Chapter 154 (Double Length Chapter)
Because the Eyrie stood on the eastern edge of Westeros, dawn always arrived there earlier than anywhere else.
While the other castles of the Vale still slumbered in the darkest hour before sunrise, the white fortress built atop the peaks of the Mountains of the Moon had already caught the first rays of morning light. The Eyrie Mountains of the Moon
Golden sunlight first illuminated the highest tower of the Moon Gate, then slowly spread downward, cloaking the entire castle in flowing brilliance, as though it were a palace where gods themselves resided.
Former Master of Coin, current Lord of Harrenhal, and now… husband to the Lady of the Eyrie—
Petyr Baelish stood upon the mountain balcony holding a goblet of golden wine from the Arbor.
Under the dawn light, the wine gleamed like molten gold dragons.
He gently swirled the crystal cup, watching the liquid cling briefly to the glass before taking a slow sip.
Sweetness touched his tongue first, followed by a faint bitterness.
Only after savoring it did he finally swallow.
His gaze drifted beyond the stone railing toward the sea of clouds below.
The clouds rolled endlessly beneath the mountain, changing color beneath the dawn like an enormous woven tapestry spread across the world.
Everything was proceeding almost exactly according to plan.
The thought curved his lips into a faint smile.
The Vale.
The most impregnable kingdom in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Mountains surrounded it on every side, and the Bloody Gate alone could halt an army of ten thousand. As long as those narrow passes held, no invading force could ever enter. Bloody Gate
And now…
He stood here not as a guest—
But as its future master.
Lysa Tully had proven even easier to control than he expected.
That foolish woman had adored him obsessively ever since their youth.
Twenty years had passed, yet the obsession had not faded.
If anything, time, miscarriages, and loneliness had fermented it into something pathological.
Remembering the wedding half a month ago, Petyr's eyes flickered slightly.
They had married on the Fingers, upon that poor, windswept little stretch of land where stones outnumbered soil.
The so-called "castle" had been little more than a reinforced tower.
Its walls peeled.
Its fireplaces smoked.
The bedchamber windows refused to shut properly, allowing the night wind to creep inside through every crack.
But Lysa had not cared.
"As long as I can finally become your wife, Petyr… I would marry you even in a straw hut."
She had clung to his arm tightly while saying it, her nails nearly digging into his flesh.
Her eyes, clouded by years of moon tea and miscarriages, burned with desperate devotion.
Originally, Petyr had wanted the wedding held at the Eyrie.
That would have suited his new station and demonstrated his authority to the lords of the Vale.
But Lysa's urgency changed his mind.
Sometimes, indulging a person's smallest wish earned far greater obedience later.
So he agreed.
The ceremony itself had been laughably simple.
Only a handful of Lysa's maids and guards attended, along with several old peasants from Petyr's tiny domain.
The peasants stood awkwardly inside the hall wearing faded roughspun clothing layered with patches.
The septon had been an old man missing half his teeth, spraying spit while reciting the marriage blessings through whistling gaps in his mouth.
But Lysa cried.
When Petyr slipped the cheap silver ring onto her finger—a trinket bought casually in some roadside village for less than a silver stag—Lysa wept like a child receiving her first gift.
She threw herself into his arms, tears soaking his tunic as she repeated over and over:
"I finally waited long enough, Petyr… I finally waited long enough…"
And their wedding night had been even worse.
Lysa was too eager.
Too desperate.
And painfully clumsy.
Age had made her body stiff and oversensitive.
Every touch provoked exaggerated reactions.
Afterward, she talked endlessly, reminiscing about their youth in Riverrun.
The next morning, they departed immediately for the Eyrie.
During the following half month, Petyr barely spent a full day inside the castle.
He traveled ceaselessly among the Vale's noble houses.
Runestone.
Heart's Home.
Even the distant Three Sisters along the Bite.
And everywhere he went, he displayed near-perfect political instinct.
To older, conservative lords, he showed measured respect, speaking reverently of Jon Arryn's legacy while promising to "help Lady Lysa preserve the Vale's traditions." Jon Arryn
To younger and more ambitious nobles, he spoke enthusiastically about the changing political landscape in King's Landing, hinting that following him could bring them glory and wealth beyond the isolation of the Vale. King's Landing
To indebted lords, he generously offered loans.
