51 Chapter 50

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Wyman I

Grease dripped down Wyman's chins from the turkey leg he was eating, and he wiped it off with his doublet's sleeve. "Read it to me again, Theomore," the Lord of White Harbor said between mouthfuls, eyes on his prize. "I can't say I had my full attention on it just now."

The yellow-haired maester smiled thinly. "Of course, my lord." He coughed into a fisted hand and started over, "To Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, and Knight of the Order of the Green Hand. Twenty years ago, Eddard Stark and Robbert Baratheon joined forces and took down a three-hundred year old dynasty. Since then, the Crown and the North have been staunch allies—as close as my father and Lord Eddard were—until the follies we have witnessed in the past years.

The realm burned, and many—smallfolk and noble alike—lost their homes and their families in the war. And, unfortunately, some lost them in wholly dishonorable manners. You were wronged during the Red Wedding, my lord, you and the entire north.

But I am not a man to do this, nor would I ever. My word may mean little to you, but to me, it is my bond. My father is dead; my mother is dead; my brother is dead. I can only look to the future, and to heal a realm that has been torn asunder by those that came before me.

"And I have recently found that two of the men who have contributed to the ruination of the peace, Roose Bolton and Petyr Baelish, conspired to have the Lady Sansa Stark forcibly married to his bastard son, Ramsay Bolton. I even hold in my hands Bolton's request to legitimize Ramsay, and I have no intention to have it signed, my lord.

From this day forward, though I cannot make it known to all yet, I will treat House Bolton as an enemy of the Crown, and at the first opportunity, shall strip Roose Bolton of his lands, titles, and incomes.

Sansa Stark was recovered by my men on her way North, healthy and hale, and she rides to King's Landing at this very moment. I know the northerners are fond to say that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and should I have my way, then it shall be so. But I cannot do so alone. The North holds to its own. Help me reinstall a Stark as the rightful Lady Paramount of the North, and I will even have her marriage to Tyrion Lannister—a marriage which was never consummated—dissolved.

I understand the past cannot be forgotten, my lord, nor forgiven. I have been to Winterfell, and I have heard the words. The north remembers. I only ask that you do so now. Remember what the Crown and the North achieved together. Remember Eddard and Robert.

As a token of goodwill, I am having your son and heir, Wylis, released from captivity in Harrenhal and sent home. By the time this letter arrives in your hands, Wylis will have boarded a ship in Maidenpool, coursing north. Furthermore, I believe that few men in the Seven Kingdoms know of the sea as well as a Manderly, and so I shall be glad to name your lordship as Master of Ships, should you take my offer.

Come to King's Landing to meet with myself and Lady Sansa, or send an envoy you trust. Promise me your fealty, my lord, rejoin the King's peace, and I shall work to right the wrongs of my predecessors.

Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name."

Wyman nodded slowly as if to himself. He had wished to hear the words again, to listen to their cadence and rhythm, to gauge if there was any truth in it or if it was just Lord Lannister's voice through the boy king's hand. Though it was hard to distinguish it coming from Theomore. Honesty wasn't a subject he'd forged a link on back in the Citadel.

Putting down the well-cleaned leg-bone, Wyman looked up to the maester. "And?" he prompted. "What say you, good maester?"

Theomore laid the letter back on the desk and clasped his hands in front of himself. "This is a good opportunity, my lord," he said. "The Boltons are to be blamed as much as the Freys for the death of Lord Wendel. King Tommen was a boy when the war began. The son cannot be judged by the sins of the father… or the mother, the brother, and the grandfather. And the North shall rejoice at having a Stark back in Winterfell."

King Tommen, Wyman wondered. Already his king despite it all… It was to be expected from a man born a Lannister of Lannisport. Blood sang in every man, and old loyalties were hard to extinguish when they ran that deep, chain or no chain about their necks.

Wyman swiped a finger over his thick moustache, considering. "A northman on the small council. And Wyna and Wylla will so be happy to hear their father is returning, too…" he trailed off, a smile blooming underneath his swollen face. After a moment, he relented, "I shall give this some thought, Theomore. I will call on you once I have decided."

