章 499: Chapter 500: The Green Sight

"Lord Robert is resting," said Maester Colemon respectfully.

This maester, who had served House Arryn for over a decade, was thin and frail. His sparse hair clung to his scalp, and the heavy chain of his office hung around his long, slender neck, making one worry it might snap under the weight.

"But His Majesty wishes to see him," said the knight. "Wake the young lord."

Maester Colemon hesitated, then replied, "The boy's health is frail. He may not take the news of his mother's death well."

"He will have to know eventually," the knight retorted.

"But he's only eight…"

"He is the Lord of the Eyrie, the ruler of the Vale."

With a heavy sigh, Maester Colemon turned and pulled on the iron ring to open the door.

The room was pitch black. From the shadows came the sound of soft sniffling.

"Mother?"

"It's Maester Colemon, my lord."

"Colemon, do you have sweetmilk? I want some."

"My lord, you just had some… sweetmilk."

"But I still feel awful. Just one more cup."

"No, my lord. Sweetmilk is not something you can have too much of. Now, come along and dress. King Caesar wishes to see you."

"No! I want sweetmilk!" Lord Robert shrieked.

Colemon felt his way to the window and pulled the curtains apart. Pale yellow light from the setting sun filtered through the frosty, diamond-shaped panes of glass.

"No! Don't open the window!" Robert screeched louder, clutching his head. "The sunlight hurts my eyes! My head hurts!"

Turning back, Maester Colemon regarded the young Lord of the Eyrie with a pained expression.

The boy lay curled under a wool blanket, naked from the waist up. His skin was ghostly pale, his hair unusually long for a boy, and his arms and legs were painfully thin. His chest was sunken, his belly flat and tight, and his red-rimmed eyes were perpetually wet and sticky.

"Very well, sweetmilk," Colemon said with resignation. "If you get up and dress properly, I'll prepare some for you."

"Really?" Robert wiped his runny nose on his wrist. "I want two cups!"

"Two cups," Colemon relented. The maester knew he had no choice. It wouldn't do for the young lord to have a fit in front of the king.

"You're not bleeding from the nose, are you?" Colemon asked, peering at him.

"No, just itchy," Robert muttered.

Satisfied for now, Colemon clapped his hands to summon the maids. While they busied themselves dressing the young lord and tidying the room, Colemon prepared two cups of "sweetmilk" for Robert to drink. Only after downing the concoction did the boy settle enough to stop complaining about his headache.

"Where's my mother?" Robert finally asked.

Colemon hesitated, unsure how to respond. He pitied the boy—weak of body, troubled by fits, and now orphaned. Just as he lost his father, he now faced the loss of his mother.

"You'll find out in the hall," Colemon said, taking Robert's hand to lead him out of the room.

Outside, the cold wind howled, carrying the mournful sighs of the gods.

Snow piled high in the courtyard, and icicles dangled like glittering crystals from the castle's spires. Robert, pale-faced and red-eyed, shivered but managed to keep his composure for now. Colemon prayed the boy wouldn't have a fit during his audience with the king.

In the hall, the warmth of the roaring hearth eased Robert's trembling. His eyes scanned the room, searching for his mother, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He managed to maintain his manners, stepping forward to bow before the king seated on the dais.

"Your Majesty, King Caesar, welcome to the Eyrie."

"Robert," Samwell said, looking down at the frail boy clad in fine clothes but teetering like a candle in the wind. "I have news for you."

"Please, Your Majesty, speak."

"I have discovered the true culprits behind your father's death, Jon Arryn, and they have been brought to justice."

"The culprits behind my father's death?" Robert blinked, confused. "Wasn't it the Red Viper?"

"No. The Red Viper was a scapegoat. The true culprits were 'Littlefinger,' Petyr Baelish, and your mother. Together, they conspired to poison your father. Just earlier, your mother confessed to the crime in this very hall. All the knights present can bear witness."

Robert's mouth fell open, as if he were hearing a tale from a minstrel's fable. When he finally understood, his reaction was swift and violent.

"No! No! It's not true! You're lying! I want my mother! Give me back my mother! Give me back—"

Before he could finish, Robert collapsed to the ground. His limbs and torso arched grotesquely, and his body convulsed violently.

Colemon rushed forward, pinning the boy down and stuffing a handkerchief into his mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue.

The knights of House Arryn watched in uneasy silence. None were surprised by the boy's frailty—it was common knowledge. But now they cast glances at the king, wondering if he had deliberately provoked Robert into having a fit to make a point.

After a tense few moments, Robert's spasms subsided. His eyes were glazed, and his body still twitched occasionally, but he was calm enough to be carried away by the maids.

"Take him to rest," Samwell ordered.

As Robert was carried out, one knight stepped forward.

"Your Majesty, given Lord Robert's frail condition, I fear he is unfit to serve as the Lord of the Eyrie. For the stability of the Vale, I propose that you strip him of his title and appoint a more capable successor."

Samwell's eyes turned cold as they fixed on the knight.

"And who do you propose as a suitable successor?"

"According to the line of succession, it should be Ser Harrold Hardyng."

Though it was unusual for a knight of House Hardyng to inherit the Eyrie, the convoluted lineage made it technically valid.

Jon Arryn, the former Lord of the Eyrie, was married three times. His first two wives bore him no children, so his nephew, Elbert Arryn, was considered the heir to the Eyrie—until the Mad King Aerys had him beheaded.

During Robert's Rebellion, another potential heir, a cousin of Jon's, died in battle. To preserve the Vale's noble lineage, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun married his youngest daughter, Lysa Tully, to Jon Arryn. After several miscarriages and stillbirths, Lysa finally gave birth to a frail son, Robert Arryn, securing an heir for the Eyrie.

