Littlefinger strolled into the study as if nothing had happened that morning.
He wore a cream-and-silver velvet tunic and a gray silk cloak trimmed with black fox fur, his usual mocking smile fixed on his face.
Eddard greeted him coldly. "Lord Baelish, what brings you here?"
Their exchange was trivial and dull. Eddard had no desire to receive this man, especially not today.
Everything Littlefinger brought up was exactly what Eddard didn't want to hear, the final discussions of the Small Council.
"After you left, the King flew into a rage. In the end, the Small Council abandoned the idea of hiring the Faceless Men," Littlefinger said cheerfully. "Fortunately, the decision was reversed. Instead, Varys has quietly spread word that whoever kills that Targaryen girl will be granted a noble title."
Eddard felt sick to his stomach. "So we're rewarding assassins with nobility now."
Littlefinger shrugged. "Titles are cheap. The Faceless Men are not. To be honest, compared to all your talk of honor and morality, isn't what I'm doing helping that Targaryen girl even more? Let that sellsword, dreaming of becoming a noble, get drunk and give it a try. Most likely he'll fail, and the Myrish will be more cautious from then on. If we had sent the Faceless Men, they'd only be left to collect the body."
"Listen to yourself. You supported the assassination at the council, and now you claim you're protecting her. Do you take me for a fool?"
"Well… in truth, you are a complete fool," Littlefinger said with a smile.
Eddard studied him, wondering why he had come. It felt as though the man was trying to probe him for information.
"I've had enough," Eddard said. In King's Landing, he truly felt isolated, like a lone pillar struggling to stand.
"My lord, when do you plan to return to Winterfell?" Littlefinger asked with a pleasant smile.
"That is none of your concern." Eddard's distrust and hatred for him deepened with every passing moment.
"None of my concern… perhaps. But if you happen to still be in the city tomorrow evening, I'd be delighted to take you to that brothel your men have been unable to find." Littlefinger smiled. "I won't even tell Catelyn."
"You should not have mentioned Catelyn. And as for that damned brothel, I have no interest in it now. Put away your little tricks." Eddard's gaze turned icy. "Guards!"
Bang!
The door burst open, and an angry young man rushed in first.
The smile slowly faded from Littlefinger's face as he saw who it was.
A lean young man with a long face, brown hair, and gray eyes. A scar marked his face.
He looked grim. Not handsome, but unmistakably a Stark, with the long face, hair, and eyes of the family.
"Have you lost your mind, Lord Stark?" Littlefinger shouted. The fury of the young man set off alarm bells in his mind.
"Calm yourself, Jon," Eddard said with a frown. "I did not summon you."
But Jon Snow had already charged forward.
"Apologize for your past insults, Lord Baelish. In the name of Winterfell's honor, I challenge you."
Jon did not draw his sword. Instead, he swung the scabbard, smashing it hard toward Littlefinger.
He moved like a storm, fast and relentless. Littlefinger had no time to react, and his martial skills were mediocre at best.
Eddard couldn't intervene in time. All he saw was Jon's fists, the scabbard, and a blur of motion.
Only when Eddard's guards finally rushed in did they manage to pull the two apart.
"Lord Stark, is this how you treat your guests?" Littlefinger struggled as he shouted. Though his face wasn't badly bruised, Jon had given him a solid beating. His fine velvet clothes were covered in dust, and his abdomen and back burned from the blows of fists and scabbard alike.
"I'm sorry…"
"My lord, are you alright?" Lothor Brune hurried up the Tower of the Hand with several men. They were Littlefinger's guards.
"It seems we're not welcome here. Let's go," Littlefinger muttered, glancing at Stark and the suddenly enraged bastard.
"You're not leaving, Lord Perish," Eddard said. "Guards, keep them here."
The Winterfell guards, bearing the direwolf sigil, drew their swords and glared. They clearly outnumbered Littlefinger's men. Lothor reached for his blade, but Littlefinger stopped him.
"Lord Petyr, remain calm. The Red Keep guards will arrive shortly."
"Then I'll wait," Littlefinger said, looking at Eddard. "Lord Stark, what exactly do you intend to do?"
"I will accuse you. I will accuse you before the King." Eddard pointed at him.
A flicker of unease crossed Littlefinger's face.
This mad Stark.
Had he truly abandoned any intention of investigating Old Jon's death, choosing instead to vent his anger? That wasn't Eddard's way.
That was Brandon's. The blood of the running wolf.
"You…" Littlefinger faltered for a moment, a flicker of unease crossing his face, though he quickly tried to steady himself. "Very well. So this is how you treat a friend, Lord Stark."