The results were impressive.
The Vale lords were isolated and stubborn.
In some ways, their cunning barely surpassed that of the northern barbarians.
Most remained wary of this suddenly arrived husband to their lady ruler, but at least outwardly they stayed polite.
Even the openly dissatisfied—such as Bronze Yohn Royce—had been temporarily suppressed beneath arguments about "Lady Lysa's wishes" and "the stability of the Vale." Yohn Royce
Just give me one more year.
Petyr stared proudly across the clouds while calculating silently.
One year would be enough to plant loyal agents everywhere.
Enough to buy informants.
Enough to uncover every noble family's secrets.
Enough to weave his own web throughout the Vale's power structure.
And then…
At the proper moment…
He would remove Lysa.
A madwoman losing her footing and falling through the Moon Door—
The Vale would believe such a story easily enough.
After all, everyone knew Lysa's mind was unstable.
And then, as her husband, Petyr Baelish would naturally become Regent of the Vale.
At least until little Robin Arryn came of age.
Though whether the boy survived long enough to reach adulthood…
Well.
That would depend entirely on Petyr's needs.
A flawless plan.
Almost perfect.
Almost.
Suddenly, the smile on Petyr's face faded slightly.
The only true variable now…
Was Sansa Stark.
He raised the goblet and took another sip, but the warmth of the wine could not erase the faint unease coiling in his chest.
Before leaving King's Landing, he had arranged for Dontos Hollard to smuggle Sansa away during the chaos of Joffrey's wedding feast.
The fool would bring her aboard a prepared cargo vessel and carry her out of the city.
The payment had been one thousand gold dragons and passage to Braavos for a new life. Braavos
The plan should have been flawless.
The wedding chaos provided perfect cover.
Tyrion would naturally become the prime suspect in Joffrey's poisoning.
Everyone's attention would focus on the dwarf.
Meanwhile, Sansa's disappearance would easily be interpreted as fleeing alongside her husband after murdering the king.
No one would defend her.
After all, she was the daughter of a traitor.
And too many people hated the Starks.
The smuggling ship should have rendezvoused with a Braavosi merchant vessel outside Blackwater Bay before secretly transporting Sansa to the Fingers.
There she would remain hidden until Petyr fully secured control over the Vale.
But—
No word ever came.
The ship never arrived at the rendezvous point.
No raven came from Dontos either.
Sansa Stark had simply vanished.
Gone from King's Landing—
Yet never arriving where she was meant to be.
Petyr's investigations yielded only conflicting rumors.
Some claimed a single-masted ship had been intercepted in Blackwater Bay.
But nobody agreed on who had intercepted it.
Some blamed the royal fleet.
Others claimed it was a noble privateer.
Some even spoke of pirates appearing out of nowhere.
Yet no clear answer followed.
No ransom demands.
No announcement.
No one claiming possession of the North's heir.
Which made no sense at all.
Sansa Stark was too valuable.
She was the lawful heir to Winterfell.
The key to controlling the North itself. Winterfell
Anyone who captured her would exploit that value immediately—
Through ransom.
Marriage.
Or political leverage.
Unless…
Unless the person who took her had plans far greater than his own.
Petyr frowned and drained the rest of his wine.
At that moment, the bedchamber door opened.
Lysa Tully entered.
Because Petyr once told her he liked blue on her—that it softened the color of her eyes—the lovestruck fool now wore almost nothing except pale blue silk gowns.
She carried a tray holding steaming porridge, toasted bread, and a small bowl of honey.
"I prepared breakfast for you, darling."
Her voice dripped with syrupy sweetness.
Nothing like the bitter, resentful woman she had been during her marriage to Jon Arryn.
She placed the tray on the balcony table.
"You always wake too early. You must eat something."
Petyr turned toward her, already wearing a gentle smile.
"You don't need to do this yourself, Lysa."
He accepted the bowl from her, allowing his fingertips to brush lightly across the back of her hand.
"The servants can handle these things."
"No!"
Lysa immediately shook her head stubbornly like a frightened child.