If Robert were stripped of his title due to his fragile health, the next in line would be someone from the family's cadet branches. Jon Arryn's sister married into House Waynwood, producing eight children—seven daughters and a single son. However, the son died tragically at the age of three when a horse kicked him in the head.

Among the daughters, two succumbed to smallpox, and the others faced various misfortunes. Some were left scarred by illness and resigned to a life of celibacy in a sept, while others were exiled for scandals or rendered childless. Only the youngest daughter married into House Hardyng, a lesser family sworn to the Waynwoods, and gave birth to Harrold Hardyng.

Despite his Hardyng name, Harrold, known as "Harry the Heir," was the next closest male relative to Jon Arryn through the female line. When Tywin Lannister ruled in King's Landing, he had tried to consolidate power in the Vale by appointing Lady Anya Waynwood as Warden of the Vale, hoping to leverage her influence to advance Harrold's claim.

But when Samwell Caesar ascended the throne, he stripped Lady Waynwood of the position and gave the title of Warden of the Vale to Lord Yohn Royce. This shift was a clear signal of where the King's favor lay.

The knight who had suggested Harrold Hardyng inherit the Eyrie failed to grasp the political misstep he had just made.

"Has Robert Arryn committed some great crime that warrants stripping him of his title?" Samwell's cold voice sliced through the hall.

"N-no, Your Majesty," the knight stammered. "I only worry that, should anything happen to Lord Robert…"

"Then we will discuss the matter when the Stranger knocks on his door," Samwell interrupted sharply.

The room fell silent. The gathered knights lowered their heads, fully grasping the king's intent.

Samwell continued, "I have already named Lord Yohn Royce as Warden of the Vale. Until Robert comes of age, the Vale's governance will remain in his hands. Maester Colemon, send a raven to Runestone and inform Lord Royce to return to the Eyrie immediately."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Samwell turned to Colemon. "How have you been treating Robert's seizures?"

"I have been giving him milk of the poppy to calm him and occasionally adding sweetmilk, as Lord Petyr Baelish advised. It soothes his episodes," Colemon replied. "Of course, I am mindful of the dangers and only use small doses."

Samwell's expression hardened.

"And you think Baelish, who poisoned Jon Arryn, would genuinely care for Robert's health?"

Colemon froze, his face draining of color.

"No more sweetmilk or bloodletting," Samwell ordered. "Milk of the poppy may be used sparingly, but only under strict control. Seizures are rarely fatal; Robert merely needs proper care during an episode to ensure he doesn't harm himself."

But... Your Majesty. What if the Duke insists that I give him the SweetMilk? He can't live without it now..."

"This is exactly what Littlefinger wants." Samwell said, "You must help Robert Arryn get rid of these harmful things, otherwise he will definitely not live long."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Colemon replied, a mix of relief and fear in his voice.

Every time the Duke drank that "sweet milk", the maester was terrified.

Moreover, he also realized that compared to Harold Hardyn, who had the support of House Waynwood, the king was obviously more willing to let Robert Arryn continue to serve as the Duke of the Eyrie.

Of course, this duke is just a puppet, and the one who truly holds power in the valley is actually Lord Royce.

He is the man the king truly trusts.

The maester had always felt uneasy about administering sweetmilk, knowing it was addictive and toxic in large doses. But Baelish's manipulation and Robert's dependency had left him with little choice. Now, with the king's decree, he finally had a reason to stop.

The knights watched silently as Samwell dismissed them one by one.

When the hall was empty, only Bran Stark lingered behind. He looked up at Samwell and asked,

"Your Majesty, how did you know Lady Lysa was the one who poisoned Jon Arryn?"

Samwell smiled faintly. Instead of answering directly, he countered with a question:

"Can't you, with your green sight, see such things in the river of time?"

"You overestimate me," Bran admitted. "I cannot freely travel through the currents of time. What I see are fragmented visions—snippets of the past and future, not the whole picture."

"Green sight?"

"The children of the forest call it that."

Samwell regarded him thoughtfully. After a moment, he asked,

"Have your dreams ever taken you to Winterfell's crypts?"

Bran shook his head.

"No. I prefer to climb upward, not burrow into the earth."

Samwell's smile hinted at disbelief but lacked confrontation. He shifted the topic:

"The dragon egg stolen from King's Landing—have your dreams shown you anything about it?"

Bran studied the King for a moment.

"Is this why you insisted on bringing me to King's Landing?"

"One of the reasons," Samwell replied.

Bran's eyes began to glow faintly green, his body growing still as he delved into his visions.

Samwell's own pupils contracted, his mind probing the air like invisible tendrils, searching for any disturbances in the unseen realm.

After a few moments, Bran's eyes returned to normal.

"Your Grace, in my dream, I saw a young man stealing the egg."

Samwell leaned forward. "Describe him."

Bran recounted the figure from his vision, though he added cautiously,

"Green dreams are not always clear. They are often clouded by illusions or traps. Take this as a lead, not a certainty."

Samwell nodded thoughtfully. Bran's description matched Bruuce Antaryon, the Braavosi sea lord's son and the same man suspected of taking the egg.

Yet the situation was not so straightforward. Samwell had long harbored doubts about Bran—or rather, the Three-Eyed Raven who seemed to guide him. This vision could just as easily be a distraction or manipulation.

"I'll keep it in mind," Samwell said.

Bran hesitated, then asked, "Will you confront him directly?"

"Perhaps," Samwell replied enigmatically. "Now go and rest. We leave early tomorrow for King's Landing. With good weather, we should arrive before nightfall."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Bran said, bowing. He signaled for Hodor to carry him out of the hall.

Samwell watched them leave, his expression unreadable. When their silhouettes disappeared, his eyes began to glow faintly emerald green, mirroring the light Bran had just displayed.

(End of Chapter)