Situated in the east of Westeros, dawn always comes a bit earlier to The Eyrie than elsewhere.
While the other castles of the Vale still sleep in the deepest darkness before dawn, this white castle, built atop the peaks of the Mountains of the Moon, can already see the first rays of sunlight piercing through the sea of clouds.
The golden light first colors the highest tower of the Gates of the Moon, then slowly spreads downward, coating the entire castle in a shimmering luster, like a palace where the gods of myth reside.
The former master of coin, now Lord of Harrenhal and husband to the Duchess of... well, The Eyrie, Lord Petyr Baelish, stood at the peak, holding a cup of golden wine from The Arbor.
The wine shone with the color of a Gold Dragon in the morning light. As he gently swirled the crystal cup, the liquid left brief legs on the glass.
Delightful!
He took a sip of the wine, letting the sweet yet slightly astringent liquid linger on his tongue for a moment before slowly swallowing.
His gaze drifted past the stone railing of the balcony, casting down upon the churning sea of clouds below, their colors shifting in the morning light like a massive tapestry unfurling before him.
Everything was going almost exactly according to plan.
The thought brought a slight smile to Petyr's lips.
The Vale.
The most impregnable of The Seven Kingdoms, surrounded by mountains, with the The Bloody Gate standing as an insurmountable pass; as long as those few treacherous passes were held, not even a host of thousands could take a single step inside.
And now, he stood here.
Not as a guest, but as the master—or rather, the master-to-be.
Lady Lysa Tully was even easier to control than he had anticipated.
This foolish woman had been utterly obsessed with him since her youth. Twenty years had passed, and instead of fading, that obsession had fermented into a pathological possessiveness, tormented by time and numerous miscarriages.
Recalling their wedding half a month ago, a flicker of derision flashed in Petyr's eyes.
They had wed on that barren land of the The Fingers, a tiny fiefdom with more stones than soil.
That so-called 'castle' was nothing more than a fortified tower with peeling plaster, a smoking fireplace, and bedroom windows that didn't shut tight, allowing the night wind to always find a way inside.
But Lysa didn't care.
"As long as I can be your wife right now, Petyr, I would marry you even in a thatched hut."
At the time, she had clutched his arm so tightly her nails nearly dug into his flesh. Her eyes, clouded from long-term use of moon tea and miscarriages, were filled with reckless frenzy.
Petyr had wanted to insist on holding the wedding at The Eyrie, as that would have befitted his status and allowed him to display his authority as the husband of the new Lady Regent to the lords of the Vale.
But Lysa's eagerness had made him change his mind.
Sometimes, satisfying a person's trivial desires could buy their blind compliance for your greater demands.
So, he agreed.
The wedding was laughably simple.
The only attendees were the dozen or so handmaidens and guards Lysa had brought, along with a few old farmers from his fief. They stood in the hall, awkward and out of place, their homespun clothes washed to a pale fade and covered in patch upon patch.
The septon was an old man who had lost half his teeth, spraying spit and whistling through the gaps as he sputtered out the blessings.
But Lysa wept.
When Petyr slipped the cheap silver ring—which he had bought on a whim in some small town along the way for less than a single Silver Stag—onto her finger, Lysa wept like a child receiving her very first gift.
She threw herself into his arms, her tears soaking his doublet, repeatedly murmuring, 'I've finally waited long enough, Petyr, I've finally waited long enough...'
"..."
And the wedding night was an utter disaster.
Lysa was too eager, and too clumsy.
The years seemed to have left her body stiff yet sensitive, with every touch provoking an incredibly exaggerated reaction.
Afterward, she talked incessantly, reminiscing about every little detail of their youth in Riverrun...
The very next morning, they departed for The Eyrie.
For the next half month, Petyr hardly spent a full day inside the castle.
He visited the lords of the Vale one by one, from Runestone and Hearts Home, even to Sisterton far off in the Bite.
With every visit, Petyr demonstrated his political talents near-flawlessly.
To the older, conservative lords, he showed just the right amount of respect, speaking of Lord Jon Arryn's legacy and promising to 'assist Lady Lysa in guarding the traditions of the Vale.'
To the young and hot-headed, he spoke grandly of the new situation in King's Landing, hinting that following him would bring far more glory and wealth than remaining cooped up in the Vale.
To those burdened with debt, he even generously offered to lend them funds to tide them over.
After making the rounds, the results were remarkable.
Due to their severe isolation, the lords of the Vale were almost entirely simple-minded, sometimes even less cunning than those barbarians in the North.
Though most of the lords harbored doubts about this sudden husband of the Lady Regent, they at least maintained outward politeness.
