Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 376: Green Men

The group decided to transport the severely injured and crippled Mountain to Dragonstone. The Red Viper, however, had little time to indulge in his plans for crafting a trophy from the Mountain's skin. Instead, he requested a ship to take him to the Stormlands, where he intended to assist Doran in attacking Storm's End. Before leaving, he sent word to Doran, sharing the good news that the Mountain had been captured.

"Bring the Kingslayer along as well. When we attack Storm's End, he might help persuade them to surrender," Viserys suggested.

"Don’t worry, I have at least a dozen ways to help you take Storm's End," the Red Viper replied with a confident smirk.

"No poison in the water, and no corpses thrown into the city," Viserys warned.

"Then I have... about a dozen fewer ways," the Viper said with a chuckle.

"No threats against their families either."

The Red Viper sighed. "Fine. Better let Doran decide, then."

Viserys wanted to approach the Stormlands' nobles carefully. Many had sided with the royal family during Robert’s Rebellion, and though Storm's End had produced the leader of the rebellion, a significant portion of its nobility remained loyal to the crown. Viserys saw an opportunity to mend those relationships.

"Make sure you offer them terms," Viserys instructed the Red Viper. "If they lay down their weapons, they can keep their titles. However, they must surrender either a third of their fiefs or pay a substantial ransom as punishment. If they agree, we’ll let the past stay in the past."

The partial confiscation of lands was meant to reassure Viserys' loyal nobles. Though the Stormlands lords had rebelled with Robert, Viserys couldn’t feel at ease without imposing some form of penalty. He believed this moderate punishment would be accepted, especially given that it was lenient by most standards.

"I doubt it will take long for us to reclaim the Stormlands," Viserys mused. The lands taken from the Baratheons and rebellious nobles would account for more than half of the Stormlands. Once that was done, Viserys planned to reorganize the territory. Instead of returning control to the nobles, he intended to install Maesters appointed by the Citadel to manage the territories, creating a more direct form of governance.

In addition to his plans for the Stormlands, Viserys quietly sent emissaries to the Vale, intending to test the waters with Littlefinger.

...

The Vale.
The Eyrie.

Lysa's moans echoed through the stone halls of the Eyrie, loud enough to reach every corner. Littlefinger—Petyr Baelish to most, though known as "My Sweet Petyr" to Lysa in her more fevered moments—felt his patience wearing thin. He winced inwardly at the sound, his ears unable to bear it any longer. Yet, he endured. For now, Lysa Arryn held the reins of power in the Vale, and she was the key to his own ascent.

“My love, I want you! I want you! I’m going to die!” Lysa’s voice cracked as she cried out, her tone wild and desperate.

Littlefinger grimaced, wishing he could cover his face, block it all out, and imagine she was someone else. Catelyn, he thought. The sisters shared the same auburn hair, though in every other way, they were worlds apart. But in the dim light, if he didn’t look too closely...

Ten minutes later, he completed yet another conquest, but before he could catch his breath, Lysa's playful hands wandered once more. Sensing where things were heading, he quickly grasped her hand. "Surrender, my love, surrender," he murmured, forcing a smile.

Lysa giggled and rested her head on his chest, her features softened in the afterglow. For a brief moment, she looked almost like Catelyn, and the thought stirred a flicker of something inside him.

“Lysa, I saw the raven’s letter. Viserys defeated the Kingslayer. I think Robert’s reign is nearing its end. There’s no need for us to fall with the Baratheons,” Littlefinger said, his voice as gentle as silk as he stroked her hair.

But his words triggered something in her. In an instant, her expression darkened. Her auburn hair clung to her damp forehead as her green eyes locked onto his, wild with suspicion. “Is that why you’re here? Is this what you truly want? What do you want from me, Petyr!?” Lysa's voice quivered with agitation, catching Littlefinger off guard.

“My love, no,” he started, attempting to calm her, but she silenced him with a sudden kiss.

“Silly man,” Lysa whispered, her anger melting away just as quickly as it had come. “Everything I have is yours. You just make the decisions.” She smiled, her fingers tracing the outline of his chest, but then her hand froze. Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“My love, where’s your heartbeat?”