"You've done well, Lord Stark. I told you long ago not to trust anyone, especially me. Still, I have a secret to share." Littlefinger smiled and walked straight up to Eddard.
"Chataya's brothel, Lord Stark. You've always been loyal to the King, yet I'll still tell you what you want to know." His voice dropped to a whisper. Even now, he was forcing a choice on Eddard.
Eddard's face darkened. Damn Littlefinger. He understood him all too well. Should he walk away, or finally unravel the mystery surrounding Lord Arryn?
Three Kingsguards soon arrived with the Red Keep guards. Cloaked in white and clad in pale scale armor, they stood ready, only to find an angry young man, a battered Master of Coin, and a silent Hand of the King.
Ser Barristan, Ser Meryn, Ser Boros.
"Enough, Jon. I'll speak," Eddard said.
"This man has slandered my honor. In the name of King Robert, I ask that he be brought to justice."
"Your honor?" Ser Barristan paused, his blue eyes widening slightly at the unexpected accusation.
Yet one look at Eddard's face told him this was no jest. Whatever his intentions to resign, he was still the Hand of the King. A dispute between the Hand and the Master of Coin was no small matter. It required the King's judgment.
"Because of his dealings with Littlefinger, my honor has been tarnished."
Ser Meryn and Ser Boros exchanged doubtful glances. Lord Eddard had certainly done something astonishing this time.
"Lord Eddard, Lord Petyr, this is a delicate matter. I must report it to the King." Barristan glanced around and noticed the young man who had struck first, clearly a bastard of House Stark.
The King soon arrived, reeking of wine, accompanied by the Master of Laws, Great Lord Renly. He took in the scene at a glance.
Littlefinger and the furious young man stood facing each other, the aftermath of a violent clash plain to see.
"Your Grace, this man has defamed me. I demand justice and proper punishment."
"That is not what happened. I merely came to visit Lord Eddard, yet his son attacked me like a madman," Littlefinger said, head lowered.
Great Lord Renly looked at the disheveled Littlefinger. "Defamation, is it? Normally, we're all quite familiar with the sort of scandalous tales Littlefinger tells. But Lord Eddard, what would you have us do?"
"I say we cut out his tongue," Jon said viciously.
"Enough, Stark. I am the king. What exactly is going on here?" The King frowned at the chaos, clearly irritated. There was always another quarrel.
...
Catelyn rode with her uncle until they passed beneath the shadow of the Bloody Gate.
Beyond the stone walls, the mountains suddenly opened, revealing a sweep of green fields, blue sky, and snow-capped peaks so breathtaking it stole her breath. The Vale of Arryn lay bathed in the soft light of morning.
Though the Vale was enclosed by the Mountains of the Moon, the land within was rich and fertile.
The valley stretched before her into the misty east, a land of peace and quiet, cradled by mountains on all sides. Its soil was dark and fertile, its rivers broad and gentle, and hundreds of lakes, large and small, gleamed like mirrors beneath the sun. The fields were heavy with barley, wheat, and corn. Even the pumpkins of Highgarden were no larger than those grown here, and nowhere were fruits sweeter.
"I cannot do without Lysa's help, nor the knights of the Vale," Catelyn resolved.
She entered the western end of the pass. Beyond the final mountain gate, the road wound downward, descending toward the valley floor below. The pass here was narrow enough to cross in less than half a day, and the northern mountains loomed so close it felt as though she could reach out and touch them.
The tallest peak was called the Giant's Lance. It towered above all the surrounding mountains, its summit rising three and a half li into the sky, vanishing into cold mist. From its western face poured the ghostly cascade known as Alyssa's Tears. Even from afar, Catelyn could see it clearly, a shimmering silver ribbon cutting through the dark stone.
"Right there, beside Alyssa's Tears," said Ser Brynden.
Catelyn had rarely come this way, but she had heard Eddard speak of it. This was where he and the King had spent their youth. Seven towers rose like pale daggers thrust into the sky, so high the clouds lay beneath them.
"How long will it take?" Catelyn asked.
"We can reach the base by this evening," Ser Brynden replied, "but the climb will take another full day."
"I can't wait. I want to reach The Eyrie as soon as possible." That might be the usual pace, but Catelyn had already heard the horns of war. Right now, she wished she could turn into an eagle and fly straight to The Eyrie.
Those who had accompanied her this far were now only the feverish and wounded Ser Rodrik, Ser Willis Wode, and the singer Marillion.
She left the old knight at the Bloody Gate, where Ser Donnel promised to see to his care.
After resting for less than an hour, Catelyn set out again. Ser Donnel assured her he would send word ahead by raven to The Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon. Fresh horses were brought from the stables, strong, sure-footed beasts with thick manes, well suited to the mountain paths, replacing her worn-out mounts.
