There is no continuous waterway between Highgarden and King's Landing.
From Highgarden, one can take a boat and sail up the Mander River to Bitterbridge, then disembark and travel by land along the Rose Road that connects Highgarden, Bitterbridge, and King's Landing.
Euron cannot make his sea beasts crawl onto land.
Therefore, Aegon and Tyrion's plan is to strike fast and finish the war before Euron's Iron Fleet completes its voyage from Highgarden to Oldtown, Dorne, the Stepstones, Dragonstone, Blackwater Bay, and finally the Blackwater Rush outside King's Landing.
Because of the sea beasts, Dorne abandoned its original plan of transporting soldiers by sea from Sunspear to Storm's End and then landing at Blackwater Bay to attack King's Landing.
Instead, Dorne dispatched four thousand sand cavalry who rode through the night toward Storm's End.
In other words, Aegon would soon march on King's Landing, and his ministers—particularly the Hand of the King, who commands all the other lords—had to be chosen before the campaign began.
Littlefinger decided to visit Tyrion because he had previously recommended himself to Aegon, only to be rejected.
"A Targaryen's word is iron. I promised Tyrion that he would be Hand of the King," Aegon had said.
But in truth, Tyrion was only part of the reason. Aegon valued Littlefinger's ward and the Vale knights barely held together under his command. As for Littlefinger himself, Aegon was utterly wary of him and trusted him not at all.
Perhaps because he had grown up hidden along the Rhoyne and was raised by upright people like Clinton and Ashara, the young Aegon—freshly thrust into the mortal world—was impulsive and naïve, untested by reality's cruelties. But he was not stupid.
Having heard so many of Aunt Daenerys's suspicions about Littlefinger, whether he believed them or not, he would never drop his guard. How could he possibly make Littlefinger his Hand?
In fact, on the wedding night, after their intense and passionate union, Aegon had immediately begun whispering little reports to his wife about Littlefinger.
He told her how Littlefinger deceived Catelyn and betrayed Ned; how he framed Tyrion the first time and ignited the war between lion and wolf; how he framed Tyrion again the second time, throwing the Seven Kingdoms—already forcibly stabilized by Tywin—back into chaos.
Aegon was not foolish. He wanted husband and wife to be of one mind. He wanted his wife to see Littlefinger's true nature so she would not be used by him. But he also feared that Sansa might awaken the "stupid wolf blood" of the Starks. So he spoke cautiously, watching her reactions, starting shallow and going deeper, step by step.
Fortunately, Sansa was no longer the girl she once had been—Littlefinger had thoroughly shaped her.
Had this been years earlier, Sansa might have immediately run to Littlefinger and told him everything.
Just as she had once betrayed her father's secret plan to smuggle her and Arya out of King's Landing by sneaking off to tell Cersei in the night—leading Ned to his death in that ridiculous "amateur pecking match" of political intrigue.
Just as she had once foolishly believed Cersei's claim that Ned was a traitor, and even wrote to Robb telling him to come to King's Landing and surrender—nearly driving Robb mad with rage.
So Aegon would almost certainly never appoint Littlefinger as Hand of the King.
But Littlefinger himself did not know that.
He was neither stupid nor arrogant; he simply never imagined that the Dragon Queen, thousands of miles away, would pay attention to a "minor figure" like him, let alone analyze him so thoroughly.
Ever since Littlefinger's rise, Jon Arryn, Robert, Ned, the Baratheon brothers, the Queen of Thorns, Doran, Tywin—so many brilliant heroes—had never regarded him as a threat.
Littlefinger thought he still moved under a cloak of fog, unaware that his enemies now had full vision of the map. There was nowhere for him to hide.
He had been crushed by their advantage in information.
So when he heard Aegon's excuse, he did not doubt it. He sincerely believed Tyrion was the only obstacle stopping him from becoming Hand.
To be fair, Littlefinger did not truly desire the title of Hand itself. What he wanted were the things he could accomplish because of that title.
For example, as Hand, who commands all the king's armies, he could easily arrange for "heir Harry" to meet an untimely end.
Or, using his position, he could leverage King Aegon's resources to draw in the lords of the Vale. Once Harry and young Robert Arryn met their ends, he could legitimately become King of the Vale.
Or, just as he had done when he served as Robert's Master of Coin—replacing all customs officers with his own people—Hand Baelish believed he could quietly place Aegon's entire small council under his control.
And as Hand, living and working alongside the king, the "Seven Kingdoms' greatest foster father, modeled after Jon Arryn" would find it far easier to "care for" his obedient daughter Sansa.
The Hand of the King was merely a stepping stone for Littlefinger—not the goal.
He sought out Tyrion not entirely sure he could persuade him, but confident that his becoming Hand would genuinely benefit the dwarf.
After all, the powerful Lannisters were the ones he intended to scheme against. Once Aegon took the Iron Throne and the Lannisters collapsed, Littlefinger would protect them instead.
His strategy was simple: aside from himself, no other faction should grow too powerful. Whoever grew strong would be attacked; whoever grew weak would be supported.
Only balance could preserve lasting chaos.
Unless he one day sat on the Iron Throne himself, chaos would be Littlefinger's eternal pursuit.
But for once, Littlefinger's attempt at sincerity toward Tyrion was mistaken for malice.
"The Imp cannot be allowed to live. His hatred for me runs too deep, and he is far too clever!"
Having reached this conclusion, Littlefinger bared his teeth, downed a large bowl of poppy milk, and drifted into a foggy, confused sleep.