"I don't want those little sluts near you!"
"I've seen the way they look at you!"
"They all want to seduce you!"
Her voice suddenly sharpened.
Madness flickered behind her eyes.
"Especially that girl Tally—the one with brown curls!"
"Yesterday when you spoke to her, she blushed!"
"That little whore—today I'll send her to the Bloody Gate and let the Royces discipline her—"
"Lysa."
A trace of disgust flashed through Petyr's eyes before vanishing instantly.
He took her hands gently and soothed her in a soft voice.
"Calm down."
"Tally is only a servant delivering messages."
"If you act like this, the servants will fear you."
"And the lords will think you unstable."
"I DON'T CARE!"
Lysa's lips trembled.
"I don't care what they think!"
"I only care about you, Petyr!"
"You belong to me!"
"To me alone!"
"I waited twenty years to marry you!"
"I won't let anyone steal you away!"
Tears welled in her eyes.
Inside, Petyr sighed quietly.
He set down the porridge bowl and pulled her gently into his arms, stroking her loosened hair.
"No one will take me away, Lysa," he whispered beside her ear.
"I'm your husband."
"I always will be."
The words worked like magic.
Lysa slowly calmed.
She clung tightly to him like a drowning woman clutching driftwood.
"Promise me, Petyr…"
"Promise you'll never leave me."
"I promise."
"Promise me you'll never look at other women."
"You are the only woman I see."
"Promise me we'll have many children…"
"A great family…"
"We will," Petyr murmured smoothly.
"I promise."
The lies flowed from his lips as naturally as breathing.
While soothing the woman in his arms, his eyes drifted once more toward the distant sea of clouds.
He still needed Lysa.
At least for now.
Her madness was a double-edged sword.
Dangerous.
Useful.
If controlled carefully, she would become his greatest weapon in the Vale—
A weapon capable of removing obstacles without dirtying his own hands.
As for children…
Petyr narrowed his eyes slightly.
That depended entirely on whether Lysa's body could survive another pregnancy.
The repeated miscarriages had already ruined her health.
Even the maesters admitted privately that another successful pregnancy was unlikely.
And even if she conceived, the child would probably not survive.
But that hardly mattered.
If Lysa could not provide him heirs…
Other methods always existed.
The important thing was time.
Then—
Footsteps echoed from behind.
Heavy.
Clumsy.
Angry.
Clearly belonging to a large man.
Petyr turned.
Standing there was the eternal guardian of the Moon Gate—
Nestor Royce.
A powerful member of House Royce's cadet branch and long-serving steward of the Vale. House Royce
The man was broad and thickly built.
His bald scalp gleamed beneath the dawn light while white streaks ran through his beard.
And at the moment, his face held no trace of politeness.
Only suppressed fury.
His deep-set eyes locked onto Petyr like a beast staring at an intruder.
"Ser Nestor, so early in the morning—"
"A raven from King's Landing," Nestor interrupted bluntly.
He pulled a sealed parchment from his cloak but did not hand it over immediately.
"The Hand's seal is on it."
At those words, Petyr's heart sank slightly.
Still, his smile never changed.
In fact, it became gentler.
"Oh? What instructions has Lord Tywin sent?" Tywin Lannister
But Nestor did not answer.
Instead, his gaze shifted toward Lysa in Petyr's arms.
"If Tywin Lannister has something to say, then say it quickly, Ser Nestor," Lysa snapped irritably.
She clearly resented the interruption to her morning alone with Petyr.
Nestor inhaled deeply.
"My lady," he said hoarsely while bowing.
"King's Landing has sent urgent orders."
He paused.
His eyes flicked toward Petyr with barely concealed hostility.
"Lord Petyr Baelish is commanded to return to King's Landing immediately…"
"…for questioning."
The final words rang especially loudly.
Petyr's pupils contracted faintly.
Questioning?
What exactly did Tywin know?
At least it was not an arrest order.
That meant the old lion lacked proof.
He was probing.
Testing.
But that also meant one thing clearly:
If Petyr returned to King's Landing, he would be walking directly into a trap.
On Tywin's ground.
Under Tywin's scrutiny.
