The journey from the tourney grounds back to the Gates of the Moon was a scant three miles. The late autumn wind swirled through the pass, carrying withered leaves and filtering the thunder of hooves and the roar of the crowds until they were nothing but a distant hum.
This distance acted as a natural barrier, sealing the castle in a pocket of silence while the world outside sweated and bled in the mud. As the visiting knights splintered lances and half the castle's servants scrambled to fetch pottage and wine, Petyr Baelish reclined on a carved settee in his solar. He traced the rim of a gilded chalice with a slow, deliberate finger, savoring the rare quiet.
He was not alone. Archbishop Clare sat opposite him, his vestments stitched with silver thread that caught the shifting patterns of light.
Petyr reached out and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains. The afternoon sun lanced through the window like a needle, dancing in his grey-green eyes. The light gilded his handsome, sharp features but cast a long, meaningful shadow beneath the faint curve of his smile.
"Listen to that," Petyr mused, his voice lazy and laced with mockery. "So quiet. These knights are nothing but a flock of noisy ducks. In times of peace, they scream for war. When there is no war, they invent a fake one, painting blood on their shields just to feel alive. And when the real war comes, they shriek like children as they run into the Stranger's arms. Wouldn't you agree, Archbishop?"
Clare did not look up. He simply turned the ring of the Seven on his finger, metal rasping softly against skin. "The Seven bless them for their courage."
Petyr let out a sharp, dry laugh. "The Seven bless no one. Brother Clare, let us leave the mummer's show for the smallfolk in the Septs. I have buried two High Septons. If our luck holds, I shall attend the funeral of a third. I have never seen a god intervene in a ledger or a battle."
The monk did not take offense. Instead, he offered a smile that deepened the wrinkles around his eyes like a dry riverbed. "The Light only reveals itself to the devout. Perhaps you will see the evidence sooner than you think."
"Enough," Petyr snapped, sitting upright. He leaned back, his fingers drumming a rapid, impatient staccato on the carved armrest. "There are only two of us here. State your business. I am tired of riddles."
Clare's brow arched. "I remember you as a man of infinite patience and courtly grace in the capital, Lord Baelish."
"Perhaps," Petyr said, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "But this is the Vale."
Petyr was a man of modest stature but striking looks, his dark hair touched with silver that shimmered like frost in the sun. His grey-green eyes were bottomless pools of calculation. Opposite him, Clare carried the air of a merchant-prince turned holy man. Having risen to the rank of Archbishop in his forties, Clare's political instincts were every bit as sharp as Petyr's own.
"Lord Protector," Clare said, his tone sharpening. "Do not be so defensive. I mean you no harm. I saw Lord Grafton in your hall yesterday. I assume he told you why I have come?"
"He did. He said you want me to open the grain trade. But I recall brokering the peace between Highgarden and the Lions myself. King's Landing is not wanting for bread."
"The capital is fed, yes. But the Riverlands are a tomb," Clare countered. "The war has left thousands to die of hunger or the blade of a desperate neighbor. I am here for them."
Petyr's expression turned playful, though his eyes remained cold. "My apologies. Feeding the Trident is technically my responsibility as its Governor, yet I've left it to you to walk the road. But tell me: why do the Riverlands concern a priest of the capital?"
Clare pursed his lips. "The Lord of Harrenhal has been slow to take his seat. Without your hand, the land is in chaos. If you truly cared for your King or your people, you would leave this mountain mess and go settle the Riverlands."
"And hand myself over to your 'Lightbringer'?" Petyr interlaced his fingers beneath his chin. "I have a knight who recently traveled through the Trident. He saw the way this foreigner governs. If even a tenth of his description is true, the man is quite the sorcerer. He may not have taken the stones of Harrenhal yet, but its lands and its people already pray to him. You asking me to go there is not a 'kindly suggestion,' Clare."
"The Lightbringer is—"
"Do not deny it," Petyr interrupted. "Ser Shadrich told me he saw the Lightbringer's soldiers at Castle Darry. Their gear, their discipline, their very presence is identical to the guards you brought with you."
Clare took a breath. "Then I will be plain. I and the entire leadership of the Faith, including the High Septon himself, follow the Lightbringer. We are disciples of the Sun, dedicated to his cause."
Petyr's brow furrowed. The answer was unexpected. "I have heard of this new High Septon. They say he is a man of iron conviction."
"It is because his conviction is iron that he chose the Path of the Sun."
"Why? I've always found that the closer a man gets to the gods, the less he believes in them."
"Miracles change a man, Petyr. When you see the Light move with your own eyes, you make the same choice we did."
