"Esteemed Lord Grafton," Petyr Baelish wrote, his quill scratching rhythmically against the expensive parchment. He paused to rub his temples, a frown creasing his sharp features. "Winter is upon us, a time when the Vale must stand as one to weather the frost. Internal strife is a luxury we cannot afford; it only invites the scavengers from the North and the capital to look down upon our mountain passes."
He continued, his words weaving a tapestry of veiled threats and honeyed promises. "When the true blizzards arrive, our soldiers will freeze in their boots for the sake of a baseless accusation. Stannis Baratheon eyes our fertile valleys with a hunger that will not be sated until every Vale lord kneels. He seeks to turn vassal against liege, brother against brother. Do not let Jon Royce lead Gulltown's strength to be spent against the stones of the Moon Gate."
Petyr added a final, jagged postscript: "Gyles often speaks your name with profound longing. He is a sensible child, and I should hate for his education to be interrupted by the chaos of war."
Gyles was the youngest son of Lord Grafton, currently a "guest" in the Moon Gate, a hostage that ensured the neutrality of the Vale's largest port. Petyr set down the pen, blowing gently on the ink. He snapped his fingers, summoning the boy to deliver the letter to the rookery.
This was a routine Petyr had mastered over the years. Since learning of the Lannisters' catastrophic defeat, he understood that the War of the Five Kings was entering its final, stabilizing phase. The Vale could no longer remain an island of neutrality. He had been calculating whether to offer his neck to Stannis or his sword to the Starks when the board was flipped.
Jon Royce had arrived not with a proposal, but with a royal decree of subjugation and an accusation of regicide. The "Winter Wizard" had provided the evidence: Petyr and Lysa Tully were the architects of Jon Arryn's death. If not for his absolute control over the boy-lord Robert Arryn, Petyr's head would already be gracing a pike on the Bloody Gate.
The siege had lasted months, a five-to-one stalemate. Petyr wasn't worried; the granaries of the Moon Gate and the Eyrie were filled to the rafters. He believed the army outside would break before his resolve did. He picked up a fresh sheet of parchment, intending to write to Lyonel Corbray of Heart's Home. The Corbrays were proud but impoverished; a marriage to a wealthy Gulltown merchant's daughter would be a lure Lyonel couldn't ignore.
"KILL!" "A THOUSAND DRAGONS TO THE FIRST MAN ON THE WALL!"
A deafening, earth-shaking roar of battle erupted from the courtyard. Petyr's hand jolted, a massive blue blot of ink ruining the letter. He crumpled the parchment and hurled it against the wall, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs.
The siege? Now? At midnight?
He threw on his cloak and motioned for his blue-robed guards. "To the High Tower! We need the boy on the battlements!"
He intended to play his usual card: show the lords their liege lord in danger, and they would retreat in shame. But as he pushed open Robert's bedroom door, the words died in his throat.
The room was a wreck. Jewelry was scattered, a heavy chair was overturned, and the velvet quilts were stripped from the bed. Petyr lunged forward, ripping the covers aside.
Empty.
"Search the room!" Baelish shrieked, his face turning a sickly ashen grey. "Dig through the floorboards! Find him!"
The guards stood frozen. "My Lord... we were at the door the entire night. No one entered. No one left."
"Useless! Idiots!" Petyr smashed a porcelain vase against the hearth. "A boy does not simply vanish from a locked tower! Check his mother's chambers! Now!"
He rushed through the corridors, his mind a frantic hive of panic. He ran headlong into Lysa Tully, who was dressed in a pink silk gown, her face pale with motherly concern.
"Petyr, my love! What is that noise? Did the shouting wake my sweet Robin?"
Petyr felt as if an icy hand had gripped his heart and squeezed. She doesn't have him.
The bargain was gone. The shield was shattered. At that moment, he saw the face of Eddard Stark in his mind, the cold, grey eyes of the man he had betrayed. The blade that had taken the Stark's head now seemed to be resting against his own neck.
"Reinforce the walls!" Petyr roared to his guards, his voice cracking with desperation. "Every man who can hold a spear to the battlements! Drive them back!"
Eddard Karstark was already on the wall.
