"That won't be necessary," Daeron said, thoroughly unimpressed.
Lady Olenna shook her head with a wry laugh. "Don't mind an old woman running her mouth. I was betrothed to a Daeron Targaryen once myself, but that one—"
She clicked her tongue. "Spent far more time with boys than with girls."
The betrothal had fallen apart for exactly that reason.
Daeron gave her a long, measuring look but said nothing.
With the way you lot raise them at Highgarden, it's no wonder he preferred boys.
Your grandson will too, mark my words.
---
The Riverlands. Riverrun, the Lord's Bedchamber.
Lord Hoster Tully tossed and turned, unable to close his eyes.
Ever since word arrived of the Stark father and son's deaths, terror and dread had gripped him. For days he'd barely eaten or slept.
He knew exactly what the Four-Power Alliance truly was.
That was why he'd betrothed his beloved eldest daughter Catelyn to "the Wild Wolf" Brandon in the first place.
But now the wolf lay dead beneath dragonfire.
"Old Jon Arryn raising banners over a foster son—utter madness," Hoster muttered, sitting up and reaching for the wine cup to steady his nerves.
All he'd wanted was to use the alliance to boost his standing among his own bannermen.
He'd never dreamed things would spiral into open rebellion.
Especially when the price of rebellion was so brutally high.
Hoster pulled back the curtain. Through the narrow window he could see the Lannister host camped five miles outside Riverrun.
Cookfires dotted the night like a sea of stars.
At least five thousand men.
"Gods damn it, everyone's forcing my hand!"
Hoster let the curtain fall and cursed under his breath.
Ever since Jon Arryn raised the Vale in rebellion, the Riverlands lords had smelled blood in the water like sharks. Blackwood, Ryger, Frey—they were all baring their teeth, circling their liege house.
They'd sent scouts to watch Riverrun day and night, ready to pounce the moment House Tully stumbled.
The only reason they hadn't struck yet was that Hoster still hadn't declared for either the Iron Throne or the rebels.
But he was certain of one thing: the instant he openly backed the rebellion, those three houses—and the Lannister army outside—would swarm in and tear House Tully apart.
As for backing the Crown…?
Thinking of what had happened to Lord Rickard, Hoster shook his head violently. "Confess and be shown mercy, resist and be crushed. I have no desire to follow the Starks to the grave."
He knew he was guilty. Even the lightest punishment would be the Wall.
How could he possibly show his face at court and claim loyalty now?
Knock-knock-knock.
A soft rap on the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts.
"Enter!"
Hoster snapped, voice thick with irritation.
The door opened and his foster son, Petyr Baelish, stepped inside.
"My lord, I hope I'm not disturbing you."
Baelish was immaculately dressed. He pulled a letter from his doublet. "From Lord Jon Arryn at the Eyrie."
"Old Jon?"
Hoster's eyes widened. He snatched the letter.
This was the first message from Arryn since the Vale rose in rebellion.
When he finished reading, his face twisted with conflicting emotions.
Jon Arryn's words were blunt: the Four-Power Alliance was now undeniable fact. House Tully could stick its neck out or pull it back—either way the axe would fall.
He invited Hoster to join the rebellion.
The terms: wed his eldest daughter Catelyn to Eddard Stark, and his second daughter Lysa to Elbert Arryn, the heir Jon Arryn had chosen.
In return, once Eddard reached the North, raised his army, and marched south, the rebels would relieve Riverrun and together topple the Targaryen dynasty.
Hoster let out a long, heavy sigh. His heart ached with regret.
His brother Brynden had been right.
He should have broken Catelyn's betrothal the moment the Tourney at Harrenhal ended, sent both girls to King's Landing, and planted House Tully firmly on the side of the loyalists.
Instead he was trapped, head spinning, caught between wolves.
"My lord, are you well?"
Baelish asked with concern.
"I'm fine, lad."
Hoster waved him off. "I have much to think on. You may go."
The risk of rebellion was enormous. How could he commit lightly?
"I have one more matter to report."
Baelish paused at the door, eyes flickering, then turned back.
Hoster was already lost in his headache. "What is it?"
"Well, it's like this—"
Baelish carefully recounted the events.
A Lannister army was camped outside, but Riverrun was one of the strongest castles in the realm—three sides protected by rivers, the fourth by a raised drawbridge and floodgates that could turn the whole area into an island fortress.
