The Witch-King of the Vale [GoT x LotR]

The Vale. The Eyrie. 299 AC.

Lord Axel Arryn.

Eight influential men and one cupbearer had gathered in the great hall around an enormous rectangular table. The table itself was an extraordinarily detailed map of Westeros, now being studied by the principal representatives of power in the Vale. The region might not have entered the war, but it was watching the unfolding events with close attention. At the right side of the table, near the Westerlands, stood the master of the assembly, Lord Axel Arryn, his eyes fixed on the figures arranged to represent the positions of the various factions, while the man at his right hand brought the rest up to speed.

"We'll begin with the least interesting: the Lannister disposition. Nothing of substance has changed in the past half-year. Lord Tywin remains in the capital with thirteen thousand men. Ser Kevan, however, has taken command of fifteen thousand and marched into the Riverlands. A further six thousand are scattered along the domain's borders."

"Lannisport has fallen, and a month later Casterly Rock as well," reported Morgan, the unofficial Master of Whispers. "Accounts agree on the key point: a small party managed to infiltrate the fortress and raise the gates. The credit belongs to the newly made Ser Bronn, a sellsword in Robb Stark's service. He raised the gates himself, and King Stannis knighted him on the spot for it." As he spoke he placed lion figures on the map, each marked with troop numbers.

"I have no interest in some lucky sellsword. I need to know what Stannis intends to do next." Morgan was a thorough spy, but that thoroughness sometimes caused problems. He had a habit of leaping from important news to trivial detail, and occasionally needed pulling back.

"My apologies. The lion's wealth is flowing into the Riverlands and from there northward. The elder Baratheon's army is retracing its march. Most likely moving to join Lord Tully at Harrenhal."

Now the real question: why had Stannis abandoned an advantageous position and retreated into the Riverlands? The tactically sound move would have been to make the Rock a base of operations and put the entire Westerlands to fire and sword. A month or two, perhaps two, and the western lords would have been falling over each other to swear to Baratheon.

The unity of the West was, in truth, a fragile thing, held together by Tywin Lannister and his instruments: gold, fear, and authority. But the Old Lion's power had been quietly dimming of late. Gold? Casterly Rock and Lannisport had been stripped bare; what remained were the Iron Throne's debts. Fear? How does one fear a man who is losing a war and watching his own lands burn? Authority? It carries no weight when all of Westeros is fighting against you. Would the lords of the Westerlands truly fight to the last for the lions' sake, especially when they were losing on every front? Doubtful.

Stannis was no fool, which was exactly why the retreat troubled him. There had to be a sound reason. But what?

"Curious," he said, setting aside Stannis's apparent misstep for now. "What news of the sword-swallower?"

"Renly and his circle are trying to stabilize their situation and stop fighting on multiple fronts at once. Specifically, he has left a blocking force behind and is riding to the relief of Nightsong." Renly was one of that rare breed of lords who understood they were no strategist and had the sense not to meddle in matters best left to professionals, though that approach did not always serve him well. "Things are going badly there. The castle has been reduced to ruins by continuous bombardment, but Ser Roland the Unyielding and his garrison are still holding."

"Pity," said Robar, who respected military virtue wherever he found it. "A good and loyal man in service to a foolish king." Agreed. Renly had left his vassal to face the Dornish alone, and only when things turned truly dire had he rushed to correct his blunder.

"Tensions within Renly's camp are mounting and show no sign of easing." That was putting it mildly. At the start of the war they could have crushed all their enemies at once and brought Westeros to its knees within a few months. Now they had drawn roughly level with everyone else. The greedy lords were being squeezed for their wealth to fund the king's grand cause, which did nothing for Baratheon's popularity.

"Tarly is at Deep Den with somewhere around seven thousand," Robar said, placing rose figures on the map as he spoke. " Lord Hightower with twelve thousand is still sitting at the Bronzegate. They simply cannot move, paralyzed by internal quarrels. Renly left ten thousand at Smithyton and rode for Nightsong with thirteen. I'd place him somewhere near Fawnton by now."

"You think too well of him. He has only Mace the Hammer with him; they won't be able to move an army quickly," Desmond objected, earning an indifferent shrug in return, though the figure was shifted slightly back from the castle.

"And the last significant force belonging to the younger Baratheon: Willas Tyrell and five thousand swords at Honeyholt."

"What is the cripple doing out there?" asked Eryis, a reasonable question.

"Trying to protect the western coast," Morgan said. "I'll say plainly: it isn't going well. The ironborn are riding him like a dockside whore."

"And so much for the pride of the Reach's heir," someone muttered. Olenna had done fine work crafting an imposing reputation for her grandson, but to her misfortune, reputation and reality are different things.

"The Dornish situation is largely unchanged, only the frequency of raids on the Marches has increased. Moving on..." Morgan checked his notes and made to continue, but was interrupted by the most incongruous presence at the table, my recently appointed cupbearer.

"Lord Morgan's figures are incorrect. Lord Tarly has moved to Lily Inn." After Elena shifted the figure on the map, every eye in the room turned to me.

Desmond Redfort, Lord of Gulltown; Ser Robar Royce, the Royce representative; Symond Templeton, Lord of the Nine Stars; Lord Henry Melcolm, responsible for the Vale's fleet; Jasper Redfort, heir to Redfort; Lord Gilwood Hunter, one of my most important bannermen; and Ser Eryis Claw, the decorated commander of my household guard. Every one of my closest associates and men of high standing was present. To serve as cupbearer at a gathering of this kind was the greatest possible expression of favor. And Elena choosing this moment to speak out of turn was not her finest decision.