The Braavos merchant ship cut through the fog, its tall titan statue at the bow mocking Petyr Baelish, who lay sprawled on the deck. His guards and the Braavos sailors, whom he had previously instructed, had all jumped ship. The order to assault him came from Lothor, whom he had once trusted.
The titan had once been the symbol of the Baelish family, until he changed it to a mockingbird. Littlefinger had climbed higher than anyone in generations, foolishly reaching for the sharp peak of power, only to suffer the most devastating fall.
"Sansa… Cate… Catelyn…" Littlefinger's vision blurred. The beautiful girl with reddish-brown hair in front of him transformed into Catelyn's figure. How heavily the rain had fallen that day when Catelyn rejected him, giving the handkerchief token to Brandon. It was a light blue handkerchief, embroidered with Riverrun's leaping trout. Littlefinger pleaded desperately, but Catelyn remained indifferent, never looking back. And that traitor Edmure, who had actually become the Wild Wolf's attendant.
Wild Wolf Brandon strode forward, his longsword growing fiercer, pushing him back step by step. The assault was relentless, swords raining down, and Littlefinger stumbled, covered in wounds. Brandon struck back with a particularly fierce slash, knocking him directly to the ground. That pain, that pain would be unforgettable for him.
But Brandon's face quickly shattered and crumbled, transforming into another face—the mocking gaze of the Storm, a black-haired, blue-eyed Storm, a warrior even more ferocious than the Wild Wolf. The Storm laughed, delivering heavy punches and sword blows, his powerful strikes reducing him to a pulp of flesh.
Then the faces of Brandon, Catelyn, Edmure, Cersei, The Imp, and others emerged one by one from the darkness, all laughing at Littlefinger.
"Fool, you idiot."
"Fool, you are a fool," Eddard Stark cursed with his stern, long face.
"No!" Littlefinger plunged into boundless darkness, everyone reaching out to push him into an endless abyss.
"Come back, come back," Littlefinger wanted to call for his Oswell to return, but the old man would never come back.
"What exactly is going on?" Sansa Stark was still shaken.
"The world holds many lies, and many truths. For Littlefinger, most of what he said were lies. Think about the difficulties your father faced; I remember he visited your father many times. It was Littlefinger who was meddling, otherwise you might have already returned to the North. And after he got out of the Black Cells, he sided with Cersei Lannister, even introducing the Commander-in-Chief of the Gold Cloaks, Janos, to Cersei."
"I…" Sansa wanted to cover her face in shame. Everything her father said was true, but at the time, she didn't believe it. Her father's delayed return home was also due to Littlefinger's hints. Joffrey was not the knight from the stories, but a demon.
"If you wish to go home, please come to the Godswood tonight."
"That parchment?"
"Only in the Godswood can it succeed. The rest of The Red Keep cannot escape the surveillance of Varys's Little Birds, whom Littlefinger called rats. Only the Godswood is different; there are no walls, only trees, no roof, only the sky. Roots, earth, and rocks replace the floor, leaving no place for rats to hide. Rats need to sneak around, otherwise they will be hunted down by everyone," Lothor explained. "Coincidentally, Littlefinger knows a ground route to escape The Red Keep, which will come in handy."
"You are tired, Miss Sansa, go back and rest. We will first return to Gulltown, then take you to your brother and mother," Lothor said.
The small boat had completely vanished into the ocean, soon to become fireworks, and Oswell would disappear into the clamor of King's Landing.
"What about him?" Sansa asked Lothor, looking at Littlefinger, the convulsing, unconscious idiot.
"You are free, Miss, but a girl from a good family like yours shouldn't see such bloody things," Lothor. Brun told Sansa. "The Storm instructed to keep him alive until The Eyrie, but he didn't specify how he should stay alive."
"Mm." Sansa nodded, without a trace of pity in her heart.
Yes, Petyr had taken great risks to save her. Why? Was it out of love for her mother, or pity for her? But the Petyr who was now being beaten was, after all, a common two-faced man in King's Landing. On one hand, he was gentle, kind, witty, and wished to play the role of a savior for a fallen girl. But on the other hand, Sansa couldn't forget that cunning Littlefinger. Littlefinger was not her friend. He was a minister in the King's Landing court, whispering in Queen Cersei's ear, stroking his beard, his words sweet as honey, but full of schemes and conspiracies. When Joffrey bullied her, The Imp offered help, but Littlefinger ignored it. When the Kingsguard beat her, The Hound never laid a hand on her, and Ser Allar would apologize to her. But Littlefinger, before this, had never lifted a finger to help her.
Sansa looked at Petyr. He did take me away, and that's all he did. Sansa had originally thought it was the idea of a drunk, a poor, drunken old fool, but Ser Thorys was merely Littlefinger's puppet.
"Are you a subordinate of The Storm?" Sansa asked Lothor, then threw off her cloak, the thick cloak with the mockingbird emblem, which now lay on the deck.
The deck swayed beneath her feet, as if the whole world was shaking. Everything that happened today exceeded the predictions of Sansa, this little girl. Aunt Lysa, Littlefinger Petyr, they had all become captives of The Storm, trembling in The Storm's hand. A more violent, more terrifying Storm.
"Yes, The Storm. Prince Gendry, I have always been his subordinate." Lothor nodded, then handed his cloak to Sansa, a very thick, but somewhat tattered cloak.
"I'm tired." Sansa didn't refuse, then draped the cloak over herself.
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