his guardsmen and spoke a command, and the singer was fetched up from the dungeons. The gaoler Mord came with him, a monstrous man with small black eyes and a lopsided, scarred face. One ear and part of his cheek had been cleaved off in some battle, but twenty stone of pallid white flesh remained. His clothes fit poorly and had a rank, ripe smell.
Marillion by contrast looked almost elegant. Someone had bathed him and dressed him in a pair of sky-blue breeches and a loose-fitting white tunic with puffed sleeves, belted with a silvery sash that had been a gift from Lady Lysa. White silk gloves covered his hands, while a white silk bandage spared the lords the sight of his eyes.
Mord stood behind him with a lash. When the gaoler prodded him in the ribs, the singer went to one knee. “Good lords, I beg your forgiveness.”
Lord Nestor scowled. “You confess your crime?”
“If I had eyes I should weep.” The singer’s voice, so strong and sure by night, was cracked and whispery now. “I loved her so, I could not bear to see her in another’s arms, to know she shared his bed. I meant no harm to my sweet lady, I swear it. I barred the door so no one could disturb us whilst I declared my passion, but Lady Lysa was so cold … when she told that she was carrying Lord Petyr’s child, a … a madness seized me …”
Sansa stared at his hands while he spoke. Fat Maddy claimed that Mord had taken off three of his fingers, both pinkies and a ring finger. His little fingers did appear somewhat stiffer than the others, but with those gloves it was hard to be certain. It might have been no more than a story. How would Maddy know?
“Lord Petyr has been kind enough to let me keep my harp,” the blind singer said. “My harp and … my tongue … so I may sing my songs. Lady Lysa dearly loved my singing …”
“Take this creature away, or I’m like to kill him myself,” Lord Nestor growled. “It sickens me to look at him.”
“Mord, take him back to his sky cell,” said Petyr.
“Yes, m’lord.” Mord grabbed Marillion roughly by the collar. “No more mouth.” When he spoke, Sansa saw to her astonishment that the gaoler’s teeth were made of gold. They watched as he half dragged half shoved the singer toward the doors.
“The man must die,” Ser Marywn Belmore declared when they were gone. “He should have followed Lady Lysa out the Moon Door.”
“Without his tongue,” Ser Albar Royce added. “Without that lying, mocking tongue.”
“I have been too gentle with him, I know,” Petyr Baelish said in an apologetic tone. “If truth be told, I pity him. He killed for love.”
“For love or hate,” said Belmore, “he must die.”
“Soon enough,” Lord Nestor said gruffly. “No man lingers long in the sky cells. The blue will call to him.”
“It may,” said Petyr Baelish, “but whether Marillion will answer, only he can say.” He gestured, and his guardsmen opened the doors at the far end of the hall. “Sers, I know you must be weary after your ascent. Rooms have been prepared for all of you to spend the night, and food and wine await you in the Lower Hall. Oswell, show them the way, and see that they have all they need.” He turned to Nestor Royce. “My lord, will you join me in the solar for a cup of wine? Alayne, sweetling, come pour for us.”
A low fire burned in the solar, where a flagon of wine awaited them. Arbor gold. Sansa filled Lord Nestor’s cup whilst Petyr prodded at the logs with an iron poker.
Lord Nestor seated himself beside the fire. “This will not be the end of it,” he said to Petyr, as if Sansa were not there. “My cousin means to question the singer himself.”
“Bronze Yohn mistrusts me.” Petyr pushed a log aside.
“He means to come in force. Symond Templeton will join him, do not doubt it. And Lady Waynwood too, I fear.”
“And Lord Belmore, Young Lord Hunter, Horton Redfort. They will bring Strong Sam Stone, the Tolletts, the Shetts, the Coldwaters, some Corbrays.”
“You are well-informed. Which Corbrays? Not Lord Lyonel?”
“No, his brother. Ser Lyn mislikes me, for some reason.”
“Lyn Corbray is a dangerous man,” Lord Nestor said doggedly. “What do you intend to do?”
“What can I do but make them welcome if they come?” Petyr gave the flames another stir and set the poker down.
“My cousin means to remove you as Lord Protector.”
“If so, I cannot stop him. I keep a garrison of twenty men. Lord Royce and his friends can raise twenty thousand.” Petyr went to the oaken chest that sat beneath the window. “Bronze Yohn will do what he will do,” he said, kneeling. He opened the chest, drew out a roll of parchment, and brought it to Lord Nestor. “My lord. This is a token of the love my lady bore you.”
Sansa watched Royce unroll the parchment. “This … this is unexpected, my lord.” She was startled to see tears in his eyes.
“Unexpected, but not undeserved. My lady valued you above all her other bannermen. You were her rock, she told me.”
“Her rock.” Lord Nestor reddened. “She said that?”
“Often. And this”—Petyr gestured at the parchment—“is the proof of it.”
“That … that is good to know. Jon Arryn valued my service, I know, but Lady Lysa … she scorned me when I came to court her, and I feared …” Lord Nestor furrowed his brow. “It bears the Arryn seal, I see, but the signature …”
“Lysa was murdered before the document could be presented for her signature, so I signed as Lord Protector. I knew that would have been her wish.”
“I see.” Lord Nestor rolled the parchment. “You are … dutiful, my lord. Aye, and not without courage. Some will call this grant unseemly, and fault you for making it. The Keeper’s post has never been hereditary. The Arryns raised the Gates, in the days when they still wore the Falcon Crown and ruled the Vale as kings. The Eyrie was their summer seat, but when the snows began to fall the court would make its descent. Some would say the Gates were as royal as the Eyrie.”
“There has been no king in the Vale for three hundred years,” Petyr Baelish pointed out.
“The dragons came,” Lord Nestor agreed. “But even after, the Gates remained an Arryn castle. Jon Arryn himself was Keeper of the Gates whilst his father lived. After his ascent, he named his brother Ronnel to the honor, and later his cousin Denys.”
“Lord Robert has no brothers, and only distant cousins.”
“True.” Lord Nestor clutched the parchment tightly. “I will not say I had not hoped for this. Whilst Lord Jon ruled the realm as Hand, it fell to me to rule the Vale for him. I did all that he required of me and asked nothing for myself. But by the gods, I earned this!”
“You did,” said Petyr, “and Lord Robert sleeps more easily knowing that you are always there, a staunch friend at the foot of his mountain.” He raised a cup. “So … a toast, my lord. To House Royce, Keepers of the Gates of the Moon … now and