Petyr leaned back, crossing his arms. "Amusing. But it does not convince me to hand over my lands."
"Petyr," Clare laughed, the sound echoing in the stone room. "Since when did you start telling jokes to men? I am not a lady to be charmed by your wit. How can you hand over what you never truly possessed? And how can you expect the Lightbringer to give up what he already holds in his fist?"
"I expect the Church to respect the King's authority," Petyr hissed, his eyes like daggers. "Perhaps I should show you the decree signed by Joffrey. Cersei will not be pleased to hear the Faith ignores the Iron Throne."
"Emmon Frey waved a decree at Riverrun," Clare said dismissively. "Now the whole world laughs at him. Do you wish to be the second most foolish man in the Riverlands?"
Petyr dropped the facade. He sat up, his gaze turning predatory. "You are right. I never expected a scrap of parchment to give me Harrenhal. But do not forget, I am the Lord Protector. And the Knights of the Vale are very eager to win lands in the Riverlands."
Clare's smile vanished. "Just before I arrived, three Houses of the Trident met the Lightbringer outside Blue-Wave Keep with seven hundred men. The Riverlords lost two hundred dead and four hundred captured. The Lightbringer lost five men. He has four thousand regulars and thousands more in the militia, not to mention the Poor Fellows and the Warrior's Sons under the High Septon. If you wish to 'reclaim' your land by force, Petyr, I invite you to try."
The silence that followed was heavy. Petyr leaned forward slightly. "Brother Clare, we have known each other a long time. I assume you didn't come all this way just to insult me."
"No," Clare said, lowering his voice. "The Riverlands are broken. Winter is here, and the crops are failing. The Lightbringer is searching for grain. We have agents in the Reach and the Stormlands, but we prefer to deal with a man we know. Open the trade. Remove the restrictions on grain moving to the Trident."
"Why should I feed an enemy who occupies my land?"
"If it isn't us, it will be the outlaws or the wolves," Clare said. "If I were you, Petyr, I would hold tight to what I have, rather than obsessing over what I've lost."
"Meaning?"
"The Vale."
Petyr scoffed. "I have a firm grip on the Vale."
"Do you? I heard whispers of a 'Lords Declarant' all the way from Gulltown. Bronze Yohn Royce is not a man who enjoys taking orders from a customs officer. He questions your legitimacy every time he breathes."
"The Declarant are fools," Petyr said with a wave of his hand. "As Lysa's husband and the boy's stepfather, the law is mine."
"For now," Clare noted. "But Lysa is dead. The boy is a sickly bird. You have no children of your own. If Robert Arryn has a... mishap, you lose your title. The Eyrie goes to the next heir."
Petyr's face darkened. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the chair.
"The heir is Ser Harrold Hardyng, is he not?" Clare continued. "A handsome knight who will not need a 'protector' to rule for him. I know you are trying to wedge your daughter Alayne into his bed to keep your influence. But even if she helps you, she is but one girl. Without a fortress or a name, how long will you keep your head?"
Petyr was silent for a long moment, then he began to laugh. "Brother Clare, you are a surprise. In all these years, only Tywin Lannister has made my spine feel cold. Varys can manage half that feeling on a day. Now, you've joined their ranks. Perhaps we should work together? When I am Hand, you could be the High Septon at my side."
Clare raised his cup of water. "I suspect the current High Septon will outlive us both, Petyr."
"Indeed. All men must die. Even Archbishops."
"True. But a High Septon favored by the Light is a different matter. I have not yet received the Seed of Light, or I would show you the difference." Clare's face flickered with a genuine regret.
"The Seed of Light? What is that?" Petyr leaned in, curiosity finally overriding his caution.
"In time, perhaps you will see." Clare waved the question away. "Back to the matter. The Lightbringer has held the Gods Eye for a year. A King's decree won't move him. But if you cooperate, the Lightbringer will leave Harrenhal to you in name. The Faith will continue to recognize your title as Governor of the Trident."
"While I have no power over the Alliance?"
"Exactly."
"And what do I get in return?"
"Swords, Petyr. Sharp, disciplined steel. If you work with the Dawn, I can convince the Lightbringer to provide you with military support to crush the Lords Declarant and secure your rule in the Vale. Furthermore... we can extend the life of young Robert Arryn. We can ensure he lives to see his majority. That gives you at least five years of absolute power. How does that sound?"
Petyr stared into the Archbishop's grey eyes. He had been planning to use Sansa to secure the future, but if he could keep Robert alive and gain the backing of a supernatural military order, he wouldn't need to play nice with Harry the Heir. He could simply prune the garden of his enemies.
He leaned forward, his gaze predatory and sharp. "Prove it. Show me this power."
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