tyrell, could be made absolutely sure of the fact that the relationship existed... well, it wouldn't be enough to force a betrayal, but a slight action... yes.

He would have the washerwomen slip the knight a message, telling him to follow them, on official orders. Ser Jasper would be mildly enraged, but would comply. And that's when they would stumble across a secret corridor that led to the side of the Master of Laws' quarters... right around the time that Ser Loras would be coming over. All of this overheard would be enough to appear personally and convince Ser Jasper to put his archers on duty.

Those archers would be led through the passages by his little birds, around the time that he calculated would be the time when the raven arriving from Stokeworth would arrive. Once that bird was down, it was up to some of his little birds to intercept the message and destroy it before anyone else found it. Perhaps not. Maybe he could try and copy the writing and fake a response? No, too risky. Too much chance of being caught out.

He doubted that that his little birds he had orders through implications to eliminate the Commander of the Dragon Gate would skimp on their duties. As soon as they found a reliable way, he doubted the Commander would live long enough to regret his allegiances. He just hoped that the little birds found a rather quick and painless way to kill the (mostly) leal and chivalrous Commander. After all, screams could attract attention.

Lord Varys sighed, looking out of the window in his quarters. He was feeling odd. Another meeting with Illyrio had come, and soon another would come, in a few months time. Twenty new birds this time, fresh out of training, and he still didn't have a clue about what was going on with Littlefinger's plans. He still hoped that Lord Stark would channel his diplomatic ability to prevent Littlefinger's desired war, at least for the time being. He would never believe that an alliance would work.

Littlefinger wanted war. Varys wanted war later. He had nothing to gain from complying to the Spider's wishes. Varys wished he knew a way to read Lord of Baelish Keep, Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish... but alas. His wishes never came to fruition. Still though, Littlefinger was certainly not the only schemer who could make plans on the fly. If the man started his war, and there was no delaying, resolving or stopping it, all Varys had to do was make sure the fire didn't go out, even when near all had burned up and turned to ashes.

If the dynasty needed to be restored and rule over ashes and charred meat, so be it. If he had to stain his hands with sin so that the kingdom could flourish in a golden age under the great king Aegon VI, so be it. If he had to slay Westeros itself, just for it to be pulled back up by a benevolent saviour... so be it. This Varys swore: The dragons would return as rulers... be they red or black.

Eddard Stark was sitting alone in his solar, thinking on how, despite his efforts, Jon Arryn was likely poisoned and dead. Despite his efforts, his foster father was killed, slain by the Lannister's arrogant politicking. Even in this timeline, the Seven Kingdoms appeared to be set to implode in a mad war. Over the Iron Throne, or over grudges, or freedom, or vengeance. Five sides with slaughter on their hearts, their minds blinded by the thought of battle, leaving the Kingdoms to the crows when winter came.

After his first talk with his ward, and a second one directly after sending the letter to King's Landjng, there was much he did not understand. What exactly had possessed his son, Robb Stark, to accept the mantle of King in the North? That was not a title to be taken lightly, the title that the Starks held, their ancestors, along with holding power over Boltons, Manderlys, Flints, Umbers, and other noble houses, until Aegon the Conqueror made Torrhen Stark swear fealty, scratching Torrhen's title into the Maester's annals of history the title of "The King who Knelt".

He had no doubt that Robb was a good king, and a worthy one at that, but he was not the lawful king. Eddard Stark believed that a man's honour is one of his most prized possessions. Without honour, their whole society would collapse. Following the proper law was what separated the good from the bad, he believed. Yes, bad people followed laws, and good men broke laws. But the fact remained that the bad people were still following law, and the good men were criminals. Nothing would change that.

He was angry with the Greatjon, his old friend, for bringing up the idea of Robb being the King in the North in the first place. The Greatjon was fearless, brash and seemed the possible result of giving the Red Viper Northern values and interests. The Greatjon lived for battle, and glory and victory. What more glorious war was there, than a war for the North and Riverlands to arise? Then again, the Greatjon was not immoral nor dishonourable, far from it. He probably saw it as upholding his own honour when the Lannisters had abandoned their own.

Robb's end, his son's end, his wife's end, was what had angered the Lord of Winterfell the most. Forget honour, guest right was basic human decency! That conniving, cowardly weasel in human skin that went by the name of Walder Frey, and his family of brutes, liars and betrayers. And the indignity did not end there. Oh no. From what he had heard, Robb's soldiers were not only killed, but according to Jeyne, set alight with flame and oil. His son, the King in the North, had his direwolf's head sewn to his body, after his head had been cut off. They hadn't even bothered to take the crossbow bolts out.