The first man up had been Rodrick Farman, a champion of the Harrenhal tourney who had scaled the granite blocks amidst a hail of arrows. But the momentum of the breach was entirely Eddard's doing. He stood amidst the carnage of the ramparts, his silver plate armor reflecting the flickering torchlight.
"Swish!"
Eddard swung Heartbreaker in a tight arc, the Valyrian-influenced steel shearing through the gorget of an Arryn guard. Blood spurted in a hot, crimson mist, dyeing the man's sky-blue cloak a deep, wet purple.
A spearman lunged from the shadows. Eddard didn't even blink; he severed the ash-wood shaft with a single backhand and thrust his blade through the man's leather jerkin and into his heart.
Two more defenders closed in, one with a kite shield, the other with a two-handed axe. Eddard didn't give them time to coordinate. He delivered a brutal, magically-enhanced kick to the shield-bearer's chest, sending the man flying backward with enough force to knock over three other soldiers.
The axe-wielder hesitated, his eyes wide with terror. Eddard didn't hesitate. A cold flash of steel took the man's hands at the wrists. The heavy axe clattered to the stones, followed by the wet thuds of severed limbs.
A new figure emerged from the smoke. He was thin, moving with the lethal grace of a dancing master. He wore fine chainmail and a surcoat embroidered with three black ravens clutching red hearts. In his hand was a blade that hummed with a different kind of song.
Lyn Corbray. And his ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Lady Forlorn.
Corbray's eyes lit up when he saw Eddard's golden circlet-helm. He didn't speak; he simply charged, his blade a blur of silver illusions in the moonlight. He was a legendary duelist, a man who had killed a Prince of Dorne on the Trident.
Eddard tilted his head and smiled. He had no interest in a fair duel with a master swordsman.
He waved his left hand. Three arrows of shimmering, prismatic light manifested in the air.
Lyn Corbray's pupils contracted. He raised Lady Forlorn to parry, his reflexes inhumanly fast. He shattered the first magical bolt with a ringing clang, but the other two arced through the air like living things. They bypassed his guard, piercing through his surcoat, his fine mail, and his chest. They erupted out of his back in a spray of bone and organs.
Eddard watched as the legendary duelist's eyes went dull. He stepped over the twitching corpse, picked up Lady Forlorn from the blood-slicked stones, and tossed the priceless relic to Karas Snow.
"It's yours, Karas. A gift for a loyal shadow."
Eddard continued toward the stairs of the Crescent Tower. The battle was already fading; without their Lord to defend, the guards were throwing down their spears.
The iron-studded door of the study was smashed open by a battering ram. Karstark soldiers poured in, dragging a disheveled Petyr Baelish from behind his desk. He was thrown onto the cold floor before a row of scowling Vale lords.
Eddard sat on a high-backed stone chair, watching the "Master of Coin" with an amused detachment.
"Lord Petyr," Eddard said. "I've heard your name in many whispers. It's a pleasure to finally see the face behind the lies."
"Eddard Karstark?" Petyr stood, brushing the dust from his fine velvet coat. He tried to reclaim his smirk, though his voice trembled. "I am the husband of Lysa Tully. I am the Defender of the Vale by her decree. You are an intruder in a sovereign hall. No one would dare execute me here."
"We won't kill you here, Petyr," Eddard smiled, leaning forward. "There is a much larger stage waiting for you at Harrenhal. A trial."
"Varys has provided the records of the apothecary who helped you poison Jon Arryn," Eddard continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tyrion Lannister has testified to the lie you told about the catspaw's dagger. And Lady Catelyn... well, she is very eager to explain how you used her grief to start a war."
"Fabrications!" Petyr spat. "You have no proof that holds up in a court of lords!"
"Don't I?" Eddard chuckled. "Tell me, Petyr... for the sake of her own life, and the life of her precious son, do you think Lysa Tully will choose your bed or her head? She's already talking to the Maesters in the next room."
Petyr's eyes widened. For the first time in his life, the man who knew everything realized he had nothing left to say.
[System Notification: Siege of Moon Gate: Complete.]
[Target Captured: Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger).]
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