No matter how skilled he was with words, even Petyr could not guarantee he would avoid exposing something.
He could not go.
Absolutely not.
All these thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant.
Then he smiled once more—warm, calm, utterly composed.
Because he already knew Lysa would never allow it.
Sure enough, within seconds, her face changed completely.
Her cheeks flushed red.
Her lips trembled.
Those usually clouded eyes suddenly blazed with terrifying intensity.
"How dare he!"
Lysa screamed shrilly.
"How dare he order Petyr around?! Petyr is my husband now!"
"Even as Hand of the King, Tywin has no authority over us!"
She clutched Petyr's arm so tightly her nails dug painfully into his flesh.
"You are NOT going!"
Her eyes burned with possessive madness and naked fear.
"Do you hear me, Petyr?!"
"I forbid it!"
"King's Landing is filthy!"
"Evil!"
"The people there are jealous of you!"
"They want to hurt you!"
"They cannot stand seeing you happy with me!"
Her voice rose higher and higher.
Nestor Royce frowned deeply.
The old knight's loyalty to Lysa was unquestionable, but he clearly had little patience for her hysterics.
He opened his mouth to speak—
But Petyr interrupted smoothly.
"Lysa. Calm yourself."
Petyr gently stroked her cheek.
"Ser Nestor is only delivering a message."
"We can discuss this calmly."
"There's nothing to discuss!" Lysa shouted immediately.
"You can't go!"
"If you return there, they'll imprison you!"
"They'll frame you!"
"They might even…"
"…even kill you!"
Tears spilled from her eyes, mixed with terror and fury.
"They already took my first husband from me!" she cried.
"And now they want to take you too!"
"No!"
"I won't allow it!"
"I've already lost too much, Petyr…"
"I can't lose you too!"
She threw herself against his chest, clutching him desperately while her body shook violently with sobs.
Petyr held her gently, one hand stroking her back while his gaze drifted over her shoulder to meet that of Nestor Royce.
Nestor's expression was complicated.
There was concern for Lysa Tully, disgust toward Petyr Baelish, and beneath it all, a deep helplessness.
The old knight had once loved Lysa.
Perhaps he still did.
Watching her lose herself for another man clearly pained him.
"Ser Nestor," Petyr said softly, his voice calm and apologetic. "As you can see… Lysa is deeply worried about me."
"I believe we may need some time to discuss this matter."
Nestor's lips tightened.
"Lord Tywin's command said 'immediately,'" he replied stiffly. "A raven already takes time to fly from King's Landing to the Eyrie. If you delay further discussing it…" Tywin Lannister King's Landing The Eyrie
"Then let him wait!"
Lysa suddenly lifted her head from Petyr's chest, tearstains still visible on her face while fury burned in her eyes.
"My husband does not answer to commands from King's Landing!"
"If Tywin Lannister has objections, let him come to the Eyrie himself and say them to my face!"
The words were arrogant.
Wildly arrogant.
But perfectly in character for Lysa.
Nestor's frown deepened.
He turned toward Petyr, clearly waiting for his response.
Petyr sighed softly.
The sigh carried just the right amount of helpless affection.
At least, that was how it sounded.
He cupped Lysa's face gently and brushed away the tears at the corners of her eyes with his thumb.
"My dear, you shouldn't speak that way," he murmured. "Lord Tywin is Hand of the King. His authority deserves respect."
"And if he requests my presence for questioning, then surely there must be a reason."
"Perhaps something has happened in King's Landing, and he simply requires information from me."
"If I refuse to go, it may appear as though I have something to hide."
He sounded utterly sincere.
Even Nestor hesitated slightly, uncertainty flickering across his face.
Could this man truly be innocent?
But then Petyr smoothly shifted the conversation.
"However… I'm not worried about myself."
"I'm worried about you, Lysa. And Robin." Robin Arryn
Lysa froze.
"If I leave the Vale and travel to King's Landing, the journey there and back alone would take at least a month."
Petyr continued while gently caressing her cheek.
"And during that month, you would remain here alone."
"Facing the lords of the Vale."
"Facing whatever rumors or accusations might arrive from King's Landing."
"I wouldn't feel at ease."
As he spoke, his eyes shifted toward Nestor again.