The stores inside could feed two hundred people for two full years.
But misfortune never came alone.
One of the castle blacksmith's stallions had fallen ill—foaming at the mouth, convulsing, and dead within hours.
The maester diagnosed it as a livestock plague that could spread.
The blacksmith owned more than one donkey: a blue mule and a pregnant mare.
The dead stallion had covered the mare only days earlier.
Baelish sighed with genuine regret. "To prevent the disease spreading, the blacksmith had no choice but to slaughter the mare as well."
"You know how precious a single donkey is to a common family."
The words were spoken innocently, but they struck Hoster like a thunderbolt.
The Iron Throne's attitude toward House Tully was still unclear.
But House Tully and House Stark had sealed a real marriage alliance.
If Brandon hadn't been a fool and abandoned his wedding to ride south to his death, Catelyn would already be wed.
"Mad King killed both Starks… does he truly intend to forgive House Tully?"
Hoster muttered to himself.
Even if the Crown showed mercy this once, three of the four allied regions were already in open rebellion. Could House Tully truly stay neutral?
Baelish read his foster father's face and suggested smoothly, "I'll take my leave then, my lord."
"Wait!"
Hoster called him back and threw off the blankets.
He couldn't sit and wait for death.
"Bring me paper and ink. Then go tell Lysa to pack. We'll send her to the Eyrie tonight, under cover of darkness."
"Tonight?" Baelish asked, wide-eyed.
"Yes. The Lannisters haven't been camped long—their watch won't be tight yet. Get Lysa out while we still can."
Hoster's old decisive streak finally returned. He grabbed quill and paper and began writing furiously.
He would accept Jon Arryn's marriage terms.
If the rebels won, his eldest daughter would be Lady of Winterfell, his second Lady of the Eyrie. It wasn't a bad outcome for either girl.
Far better than cowering inside Riverrun and leaving their fates in strangers' hands.
"Very well. I'll inform Lysa at once."
Baelish felt the weight of his foster father's trust. The corners of his mouth twitched upward before he quickly schooled his expression and hurried out.
Hoster paid no attention to his foster son's fleeting look. His mind was already consumed by the decision to join the rebellion.
He regretted ignoring his brother Brynden's advice. He regretted ever joining the Four-Power Alliance.
But regret was useless now.
All he could do was go all-in.
---
The Eyrie.
Deep into the night, Lord Jon Arryn sat at his desk, still unable to sleep.
He was weighing every possible way to increase the rebellion's chances of success.
Binding House Tully through multiple marriages was one of many measures he'd already set in motion.
"If the Tullys throw in with us, Robert and the others will have a far easier time against the loyalist armies."
Lord Arryn's brow remained furrowed.
He hadn't raised the Vale on a whim—he had solid reasons.
First, the Vale's geography was superb.
The Mountains of the Moon cut the Vale off from the rest of the continent. No army from any other region could easily invade.
Even if an enemy forced the passes, the Bloody Gate could hold back ten thousand men.
As for supplies, the Vale had the rich black soil of the Vale proper and one of Westeros's five great ports—Gulltown.
Short-term logistics would not be a problem.
The North would march south, the Stormlands would rally, and with House Tully controlling the Riverlands, the rebel armies could cross the Trident at the critical moment. The situation would turn sharply in their favor.
As for the enemy—
Lord Arryn circled names and muttered, "Tywin is a brilliant politician, but no great general."
From everything he knew of Tywin, the man would never commit fully to the Crown.
That meant the loyalist main force would likely consist of the Crownlands, half the Riverlands, the Reach, and Dorne.
Dorne was riddled with internal strife, and Dornish soldiers excelled at guerrilla warfare but performed poorly once they left their desert.
Even if Prince Doran wanted to help the Iron Throne, he couldn't send many troops.
On balance, the military strength was roughly four to six—rebels four, loyalists six.
The Riverlands and Reach were fertile lands with powerful lords and strong armies.
The North and Vale had fierce warriors, but their numbers simply couldn't match the densely populated river valleys.
"Grafton of Gulltown must be handled gently," Lord Arryn added, rubbing his temples.
Another headache.
House Grafton were loyalists. They had called their banners to resist the Vale rebels and fought the Battle of Gulltown.
Gulltown was the Vale's most vital port.
Both his foster sons needed it to return home.