There would be no peace for those accursed Freys, if they even showed a hint of betrayal. He would deal with them as the Old Gods intended to destroy those who had broken the sacred laws, of guest right and hospitality. And by the gods, he knew what he had to do. The king must be Stannis. He was the rightful king, and with his foresight, winter would come for their foes. The Lannisters, the Freys, the Boltons. He just had to discuss how with Theon and Jeyne latter of whom, should be arriving soon. He had not understood all of the story, and there was a lot that Theon had neglected to tell him.

Hopefully, once she arrived, he would be able to understand the bigger picture. When Theon was recounting the war of his memories, he spoke of the campaign against the Lannisters in the Riverlands, the capture of Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer in the Whispering Wood, and the liberation of Riverrun, which was done with little casualties. Then, with less clarity, he spoke of the Battle at Oxcross. Theon explained that he had not been present: instead, he had been to tired by Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton. What that boy went through in the Dreadfort... he dreaded to think. Yet even when he did not think of the torture itself, he thought about the haunted look in the eyes of the heir to Pyke.

That future... that bad future. He had to avert it, in any way that he could. The weight of the North's future rested on his family's shoulders. But mostly on his, and Theon's and Jeyne's shoulders. Whatever they did now, and in the near future might just save the Starks, save Westeros from itself. Because deep down, Lord Eddard Stark knew that soon there would be a time when the pack had to stick together. Winter was coming in force, and the North would meet it.

Sounds echoed in the head of Tristifer Botley, the heir to Lordsport, sounds of a ship crashing, men dying and drowning in the water surrounding the Stepstones. The Black Wind had been lost (or whatever in the name of the Drowned God it was called, Salt Seal? For some reason he did not know, he was quite insulted by that). They had been split asunder and forced to evacuate to God knows where, left to die like fish in a wet barrel by the kinslayer Euron Greyjoy.

No, not Kinslayer: Asha's the best of us. She is a woman of the Ironborn, and she will not die like this. I'll make sure of it, even if I have to dig her out of the sands myself. Tris Botley said all this to himself, in his mind, as he lay with his eyes closed on the soft sand of some unknown Stepstone isle. Well not actually said: if it ached just to breathe and stung to think, he did not even want to imagine speaking. He would probably compare it to inhaling and then regurgitating and then inhaling again three pufferfish in quick succession, washed down with sea water and urine.

Some idiot raiders who didn't know who he was forced him to do that a few years ago, albeit without the urine and with only two pufferfishes. He was sitting all alone in a tavern on the outskirts of Lordsport and- Drowned Goddammit, Tristifer focus! He had to find out who was alive, and who was dead on this island, how to get water and food and a way out. And this, he believed, all began with the simple step of opening his eyes. Yeah, that was it. Just grit his teeth, lie back and think of Pyke. He tried to open them, but they wouldn't budge. Okay, so maybe think of a place he didn't hate?

Of course! His small keep on Pyke, near Lordsport! The residence of the Botleys of Lordsport, sworn to Pyke since before the days of the Hoares (House Words: Always a Bigger Fish). He opened one, and was immediately assaulted by an insane and violent native tribesman stabbing him in the eye with a knife. Actually, no that was just how he felt. He closed it, opened it again, and repeated this process for a good 40 seconds, until the soft chuckle of a woman sent him out of his repetitive daze. "If you're gonna keep opening your eyelids forever, I may as well use it to my advantage. Sell you to the first Braavosi ship I see: they always have room for demented mummers with odd habits up there."

Tristifer Botley rolled and groaned as he oh-so-gingerly tilted his head towards the source of the noise. He opened both of his eyes, and after a long and valiant struggle, he managed to prise them open for good. He appeared to be lying on wet sand, with him obviously having been washed up on this island, which had a meter or two of dry sand before a thick green cluster of trees blocking out the sun above. Asha Greyjoy, meanwhile, was kneeling down, her whole body covered in sand and water. Seaweed had somehow ended up stuck to her, and while her smile was as sharp and cunning as aver, her eyes had lost some of their light. They always seemed so jolly and determined. But now, now she looked somewhat like any mainland girl her age. Looking like she was somehow overwhelmed by the tragedy that had occurred.

"Asha," he began. "How many..?" She laughed mirthlessly. "On here or died? Either way, you will not like the answer." "Hmm. So we are up the arse of some of God's mistakes, I presume." Asha raised an eyebrow and chuckled. She had a touch more mirth in her voice know. "Such language, Tris? How unlike you." He smiled. "Good, it cheered you up. You looked... you looked like you needed that." "Heh. I suppose I did. Also, knowing that, I take it back, that was very like you. Anyway, we have to make sure that sleeping beauties one through three." she gestured behind her, to some men lying on the beach, unconscious."are just unconscious and not dead. And by "we", I mean you, because," she shoved her leg out, grunting in pain. "I doubt that I can move anywhere with this".