"Ser Nestor is loyal and dependable, I know that."
"But he is still only a steward."
"He is not a lord."
"And if certain people decide to take advantage of my absence…"
"If they begin questioning your authority…"
"Questioning the legitimacy of our marriage…"
"Or even Robin's right of inheritance…"
He did not finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Lysa's face immediately turned pale.
She was foolish—
But not stupid.
She knew perfectly well who had truly caused the death of Jon Arryn.
She swallowed hard.
Her breathing quickened.
Her fingers clutched Petyr's clothing so tightly her knuckles turned white.
"No," she whispered shakily. "No… you can't leave. I can't stay here alone…"
"Robin needs me."
"The Vale needs me."
"I… I need you."
Tears welled in her eyes again as she looked up at him.
"The world outside is too dangerous, Petyr."
Her voice trembled.
"There's war everywhere."
"Betrayal everywhere."
"House Stark is already collapsing… who will fall next?" House Stark
Then she buried her face against his chest again and sobbed:
"We're not going anywhere."
"We'll stay here in the Vale."
"The Bloody Gate protects us. The Moon Gate protects us." Bloody Gate Moon Gate
"It's safe here."
"No one from outside can enter."
"And we won't leave either."
"That's the safest way."
Petyr embraced her while once again meeting Nestor's gaze.
This time, the old knight's expression was even more conflicted.
He could see clearly that Petyr was manipulating Lysa.
But at the same time…
Lysa's fear was genuine.
Her dependence was genuine.
She truly needed someone to support and protect her.
And regardless of what sort of man Petyr Baelish truly was, he was now the husband she had chosen.
The man she trusted.
If they forced him to leave for King's Landing now, Lysa might completely collapse.
And that would spell disaster for the Vale.
Nestor drew a deep breath.
He lowered his eyes to the parchment still clenched in his hand, the wax seal of the Tower of the Hand glaring brightly in the morning sun.
Finally, he extended it toward Petyr.
The motion was stiff—
As though he were handing over something unclean.
Petyr accepted the parchment, rolled it shut without even reading it, and looked back at him.
"Ser Nestor," he said politely, his usual refined warmth returning, "please send a raven in reply."
"Inform Lord Tywin that Petyr Baelish is grateful for the summons."
"However, due to pressing matters in the Vale, and because Lady Lysa and young Robin require my care, I am unable to travel to King's Landing at this time."
"If Lord Tywin has urgent questions, they may be conveyed by raven."
"I will answer them truthfully."
Nestor stared at him for a very long time.
At last, the old knight gave a slow nod, the gesture heavy with resignation.
Then he turned away.
His heavy footsteps echoed once more as he descended the staircase from the balcony and disappeared into the shadows below.
Petyr watched him leave before lowering his gaze toward Lysa in his arms.
She was still sniffling, though her emotions had mostly settled.
"It's alright now, my dear."
"We're safe."
"We'll remain here in the Vale."
"We're not going anywhere."
"I'll protect you."
"I'll protect Robin."
"I'll protect our home."
Lysa looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.
"You truly won't leave me?"
"Never."
"And if Tywin sends another letter?"
"Even if Tywin comes personally," Petyr said gently, "I still won't leave you."
The lies flowed effortlessly from his mouth, as natural as breathing.
Lysa smiled weakly.
"I love you, Petyr."
"And I love you, Lysa."
Petyr held her close—
But his eyes drifted past her shoulder toward the distant horizon.
King's Landing.
He would return there eventually.
But not yet.
Not now.
First, he would remain in the Vale.
Strengthening his authority.
Weaving his network.
Waiting patiently for the right moment.
And once he became powerful enough—
Powerful enough to no longer fear Tywin Lannister…
Powerful enough to fear no one—
Then he would go back.
At that thought, Petyr finally released Lysa's embrace and took her hand, leading her toward the exit of the balcony.
The sun had fully risen now, illuminating the entire Vale.
Clouds churned beneath the mountains.
The towering white spires of the Eyrie gleamed brilliantly beneath the dawn.
And as Petyr Baelish looked upon it all, only one thought filled his mind:
This time…
He would be the one writing the rules.
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