Littlefinger’s muscles tensed. Without missing a beat, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him with a grin that masked his unease. “Heartbeat? What heartbeat? Let me show you how it feels now.”

Lysa’s shriek of delight echoed through the chamber once again...

...

Meanwhile, Robert Baratheon had little hope left. His forces were dwindling, and the only aid that could possibly come was from the Vale. Yet every raven and every scout sent to reach the Vale had vanished without a trace. His army in the Westerlands was pinned down by the forces of Highgarden, leaving Harrenhal defenseless with only fifty thousand scattered men, many of whom harbored secret plots to betray him at the crucial moment.

All Robert could do now was take those men and fight. According to the customs of the Seven Kingdoms, a commander should pray to the Seven Gods before battle. Yet, Robert no longer believed the Seven would offer him any guidance or solace.

Instead, he set his sights on the Gods Eye, a vast lake south of Harrenhal. This lake had witnessed the rise and fall of Harrenhal itself, had reflected the flames of Balerion the Black Dread, and had seen the death of the last great dragon, Vhagar. Taking his bastard son Gendry with him, Robert sailed toward the lake.

In the middle of Gods Eye Lake lies the Isle of Faces, a place shrouded in mystery and ancient power. It is said to be home to the "green men," mysterious figures who have watched over the island for centuries. They were witnesses to the legendary pact between the First Men and the Children of the Forest. During the Targaryen era, even a dragon rider—Addam Velaryon—once sought guidance here. Now, with no other options, Robert Baratheon found himself drawn to the Isle before the looming Great War.

The Isle of Faces got its name from the weirwood trees that populate it, one of the last groves south of the Neck. Each weirwood is carved with human faces, making the place eerie and sacred.

"Many Targaryen dragonknights died here," Robert said to Gendry as they boarded the small boat. "When the time comes, we’ll fight them here." To the Targaryens, Gods Eye was a place of ill omen, much like Summerhall. It felt fitting for Robert to fight his final battle here, as if this cursed ground might somehow strengthen his resolve.

Gendry, on the other hand, was clueless about the history of this place. Not long ago, he had been nothing more than a blacksmith’s apprentice. Now, he was rowing a boat across a haunted lake with his father—the king. It was a lot to take in.

“Your Grace,” Gendry said hesitantly, “I heard the master at the smithy say the dragons that died here fought each other. We don’t have any dragons.”

The bluntness of Gendry’s remark created an awkward silence. Robert, never one to let a moment pass unchallenged, raised his hand and gave Gendry a playful smack on the back of his head. But Gendry, in his usual clueless manner, just stared at him with wide, innocent eyes.

Robert sighed, unable to keep up the tough act. “Hmph! Row the boat.”

Neither of them had ever set foot on the Isle of Faces before. The lake itself, and Harrenhal nearby, were symbols of misfortune. Harrenhal had changed hands so many times that it had become synonymous with bad luck. If it weren’t for the strategic importance of the area, Robert wouldn’t have bothered with this forsaken place.

As they neared the shore, the weirwood trees with their carved faces loomed over them, the cold, expressionless eyes seeming to watch their every move. It made Robert feel uneasy, though he’d never admit it aloud.

“Damn weirwoods. Maybe Ned would like it here,” Robert muttered under his breath. It was the first time he’d mentioned his old friend in days, and a flicker of concern crossed his face. He wondered how Ned was faring in Bitterbridge. Was he safe? Was he winning battles? Robert couldn’t help but wonder if he should have listened to Ned’s advice from the start. If only he had acted sooner—driven the Targaryens off Dragonstone—perhaps he wouldn’t be in this mess.

A pang of guilt gnawed at him. He realized he might have been selfish in leaving Ned behind, expecting him to handle everything. He was Robert’s closest friend, but more and more, Robert had found himself emphasizing his status as king to justify his decisions.

“Hmph! I am his king,” Robert muttered again, louder this time, as if trying to convince himself.

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