"Petyr, my dear, are we really going to send our brave knights to die for the Lannisters?"
Lysa Tully reclined against the silk pillows of her massive bed, her round, pink face still flushed from passion. She held her husband tightly, nestling against Petyr Baelish's chest as if she were a girl of ten and seven again. Her words were framed as a question, but the tone was the playful, petulant whine of a woman who knew she was being indulged.
"How can you say we're helping the Lannisters, my love?" Petyr spoke softly, his voice a melodic purr. His right hand gently stroked his wife's waist-length reddish-brown hair, occasionally tracing the fleshy curve of her shoulder. "The Warden of the Vale is merely answering the call of the Iron Throne. To crush a rebel like Stannis is the duty of every loyal subject. Our little lord is simply fulfilling his destiny."
"I suppose... but the lords won't like it," Lysa murmured, her fingers tracing the line of Petyr's abdomen. "The Waynwood widow, Horton Redfort, the Hunters... they all whisper. And Jon Royce... his youngest son was murdered by Loras Tyrell. Getting him to bleed for Highgarden will be like pulling teeth from a dragon."
Petyr suddenly rolled over, pinning his plump wife beneath him with a sudden, playful intensity. "But my brilliant wife will find a way to make them see reason, won't she?"
Lysa giggled, the sound echoing in the cold stone chamber. "Of course. As long as our good Robin gives the order, no house can refuse the Lord of the Eyrie. Can they, Petyr?"
"Of course not," Petyr whispered, leaning in to kiss her.
Internally, Littlefinger felt a flicker of distaste. Lysa had grown corpulent, her skin sagging with the weight of her anxieties and her obsession. But she was his key. He had no intention of returning to King's Landing while Cersei was in a murderous rage over Joffrey's death. Tywin Lannister didn't want Petyr's head; he wanted the ten thousand spears of the Vale to protect his grandson's throne. As long as the army marched, Petyr was safe.
The High Hall of Arryn was a forest of white marble pillars and flickering torches.
Lysa Tully sat upon the high throne of the Winged Knight, her expensive velvet gown embroidered with a pearl-encrusted falcon and crescent moon. In her arms, she held the young Duke, Robert Arryn. The boy was sickly and pale, his eyes darting restlessly as he clutched at his mother's bodice.
Petyr Baelish stood before the throne, holding the royal summons. He read the command of Tywin Lannister to the assembled lords with a practiced, commanding gravity.
"...commands the Warden of the Vale to raise an army and march to King's Landing to join the war against the rebel Stannis Baratheon."
As the final words echoed in the rafters, the hall erupted into a cacophony of whispers, a sound like the buzzing of flies over a carcass. Petyr sat back in his seat beside the throne, a thin, satisfied smile playing on his lips.
Finally, a tall figure stepped forward. Jon Royce, known as "Bronze Yohn," loomed over the assembly. He wore his ancestral bronze armor, etched with runes of the First Men that were said to turn aside steel.
"My Lady, Lord Robert," Royce began, his voice a booming bass that silenced the room. He glanced at Littlefinger with a look of undisguised loathing. "It would be madness to join this war now. The Reach is in chaos. Highgarden is reeling from Stannis's strike. King's Landing is a nest of unsettled minds and fresh graves. Tywin Lannister seeks only to use our sons as meat to vent his allies' fury. The Vale should not be a spear in a Lion's hand."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the lords.
"How can you say it is for the Lion?" Lysa interjected, stroking Robert's hair. "The Iron Throne issued the command. Our Robin's authority comes from that throne. Would you have us be oath-breakers?"
Morton Waynwood stepped forward next, representing his mother, Lady Anya. He bowed respectfully, but his eyes were hard. "My Lady, the Mountains of the Moon are crawling with wildlings. With winter coming, the tribes are bolder than ever. They eye our harvests with hungry eyes. We should be defending our own borders, not participating in a war devoid of honor."
Lords Hunter, Redfort, and Belmore all added their voices to the dissent. The prestige of the Iron Throne had never been lower, and the lords of the Vale saw no profit in a Lannister victory.
Lysa, however, was prepared. She leaned down and whispered into her son's ear. "My sweet Robin, do you remember the story? Stannis is the bad man who wants to take your toys. We should bring him here... and make him fly."
Robert Arryn's face flushed with an unnatural, feverish red. He stood up in his mother's lap and shrieked at the lords. "I want him to fly! Bring Stannis to me! I want to watch him fly from the Moon Door!"
The hall went silent. The shrieking command of their liege lord was a wall they could not climb.
Petyr Baelish stood up, his voice smooth as silk. "My Lords, you have heard the Lord. For thousands of years, your houses have followed the Falcon. Will you defy him today?"
"We will not defy the Lord," Bronze Yohn replied, his grey eyes fixed on Petyr. "But the Ruby Ford is held by the Riverlands. Eddard Karstark, the Regent of the Trident, will never allow us to pass to help the Lannisters. Unless you intend to go to war with your own niece, My Lady?"
Lysa smiled faintly. "I would never fight my own blood. My Petyr has already found a path."
Petyr cleared his throat, enjoying the sudden focus of the room. "Once your armies are gathered, you will proceed to Gulltown. The Redwyne Fleet is already en route. They will transport the host along the Crab Claw to the vicinity of the Dreadfort. After assembling there, the army will proceed along the coastline toward King's Landing. Lord Tywin has already arranged the logistics."
"Absurd!" Royce bellowed. "An isolated force with no retreat and total dependence on Lannister supplies? This is preposterous!"
"Are you questioning Lord Tywin's sincerity, Lord Royce?" Petyr asked condescendingly. "Or perhaps the Lord Arryn's judgment?"
"I don't care! Make him fly!" Robert Arryn screamed, gesticulating wildly.
The meeting was over. The lords of the Vale were dismissed to a feast they had no appetite for.
Jon Royce did not attend. He walked directly to the gates, followed by a broad-shouldered Northerner with a thick brown beard. Cregan Karstark, a cousin of the "Winter Wizard," had been at Runestone for weeks, negotiating a marriage between his sister Alys and the Royce heir, Andar.
"Lord Jon, what makes you so grim?" Cregan asked.
Royce looked at the Karstark beside him, a plan forming in his mind. He recounted the details of the meeting, emphasizing the involvement of the Redwyne Fleet and the sea-route to the North.
"The peace of the Vale is ending, Cregan," Royce said solemnly. "And after much thought... I believe your cousin Eddard's proposal is sound. Alys Karstark will make a fine wife for my son. Go back to White Harbor. Tell your father the marriage is agreed. And give my regards to the Regent of the Trident."
Cregan understood the weight of the moment. Eddard Karstark's influence had now reached the mountains of the Vale. He offered a respectful salute and rode swiftly for Gulltown. Two days later, he was on a ship for the North.
That afternoon, a flock of ravens took flight from White Harbor, their wings beating a path toward Harrenhal with news that would change the map of the war once again.
[System Notification: Narrative Pivot: The Vale Mobilization.]
[Strategic Update: Redwyne Fleet engaged in Troop Transport.]
[Alliance Confirmed: House Karstark & House Royce (Marriage Tie).]
[Soul Power Gained (Diplomatic Expansion): 200 SP.]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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