On the winding mountain road, once he was certain they would not be overheard, Ser Brynden finally asked what had happened.
"Well then, child, tell me what this storm is about."
"Uncle, I'm not a child anymore."
Catelyn told him everything, slowly and in full. Lysa's letter, Bran's fall, the assassin's dagger, Littlefinger… all the way to her encounter with Tyrion Lannister at the crossroads inn, and how the Imp had been taken away.
As Brynden listened, his brows drew tighter and tighter. It was a great deal to take in.
"You tried to capture the Imp, and failed?" he asked at last.
"Yes, Uncle. Everything had been going perfectly, but then a group of sellswords claiming to be wildlings took him."
"Have you considered this? If Sansa marries the Prince, the Imp would be her uncle. And he is Lord Tywin's son."
"I know. But he's the one who harmed my son. If we bring him to The Eyrie, the truth will come out."
"And who told you that?"
"Petyr."
Brynden looked at his niece, a dull ringing filling his ears. Reckless. Utterly reckless.
The game of thrones was no game at all, especially when every step had to be taken with care. Tywin was a proud man. He would not let this pass lightly.
"Your father must be told," Brynden said after a long silence. "If the Lannisters march, Winterfell is too far away, and The Eyrie is shielded by mountains. Riverrun will be the first to suffer."
"That's exactly what I'm worried about," Catelyn admitted. "Once we reach The Eyrie, I'll have Maester Colemon send a raven at once." There were other messages to send as well. Eddard had instructed her to notify the lords and have them prepare their defenses. "What is the situation in the Vale of Arryn?"
"Everyone is outraged," Ser Brynden said. "It's mainly about the title of Warden of the East. Giving it to a Lannister has deeply insulted the Vale lords. They see it as a slight against their beloved Great Lord. As for Lord Arryn's death, many have their suspicions, but no one dares speak them aloud."
"And then there's the matter of the heir, and Lysa's remarriage. The current Great Lord of the Vale is only six, sickly, and cries if his toys are taken away. As for Lady Lysa, her dowry is considerable. The Eyrie is now full of suitors, as thick as crows on a battlefield."
Catelyn found nothing surprising in this. It was all as she expected. Her uncle was simply being cautious, as older men often were.
"I should have known," she said. Lysa was still young, and the Vale itself was a prize few could ignore. "Will Lysa remarry?"
"She's willing, if the right man appears," Ser Brynden replied. "But she has already refused Lord Nestor and more than a dozen others. She's sworn that this time, she will choose her own husband."
"You can't fault her for that. Not you, at least."
Brynden snorted softly. "I don't fault her. But… if you ask me, she's putting on a show. She enjoys being courted, that much is true. But in the end, I believe your sister intends to rule in her own name until her son comes of age and becomes the rightful lord of The Eyrie."
When it came to the Vale, Brynden understood it far better than Catelyn ever could. People were never simple, and loyalties shifted as easily as the wind.
"Women can rule just as wisely as men," Catelyn said.
"Only the right woman can." Ser Brynden cast her a sideways glance, unconvinced. Why was his niece still so naive?
From what he knew of Lysa in her youth, she had never been suited to rule.
"Cat, don't mistake it. Lysa is not you."
He hesitated for a moment, then added, "To be frank, I'm afraid you'll find your sister may not be as much help… as you expect."
Catelyn stopped short. "What do you mean?"
Ser Brynden couldn't help but think back to the past. The two sisters' marriages had set them on very different paths.
Though both matches had been political, Lysa, having lost her maidenhood and suffered a miscarriage, had been wed off to the aging Lord Arryn, a man who had already buried two wives.
"You both entered your marriages for the same reasons, but your fate has been far kinder. She bore two children who died at birth, suffered four miscarriages, and then lost Lord Arryn as well… Catelyn, the gods gave Lysa only one child. Now she lives for him alone. The poor boy."
"No wonder she would rather flee than see her son placed in the Lannisters' hands. Child, your sister is terrified, and what she fears most is the Lannisters. She slipped out of the Red Keep like a thief in the night and fled back to the Vale, all to pull her son from the lion's jaws… and now you've brought the lion right to her door."
Catelyn shifted uneasily. Even she could feel that something was beginning to go wrong. But she had only acted because of Lysa's letter.
"The dwarf may have escaped, but it was the Lannisters who murdered her husband. And she was the one who warned us in the first place."
"The Blackfish" Ser Brynden gave her a weary smile. "Child, I hope you're right."
He sighed, though his tone made it clear he did not believe it.