It seemed this was the very danger the Three-Eyed Raven had warned Bran of—that one must not linger too long in the past. Bran, though, had time in abundance. I did not.
I had a wife and children, friends and allies. I was expected at the Small Council, had to see to the army's preparations, to keep my hand upon the pulse of it all. There was simply not enough time for everything…
Time is a strategic resource, and I was beginning to understand that more and more clearly.
Of course, I had managed to visit a few places. I saw Cersei at Casterly Rock, looked upon Storm's End and Moat Cailin. I saw Jon Snow upon the Wall, and his direwolf, Ghost, seemed to sense me and growled. I visited Last Hearth, the seat of House Umber. With a high degree of certainty, I could assume Rickon Stark was there—but I never found him, because such a search takes considerable time.
The "greenery" and everything connected to it is a serious and deeply complex subject for study and discovery. If only I had the time, I might have written a book on it. Yet when would I write it—and, more to the point, who would read it?
Although Archmaester Marwyn the Mage, to whom I revealed my ability, was utterly fascinated by it and bombarded me with all manner of questions.
***
Myrcella's death struck me hard, but the sheer volume of responsibilities forced me to pull myself together. Gods, I felt like absolute hell in those days…
The new Hand became Lord Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove. The late Kevan Lannister had described him as an intelligent, prudent, capable, and loyal man.
"In these troubled times, Lord Rowan, I hope you will accept my offer, take the position of Hand, and support the realm," I said to him as we stood in my new chamber in the cellars of the Red Keep. My old solar had burned along with my bedchamber. What I mourned most was the magnificent map of Westeros.
"It is an honor, Your Grace," he said, bowing as he accepted the golden chain from my hands, its links shaped like clasped wrists.
"Together, I am certain we shall weather this crisis." I rose, came around the table, and clasped his hand firmly. "You must forgive me—we cannot hold a tourney in honor of your appointment just now. Days of grief and mourning are ill suited to merriment… but once we have mourned our dead and taken our vengeance, you shall have it, I promise."
"I understand," he nodded.
I liked Rowan for his calm and sound judgment. He was a man of principle, but not like the late Eddard Stark, who often trapped himself in moral and emotional dead ends.Ser Mathis Rowan was no less strong-willed or firm of spirit than Stark, yet he was more flexible, able to see matters from many sides. Over the past year, watching him at Small Council meetings, we had all come to recognize that.
It was striking how many truly talented and loyal people there were in Westeros. The trick was to find them—and give their talents leave to show.
He had three children—one son and two daughters. The elder girl, Lora, had been caught up in an unpleasant affair with the bard Dareon, who was discovered, quite by chance, in her bed. Rowan sent the bard to the Wall and made his daughter's life a misery thereafter.
His second daughter, Lysa, proved less… wanton. She was a year older than Tommen, and I was already considering the possibility of their marriage. It might prove to be a worthwhile move.
***
A new commander of the Gold Cloaks had been appointed. The choice fell on Humfrey Waters, one of the officers who had distinguished himself in recent years while serving as captain of the Dragon Gate.
The Kingsguard was replenished as well. Two new men filled the vacant places—Ser Orson Sarwyck, known as the Brokensword, from the Westerlands, and Ser Edwel Brune of Dyre Den, located in the Crownlands on the Crackclaw Point peninsula.
Men came, died, and were replaced by others, while the war dragged on. Pitiless, ravenous bitch—when will you finally have your fill and end?
The bodies of the fallen were sent to their ancestral lands. Kevan and Marbrand were escorted by a retinue of western knights to Casterly Rock. After some thought, we sent Myrcella's body with them—my little sister had always favored the Westerlands, and had never truly considered King's Landing her home. And it would be easier on Cersei Lannister that way.
Lady Olenna was taken to Highgarden. Arys Oakheart was sent along with Margaery's grandmother, as his ancestral seat, Old Oak, was also located in the Reach.
The day was mournful and joyless. As if to deepen our mood, a dull, steady rain fell from the sky.
News arrived—the Twins had fallen. Enraged by the rebellion of his own bannermen, Lord Edmure Tully, with the support of Randyll Tarly, had acted decisively and made an example of them. It did not, of course, compare to what Tywin Lannister had done to the Reynes of Castamere, but the number of Freys had been reduced by at least a third.
The new Lord of the Twins became Perwyn Frey—a man in his forties, the fifteenth son of old Walder.
The appointment of such a man was an internal matter between a liege lord and his vassal. Maintaining friendly relations with Edmure, I did not interfere much in the situation. The only thing that mattered to me was that House Tully did not grow too powerful and that Edmure did not grant the Twins to a close relative of his wife Roslin.
That was all.
Perwyn was among those acceptable to the Crown as Lord of the Twins, and so we did not raise the matter again.
(End of Chapter)
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