That night he slept poorly—groggy, dazed, his consciousness adrift. It felt as though he were not lying on a soft featherbed, but hanging over a horse, jolted endlessly forward.
He tried to open his eyes to see what was happening, but his eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. His heart felt smothered beneath a heavy quilt soaked in icy water—both suffocating and freezing.
A strange nightmare tormented him for what felt like an eternity—perhaps ten thousand years—until a dim red glow approached, driving away the suffocating darkness.
His eyes slowly opened, and Littlefinger's awareness began to return.
In an instant, endless agony crashed over him like a tide.
There was not a single place on his body that did not hurt.
"Ugh—Osmund?" he groaned, calling out to his loyal servant.
"No one answered. All he could hear was the fierce howling wind and the rustling of his clothes. It felt as if he were lying on a dragon's back, flying at high speed.
"Where am I?" Snowflakes whipped across his face in the icy wind. The shock made Uncle Finger regain consciousness.
"The Eyrie… the Moon Door Hall?" All at once, when he glimpsed the huge opening beside him where the wind and snow poured in, Uncle Finger instantly understood where he was.
He was the master of this magnificent castle!
"Who are you? How did you manage to bring me up to the Eyrie without making a sound?" Uncle Finger pulled the filthy, foul-smelling sheepskin blanket tighter around himself. His gaze sharpened, as if he were trying to see the figure behind the oil lamp clearly.
But he failed. The person wore a cloak, the thick hood covering most of the face, leaving only a dead-white, withered chin exposed.
The chin moved.
"Dear, you don't even recognize me?"
It was a voice that could only come from a demon in hell—neither male nor female, neither young nor old, like a blade scraping hard against glass, grating on the nerves and sending chills up the spine.
"Who are you? Pull back the cloak and let me see which good friend is playing a joke on me." Uncle Finger propped himself up, enduring pain from every part of his body, and warily scooted back.
"He can still move, Mia. Make sure he cannot." The cloaked figure pressed a hand to the throat, the voice gradually becoming smoother, the stuttering fading.
A tall figure silently emerged from the darkness. It was a woman in her early twenties, nearly one meter eighty in height, with broad, solid shoulders, uneven, unruly black hair, deep blue eyes, and rough skin. Not beautiful, not ugly—just a rugged, masculine sort of fierce woman.
"Mya Stone!" Uncle Finger cried out. "Why are you here? Right, winter has come, the Eyrie is sealed, and you were the only one left to guard it—"
Before he finished, the tall woman raised a blunt warhammer from behind her and swung it hard against Uncle Finger's knee. Crack!
"Awooooo!" Uncle Finger clutched his knee and let out a shrill scream.
Bang! Mya swung again, striking him from the side and hitting his left arm.
It snapped like a sugarcane stalk. A crisp crack echoed, and Uncle Finger's eyes rolled back. The pain nearly made him lose consciousness.
Mya turned toward the cloaked person.
The cloaked figure gave a faint nod. Mya lifted the weapon and stepped back a few paces, melting into the darkness again.
Uncle Finger's face was as pale as paper. Beads of sweat the size of beans covered his forehead.
His eyes were bloodshot as he glared at the cloaked figure. In a hoarse voice, he asked, "Who… who are you? Was it Tyrion? Did he pay you to assassinate me?"
The cloaked figure glanced around, as though finding the hall too dim, and seemed to think that was why he still had not been recognized. Without replying, the figure simply lit the brazier in the wall's stone recess.
Then she bent down, brought her face close—so close their cheeks nearly touched—and pulled back the cloak.
"Ahhhhhhhhh—!" In the next instant, Uncle Finger's face twisted, and he howled in terror.
All the screams of his entire life combined could not compare to the duration of this one; all the fear in his life could not compare to its weight.
Lady Stoneheart pressed her scar-ridden cheek against Uncle Finger's pale, handsome face and whispered, "Didn't you always want me?"
—I wanted Catelyn, a fresh fifteen-year-old maiden, not you, you old monster!
You destroyed my dream!
As he screamed, Uncle Finger suddenly regained clarity and began thinking like a normal person again.
"Catelyn… how are you not dead?" He struggled not to recoil from that corpse-like touch and forced a smile.
"I died. I died once. I soaked in the river for days, fish gnawing my flesh, crabs tugging my hair. Fortunately, the great Lord of Light took pity on me and let me live again."
Lady Stoneheart's voice was like a worm dragged out of a street beggar's gut—sticky, stiff, forcing its way into Uncle Finger's mouth.
Bile surged. He almost vomited. The vomit rose into his mouth, but Uncle Finger swallowed it back down.
"Wonderful, Catelyn… it's wonderful that you're alive!" Uncle Finger cried tears of joy.
Tears—real tears.
He was crying on the outside, and his heart was weeping as well.
—Even a person dead for days can be revived. In this damn unreal world (compared to the "real world" of the Citadel), how are people like me, who rely on intellect, supposed to survive?
The scientific worldview Uncle Finger had built from reading the Citadel's great works was collapsing.
"Yes. It's wonderful to be alive and see you again." Lady Stoneheart sighed.
"Catelyn, listen to me!"
His arm and knee were both shattered. No matter how cunning Uncle Finger was, he did not truly believe he could bluff his way out of this with a few sweet words.
"There are some misunderstandings between us. I'll explain everything to you," he said urgently.
He only hoped that when she was resurrected, R'hllor hadn't granted her too much wisdom. If not, then as long as he had a chance to speak, today's crisis might not be impossible to talk his way through.
(End of chapter)
Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon
https://patreon.com/Glimmer09