Charles Costa's eyes went wide. "Two masters?"
Tucker Ward nodded grimly. "Two. After Lord Eddard was executed, King Joffrey named Janos Slynt as Lord of Harrenhal. But before Slynt could even pack his coffers, the Imp stripped him of his golden cloak and sent him to the Wall in black."
"I knew Slynt," Ser Dean Blount interjected, a sneer curling his lip. "A man as corrupt as he was fat. Heaven knows what the King saw in him. We're lucky he never arrived; had we been forced to swear to him, our heirs would have had to gift him half our lands just to keep the other half."
Dane Bennett swirled his wine, a cynical smile on his face. "Ha. If you knew who followed Slynt, you wouldn't be so relieved."
Charles leaned in. "Who? A Lannister?"
"Petyr Baelish," Tucker answered, the name landing like a stone in a pool.
Ser Dean barked a laugh. "Littlefinger? I've been to his brothels; the girls are fine enough, but him? Lord of Harrenhal? If that panderer is a Great Lord, then I'm the King on the Iron Throne."
Malin Sharp, silent until now, spoke up with a hollow voice. "It's true. Lord Baelish is not only Lord of Harrenhal; he has been named Lord Paramount of the Trident. It was the price Tywin Lannister paid for his services."
"What services?" Dean snapped.
"He went to Bitterbridge," Malin explained. "He met with Mace Tyrell and brokered the alliance between the Lions and the Roses. Stannis Baratheon's fleet was shattered on the Blackwater by their combined host. Lord Tywin is back in the capital, and Stannis has fled to Dragonstone."
Dean looked skeptical. "How do you know this? Littlefinger doesn't have a bird in the sky."
Malin offered a bitter, weary smile. "I know because Lord Tywin's host marched through my lands on their way to meet the Tyrells. They 'pressed' half my farmers into service as laborers. Fewer than a tenth returned, and they brought the news of the victory."
"And you survived Tywin?" Dean mocked. "You must have a hidden talent for crawling."
"I have a talent for listening," Malin countered. "I got word from Lord Beric's men and fled into the woods with my kin. Otherwise, there would be one less house at this table today."
The mention of the wedding brought Charles back to his original suspicion. "Tucker, your letter said there was a Whent granddaughter hidden in your house. Is that a lie too?"
Tucker Ward sighed. "It is the truth. Years ago, Tytos Whent was escorting a shipment to King's Landing. He stayed a night here. We drank too much, and he took a liking to one of my servant girls. She gave him a daughter—Alayne. They have the same eyes, the same nose. Anyone who knew Tytos would see the blood."
"A bastard?" Charles scoffed. "A bastard has no claim. Your nephew can marry her, but it won't give him Harrenhal."
The stern-faced woman, Lady Sabina—mother of the groom—bristled. "Why not? The Targaryen kings legitimized their bastards by the dozen."
"And it took four Blackfyre Rebellions to pay for it," Charles snapped. "Exiles are still across the Narrow Sea waiting for a chance to come back. Besides, only a King can legitimize a bastard, and Joffrey isn't going to do your son any favors."
Tucker cut in. "It could work... if we, the former Whent vassals, stand together and swear she is legitimate. The Whents are gone. Who is left to deny it? Against Janos Slynt, it might have worked. But against Petyr Baelish..."
Charles shook his head. "What army does Baelish have? A few sheep on the Fingers? If he wants to sit in Harrenhal, he has to look to us for support."
Ser Malin shook his head. "You underestimate him, Charles. A man who rises from a tax collector in Gulltown to Master of Coin—all while surviving Eddard Stark's fall and gaining a Great Seat—is not a man who comes alone. When he arrives to claim his lands, he will have an army at his back."
"So what?" Dane asked with his usual arrogance. "If we kneel fast enough, can he really strip our lands?"
"Don't be a fool, Dane," Tucker spat. "He is the Lord Paramount now. He needs to reward the men who follow him. Why shouldn't he take your land to give to a loyal captain? Does a wolf ask a sheep for permission to eat?"
Dean Blount rubbed his temples. As a petty knight, the grand politics of the realm were a dizzying maze. He was used to following a Lord into battle, not playing at kingship. "It's too much. I don't know what to do. Speak your piece, Charles. If it sounds better than hanging, I'll listen."