The maester bowed and scurried out of the room, and the smile curdled in Wyman's lips. He spat out a piece of turkey that had stuck to his teeth. A mummer in his own castle, he had to be, lest he be accused of disloyalty to this lord or that lord, Boltons and Lannister and Freys and two different Baratheons.

Now, what should a man do in his position? His true king was dead, slaughtered at the Twins with his son and half the nobility of the North. Brandon and Rickon Stark were burned alive by the Greyjoy Turncloak, and Arya Stark was as good as dead. Sansa might have been the last hope of a Stark in Winterfell again, until they married her off to the imp.

But if what this Tommen boy promised was true, if he annulled her marriage to the imp... The possible scenarios ran through Wyman's head, and most were too grim to wholly disregard the Crown's offer. Bolton could not remain Warden of the North, that he decided.

Could he ever trust a Lannister to keep his words? No, definitely not. But something had to be done. He and the other loyal lords had been sitting idle for too long, and their only other option had been Stannis.

A broken man, come to lick his wounds here.

A calm washed over him, the calm of decisiveness, and he had his answer. Wyman had letters to write. He dare not trust their content to Theomore, but he had his ways. Glover, Mormont, Reed, Forrester, Locke. Perhaps it was time Roose Bolton learned the price of treachery in the North.

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Petyr I

Petyr screamed into the improvised gag he had around his mouth as the quarrel came tearing away at muscle and sinew on his back.

"Just a bit more, m'lord," the man holding him said, and Petyr took note of the bastard's name. He would be the first to die, then the other bastard who was doing the pulling of the quarrel.

The night was pitch dark, moonless and starless, and Petyr could barely see the other side of the clearing. They were in a small open glade surrounded by thick brush, somewhere south of the Trident, resting the horses. They'd ridden all day and all night to escape whatever pursuit the Lannisters had put up, and he had only called them to stop when he could no longer bear the bumping of the horse jostling the thick wooden shaft on the back of his shoulder.

His surviving men had crafted a dozen theories as to who attacked them, from Robb Stark's army's leftovers, to the infamous Brotherhood without Banners, and even Rhaegar Targaryen's ghost come to hunt the Ruby Ford. But Petyr knew the truth well enough. A brown-cloak could only hide so much when you draped it over the back of a hundred lions.

The bastard pulled at the bolt again, and Petyr cursed—at his men and the Lannisters and Sansa Stark and this godsforsaken clearing where he would have to sleep on the cold hard ground. What good was being lord of the biggest castle in the Seven Kingdoms? He dared not go to Harrenhal. If Tywin had grown so bold against him as to arrange an ambush at the inn at the crossroads, then his own lands were sure to be teeming with yellow-haired, inbred bastards waiting for him.

He couldn't just hole up between thick castle walls with an army of vassals to protect him. He wasn't a great lord with a name that'd carry the day for him. He had to do as he always did. He had to fuck them up the arse.

"Brune," he rasped into the night air. The free rider turned from where he stood leaning against a tree and ambled his way. He was a small man, with grey hair, a wide nose, and a square jaw. Had he not seen his skill with a blade, Petyr would have risked calling him unassuming. Lothor Brune was the finest killer he had in his pocket, and it was time he made good the gold he was being paid. "Take five of the men here and go to King's Landing. Pick some of our men when you get there, no more than thirty, and the gold you know of to pay for more, then go into the Kingswood and be a fucking bandit. Take some merchant's wagons, kill some peasants, burn some fields. I care not. Just be a nuisance outside of the city."

Brune didn't even blink, just nodded. "And you?"

"Something else, something that doesn't concern you. When you're done, take ship and meet me in Pentos."

Oh, Petyr would be going, too. But for other reasons. Gold first, always gold. He kept several safehouses in the capital, separate from his brothels. A good part of his coin was stashed there, and he meant to have it back.

But he also had a hunger for something else—vengeance. Tywin Lannister and this new king had just taken what he'd worked to get for twenty years in one fell swoop. His dear Sansa, the only piece left of his beloved Cat, and most likely all his formal support as well. He would bet ravens had already flown all over Westeros to warn against him, the Vale including. It would be just the excuse Royce needed to take his head.

Petyr grinned through the pain of the bolt finally coming out. He would make sure to take something from them too.