"Your heel..." His eyes widened. A fragment of wood was stuck in it, but luckily she was not bleeding in the slightest, it seemed. "Yeah, it's not exactly a very pretty sight, is it?" Asha said, turning her heel from her position on the soft sand. "What really pisses me off about it was the stupid way in how I got it. I had just woken up, trotted off to see if the others were alive, and stepped on this while it was pointing upwards whilst buried in the wet and over there." She adjusted sit a bit so she was more comfortable. "I think it's best if we find a way out of here soon: If it gets infected, I am not dying to a tiny piece of wood which didn't even kill me directly".

"Right... so, I had better check on sleeping beauties one through three". Tris padded over softly and, recalling some knowledge he had picked up somewhere or other, gently pressed a hand to the first man's knock. This man was broad and fat, but with a heavily muscled pair of limbs and upper body, although he was wuite heavy-set around the gut. It xouod be seen easily how much good that did him. He had been dead for a while. Asha must have been quite out of it, or at least more than she seemed, because this man's pale skin and twisted limbs should have been a tell tale sign from that relatively short distance. He attempted to drag the man so drier sand, and gave up when he failed to move him an inch. They had been low on rations since Oldtown, so how did he get so heavy?

The second man had his eyes wide open, and there appeared to be a thin ditch, very thin, running underneath him to about a meter from the where the tide currently was. It looked like it had been filled in by constructive waves. Curious, Tris rolled him onto his side- he was actually quite light- and found a sharp broken arrow impaled almost perfectly parallel to the man's body, one blood-covered edge of the arrowhead pointing towards the man's head, the other to his inner thigh. The broken part, a thin splint of wood that had remained attached to the arrowhead, had protruded into the sand, gouging out the thin ditch that jotted into the sand.

The third man was not like the others. He was awake, and alive, and seemingly in quite good health. Hacking up a small amount of phlegm the man pushed himself up, shook the sand that had been sticking to him off himself, and stood up smiling. The man slung a nearby axe that he had washed up over his shoulder and started reminded Tris, he had to check for his longsword. However, something came to mind. Something which was probably quite important. He didn't quite like the look of this raider who had washed up on the beach. Something about him just seemed off. For a start, he was smiling too much and too wide to be an Ironborn warrior. He was black of hair, which was common, put his general facial structure seemed different than the usual Greyjoy raider.

That in of itself was nor uncommon: Qarl the Maid for one, and his own self didn't look like other Ironborn. Qarl had soft features and Tris had large eyes. However, this man looked like he didn't have a drop of Ironborn or even First Man blood in him. There were other features too: he had a chain around his neck, golden and shiny, with queer-looking, strange foreign coins. However, the majority, 4 out of the seven coins there were bronze, over shaped, with a naked dancing woman on them. It's possible that he just looted it from Oldtown. Plenty of Lyseni currency floating around there… but still, that is unlikely. Also, there's a moderate breeze here, so he really shouldn't be sweating too much for that. I don't recognise him, either.

Tris thought of a way to find out. He rolled his head back and whistled. It was a very common tune that had originated on Harlaw during the early days of the Red Kraken's reign over the Iron Islands, by the name of "Favourite Salt Wives". It was as simple as a Marcher ballad was long, and so it gained popularity among those who worked as raiders for captains, and who were not working for the lords directly, because of its jolly tone, straightforward tune that went well with tasks and crude, rough lyrics. The whistling continued on for a while by just the one man, Tristifer Botley, who gave the other man a pointed, significant glance as his eyes narrowed.

The man played along whistling with all the fake joy he could muster. Tris walked off, nodding his head. The man let out a small, muted sigh of relief. My cover's safe. I can play along just fine. I'll get into their good graces, murder them whikst they sleep, and when Euron comes, he'll congratulate me and forgive me for attempting to steal that odd chest of his. But then, I'll steal it anyway! I'll sell it to the highest bidder wherever we are going, and the- AAAAAAHHHGHHH!? That one sound in particular was also out loud, as Tris Botley rammed the nearby broken arrowhead into his hamstring, making the man stumble. Watching, Asha understood. "Favourite Salt Wives" was a sing about a young lord going home to his favourite salt wives. In accord with the beliefs of the Drowned God, you sing homecoming songs on the homeward leg.

And, marooned or not, no true Ironborn would sing that on the outward leg. "Well," a new voice said, coming from a man holding a longsword. Qarl the Maid. "that's loose end tied up". He remarked, as Tris Botley finished the man off.

"Can I keep his knife?" Tris asked.

Next chapter will be Jeyne and Ned talking, and a very important subject coming up…