Because of House Grafton's resistance, Eddard had no time to join the fighting and had sailed from the Fingers back to the North.
Robert had fought bravely and taken Gulltown.
But Lord Grafton had surrendered quickly rather than fight to the bitter end.
Robert's generous nature meant he not only spared House Grafton but even drank with the lord as friends.
Lord Arryn massaged his forehead. "Robert should be on his way back to Storm's End by ship."
Robert could reach Storm's End and rally the Stormlands.
But the Vale army couldn't sail with him.
They would have to wait until Robert gathered his bannermen before linking up with the Tully forces and marching south together.
The sooner Robert moved, the better.
"Vale morale is shaky," Lord Arryn said grimly. "Besides House Grafton opposing their liege, many lesser lords are still sitting on the fence."
Once fighting started, internal friction alone would be enough to drink a barrel of trouble.
And the Targaryens now had dragons.
---
Highgarden.
Mace Tyrell—known to many as "Lord Puff Fish"—might not be famous for his wits, but he had one saving grace: he listened to good advice.
After Daeron and Lady Olenna finished their private talk, Mace publicly declared that House Tyrell stood firmly with the Iron Throne and House Targaryen.
A flock of ravens burst from Highgarden, summoning every Tyrell bannerman.
In just half a month the entire Reach had answered the call.
Another small council convened.
Lady Olenna attended in full finery. The moment she entered she seized Daeron's hand and began her pitch.
"Listen to me, my prince. Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill is on his way."
Daeron raised an eyebrow.
Randyll Tarly's reputation was well known to him.
In another life, he was the only commander to defeat Robert Baratheon in open battle, head-to-head.
Had that fool Mace not held him back, Randyll would have crushed Robert completely.
Here was a genuine military star.
Barristan, Arthur Dayne, and Blackfish Brynden were famed for personal valor and could lead armies, but none had a string of decisive victories to their name.
In their generation, Randyll Tarly was the best general in the Seven Kingdoms.
Lady Olenna, fearing he might doubt her, continued her sales pitch. "Randyll is not an easy man—stubborn as a stone in a latrine, foul-tempered and hard-headed—but he has real talent."
Horn Hill sat on the Dornish Marches, the first line of defense against Dorne.
Just as the Stormlands had ancient blood-feuds with Dorne, so did the Reach.
Lords like the Tarlys of Horn Hill didn't enjoy the soft life of the lords along the Mander, living off rich farmland.
The Tarlys were born warriors.
Whenever the Dornish raided, House Tarly led the charge and drove them back.
Randyll Tarly was the finest of them.
After inheriting Horn Hill he had reformed the army, strengthened patrols, and fought the Dornish constantly.
His martial reputation was ironclad.
Daeron took the information in stride. "How long until Lord Randyll arrives?"
"Horn Hill is some distance from Highgarden, and he must leave men behind to guard the Marches in case the Dornish retaliate."
Lady Olenna calculated. "At least ten days."
Daeron nodded lightly.
Ten days was nothing.
Real war was not fought on paper. You didn't raise banners one day and besiege King's Landing the next.
The War of the Usurper had lasted over two years; actual battles had been few.
Most of the time both sides were busy gathering levies and marching.
Daeron's rough estimate put Robert still at sea, waiting to reach Storm's End.
"My prince, the Reach lords have all answered the call. Allow me to outline the strategic situation."
In the council chamber, Ser Vortimer Crane, master-at-arms of Highgarden, spoke up.
Ser Vortimer was tall and lean, with a long face that made him resemble a slender red-crowned crane. He radiated vigorous life force.
Daeron nodded for him to continue.
Ser Vortimer came from the Crane family of Red Lake—one of the more prominent noble houses of the Reach.
Daeron remembered the Cranes well.
After the Dance of the Dragons, one of the last four great dragons—Silverwing—had briefly nested on an island in the lake at Red Lake.
Daeron had once considered visiting House Crane to search for any dragon eggs Silverwing might have left behind.
The chances were slim, and he had never found the time.
Ser Vortimer spread out a map of the Reach and pointed to a spot at sea. "My prince, the full strength of the Reach can be mobilized, with one exception: the fleet of the Shield Islands must remain where it is."
He explained why.
His finger traced the cluster of islands offshore. "If the main Reach army marches out, the Ironborn are likely to raid the coast. We cannot leave ourselves exposed."
---