Charles felt a surge of excitement. This was the moment he had ridden across the scorched earth for.
"We must form a Blood Alliance," Charles declared. "We stand as one. Littlefinger will have enough to manage with the Whent lands; he won't want a war with all his vassals at once. If we are a single, unbreakable nut, he will be forced to keep us as we are."
The lords looked at each other. None disagreed. In the game of lords, sacrificing another man's land to save your own was a basic instinct.
"But how?" Tucker asked. "A scroll and a seal won't keep a man from turning his cloak."
Aldric watched Charles carefully. The knight had already practiced this speech.
"I suggest a Joint Task Force," Charles proposed. "Each house provides fifty soldiers and the grain to feed them. A neutral army, under a single command. For now, we use them to clear the bandits and Mummers from our borders. If Baelish comes for us, this force becomes the core of our defense. We rotate the men, we share the cost."
Joint armies were common in Westeros, but they were always under a superior Lord. Among equals, the question of command was a poison.
"And who commands this force, Charles?" Malin asked pointedly.
Charles didn't blink. "I do. Why else would I suggest it?"
The room erupted in laughter, Dean Blount laughing the loudest. "Charles! I admire the gall. But your record? I remember the Rebellion. We followed Hoster Tully to the capital, and you got smashed by Jon Connington's van before you even saw the walls. You only lived because you played dead in the mud!"
Charles gritted his teeth. "And you? Four years ago, you were ambushed by common thieves on the Hayford road. They took your horse, your mail, and held you for three hundred dragons. You had to borrow thirty from me just to get home, and you only paid me back last year!"
"I am a logistician," Malin added. "I have no stomach for the van."
Young Dane Bennett stood up, eyes bright. "What about me? I've tilt in the capital. I could lead them."
"A tourney is not a war, child," Tucker sighed. "A tourney has rules. War is a butchery. Your father is failing; don't make him bury his only son."
The silence returned. Tucker Ward looked at his sister-in-law, then offered a hollow laugh. "If my brother Wery were here, he could do it. But he's in the Vale, and heaven knows if he'll ever return."
The deadlock was absolute. If Tucker took command, the others would fear he was using the army to install his nephew in Harrenhal. If anyone else took it, the Wards would fear a coup on their own soil.
Charles looked at Aldric, silently pleading for support. But Aldric stayed silent. He knew that without a "superior officer" or an external threat, cross-departmental coordination was impossible. If Charles couldn't handle these petty lords himself, he wasn't worth the alliance.
Tucker turned to Aldric. "Commander Aldric? You have been silent. What is your mind?"
Aldric folded his arms. "My mind? I have none. I am not a vassal of Harrenhal. I am the Protector of St. Maur's, a stranger keeping the peace for my friend, Brother John. I have no quarrel with Lord Baelish. I came here as a neighbor to attend... well..."
"Ruwen," Lady Sabina prompted. "My son, Ruwen Ward."
"To attend Ruwen's wedding," Aldric finished, pulling a silver seven-pointed star from his tunic and placing it on the table. "I even brought a gift. A pity it's not needed."
The gift was worth a few silver stags—a pittance. The lords barely glanced at it.
Ser Dean Blount took up the role of the aggressor. "The wedding is dead, and your gift with it. Commander, House Vance is broken. They cannot protect St. Maur's. That monastery was Harrenhal land, gifted to the Faith by a dead master. Without the Vances, Baelish will reclaim it in a heartbeat. If you don't join us, you'll have no walls to hide behind when the new Lord Paramount arrives."
He leaned over the table. "You've heard our plan. I won't have you walking out of here to sell our secrets to Baelish. You join us today, or you don't leave at all."
Aldric looked at Charles, who offered a helpless shrug. Aldric sighed, a performance of reluctant surrender. "Fine. I will join your alliance. But tell me—how do you plan to train and lead this army if you cannot even agree on a name for the Captain? Until a commander is set, this is all just hot air."
The point was unassailable. A commander was vital, but choosing one would elevate one house above the rest. The meeting stalled again, the silence growing heavy with the setting sun.
The next morning, another party arrived at the gates. It was House Schmidt, led by the current patriarch, Karlo Schmidt. The game was getting crowded.
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