Chapter 14: Baelish of the Fingers
The feast in King's Landing carried on, rich with laughter and wine, the hall glowing beneath torchlight and polished silver.
Music drifted through the Queen Dowager's Ballroom, and for a brief while, the war felt distant—something happening far away, beyond the Narrow Sea and the rocky isles of the Stepstones. Faces were relaxed, smiles unguarded. Victory, or at least the promise of it, had softened every voice.
Many noble ladies cast their gazes toward the raised platform where King Jaehaerys II and Queen Shaera sat, toward Queen Rhaella, Princess Lorenza Martell, Ser Steffon Baratheon and his wife Lady Cassana Estermont, and—lingering longest of all—upon Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Envy flickered behind painted smiles.
They were all nobles, yet some shone brighter than others, standing closer to power, closer to history itself.
It was a pity, many thought, that King Jaehaerys II was already frail with age, while Prince Rhaegar was still far too young. Between them lay a yawning gap. More than a few eyes had already turned toward Prince Aerys, the Crown Prince, still absent from court and war alike.
Even without dragons, House Targaryen remained irresistible.
To be close to the blood of Old Valyria—to silver hair and violet eyes—was still a dream many cherished. Power, even a whisper of it, could change a family's fate. And the Dragonlords, gods among men in song and memory, were rarely lacking in beauty.
Yet after the Tragedy at Summerhall, that bloodline had thinned to almost nothing. Too few remained. Fewer still were available.
Westeros preached monogamy, but highborn desire had never truly obeyed doctrine.
History offered plenty of examples.
Aegon IV Targaryen, Aegon the Unworthy, had indulged his appetites without restraint, scattering bastards across the realm and sowing chaos that would bloom into the Blackfyre Rebellions. His lust cursed the Seven Kingdoms with war—but paradoxically, it also produced men of fearsome ability.
Among them, Brynden Rivers.
Rhaegar noticed the hunger in the eyes around him—not for flesh alone, but for opportunity. Court was a battlefield of its own, and many here were already positioning themselves for the future. He could almost see the cracks forming, widening the fragile distance between Prince Aerys and Princess Rhaella.
And how to mend that, Rhaegar thought quietly, I do not yet know.
Far from the warmth of torchlight, the war dragged on.
Though Maelys Blackfyre lay dead, his blood soaking the soil of Bloodstone, the fighting did not cease at once. The Golden Company was not a host that shattered easily. Veterans of a hundred campaigns, they held their ground stubbornly, turning every ridge and hill into a killing field.
Blood and fire continued to sweep the islands.
The Westerlands had paid dearly.
Ser Jason Lannister, commander of the Westerlands host, had fallen. In his stead, command passed to Ser Roger Reyne, the Red Lion of Castamere, a decision made before Ser Jason's death and confirmed afterward.
Tywin Lannister and Kevan Lannister did not object. By age and experience, they were not yet ready to command such a host. Their father, Lord Tytos Lannister, lacked the iron will needed for war.
Yet once invested with authority, Ser Roger Reyne grew overbearing.
He issued orders without consultation, dismissed Tywin and Kevan as boys, and treated the Lannister banners as though they answered to him alone. Some whispered that Ser Roger dreamed of more than command—that he dreamed of dominance over the Westerlands themselves.
Tywin noticed everything.
He said little.
Kevan, serving as Ser Roger's cupbearer, followed his brother's quiet instructions: watch, remember, endure. The lion could afford patience—for now.
Elsewhere on Bloodstone, Lord Hoster Tully nearly met his end.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his red hair bright even beneath helm and grime, Lord Hoster was impossible to miss. During a pursuit, the Golden Company feigned retreat, drawing him away from his men and toward a low, barren rise of stone.
Caught up in the moment, Lord Hoster pressed forward.
Too far.
By the time he realized the trap, his squires were nowhere in sight.
Golden Company soldiers emerged from cover, spears leveled, faces hard and merciless. Their encirclement closed like a noose. Lord Hoster raised his longsword, but though brave, he was no master of the blade—certainly not the equal of his younger brother, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.
Steel rang. Lord Hoster fought grimly, driving one man back, then another, but the enemy pressed in, wave after wave. His breath grew ragged. His arms burned.
Is this where my road ends? he wondered.
Then he heard horses.
From one side came Ser Brynden Tully, cutting through the melee with fierce precision, his blade flashing like a darting fish beneath the water's surface.
From the other came a knight in plain, well-worn armor, no bright sigils, no gilded helm. He raised a longbow and loosed—
Thrum.
Thrum.
Two Golden Company soldiers fell before they could turn.
The stranger cast aside his bow, drew steel, and charged.
Together, the three fought back-to-back. With Brynden's skill, the stranger's deadly accuracy, and Lord Hoster's sheer determination, the encirclement broke. Moments later, Tully squires arrived, raising the banner of House Tully, the silver trout leaping proudly against red and blue.
The surviving sellswords fled.
Lord Hoster breathed deeply, alive.
He turned to the unknown knight.
"You saved my life," he said. "Tell me your name."
The young knight flushed, suddenly awkward beneath the Lord's gaze.
"Baelish," he said softly. "Of the Fingers, my lord. It is… not a great place."
His armor was plain, his purse light, his origins unmistakable. The Fingers were harsh and poor—rocky headlands, thin soil, cold winds. A land that offered little to ambitious sons.
"But you are a knight," Lord Hoster said evenly. "And a brave one."
Baelish bowed, clearly overwhelmed.
"This is no small thing," Lord Hoster continued. "You have earned House Tully's gratitude."
Nearby, Ser Brynden Tully sheathed his sword, lips pressed thin.
And yet, he thought sourly, it seems my brother never forgave me for refusing his marriage plans.
Above them, the wind tugged at banners and cloaks alike.
And somewhere, unnoticed by all, a very small stone had begun to roll—
one that would, in time, become an avalanche.
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