The few who explicitly voiced their displeasure, such as 'Bronze' Yohn Royce, were temporarily pacified by Petyr using 'Lady Lysa's wishes' and 'the greater good of the Vale's stability.'
Just give me one more year.
Petyr gazed out at the sea of clouds, high-spirited, as he calculated in his mind.
One year would be enough for him to install his confidants, buy informants, uncover the secrets of every house, and weave his own web within the Vale's network of power.
And then, when the right opportunity arose... get rid of that mad woman, Lysa!
A mad woman losing her mind and slipping through the Moon Door—the people of the Vale would believe such a story. After all, Lysa's mental state was plain for all to see.
By then, as Lysa's husband, Petyr Baelish would naturally become the Lord Protector of the Vale.
At least until Robin Arryn came of age.
But as for whether that boy would suffer an 'accidental' early demise along the way, that would depend entirely on Petyr's needs.
A perfect plan.
Absolutely perfect!
Except...
...Suddenly, Petyr's smile faded slightly.
The only variable at the moment was Sansa Stark.
He raised his cup and took another sip. The wine slid down his throat, bringing a brief warmth, but it could not dispel the trace of unease in his heart.
Before leaving King's Landing, Petyr had sent Dontos Hollard to spirit Sansa away amidst the chaos of Joffrey's wedding feast, taking her to a prearranged cargo ship to smuggle her out of the city.
The reward was a thousand Gold Dragons and a passage to Braavos to start a new life.
The plan should have been seamless.
The chaos of the wedding feast was the perfect cover. Tyrion would become the prime suspect in poisoning Joffrey, and everyone's attention would be focused on the dwarf.
And Sansa's 'disappearance' would be interpreted as a flight after conspiring with her husband to murder the king. No one would even defend her, for she was, after all, the daughter of a traitor, and there were far too many who wanted revenge on House Stark.
The cargo ship was supposed to rendezvous with a Braavosi merchant vessel arranged by Petyr outside Blackwater Bay, and Sansa would be secretly sent to the The Fingers, where she would be kept until Petyr had full control of the Vale.
But...
There was no news.
The cargo ship had not arrived at the rendezvous point at the scheduled time.
Nor had Dontos sent any raven.
Sansa Stark had vanished as if she had evaporated, disappearing from King's Landing but failing to appear where she was supposed to.
Petyr had sent men to investigate secretly, but the reports he received were vague and contradictory.
Some said they saw a sloop intercepted in Blackwater Bay, but there were many opinions on who the interceptor was. Some said it was the Royal Fleet, others said it was a noble's privateer, and some even claimed it was a sudden band of pirates.
But regardless of who it was, there was no follow-up news.
There were no ransom demands, nor had anyone claimed to have captured the heir to the North.
Something was not right.
After all, Sansa Stark was too valuable. She was the rightful heir to Winterfell, the key to controlling the North.
Anyone who captured her would be eager to use her—either for ransom, marriage, or as a political bargaining chip.
Unless...
Unless whoever captured her had a much longer-term plan.
Or perhaps, an even grander scheme.
Petyr frowned, draining the remaining wine in his cup.
Just then, the bedroom door was pushed open.
Lady Lysa Tully walked in.
Because Petyr had once said he liked her in blue, saying it made the color of her eyes softer, this brain-dead, love-struck woman had worn almost nothing but pale blue silk nightgowns ever since.
She carried a tray with a steaming bowl of porridge, a few slices of golden-brown toast, and a small dish of honey.
"I've prepared breakfast for you, darling."
Lysa's voice was sickeningly sweet, a stark contrast to her bitter, resentful demeanor when she had married Jon Arryn.
She walked out to the balcony and placed the tray on a small round table. "You always wake up so early. You really must eat something."
Hearing this, Petyr turned around, a gentle smile already gracing his face.
"You don't need to do all this, Lysa." He took the bowl she handed him, his fingertips brushing against the back of her hand, intentionally or otherwise.
"...You should let the handmaidens handle these things."
"No!" But in the face of Petyr's gentle persuasion, Lysa immediately shook her head stubbornly like a startled child. "I don't want those little wretches anywhere near you! I've seen the way they look at you. They all want to seduce you!"
As she spoke, her voice suddenly pitched higher, and that familiar look of madness surfaced in her eyes.
"Especially that Terie—the one with the curly brown hair! When you spoke to her yesterday, her face went completely red. That little whore, I'm sending her off to the The Bloody Gate today to let the Royces discipline her..."
"..."
"Lysa." A flicker of disgust flashed in Petyr's eyes, but he still took her hand, soothing her in a soft yet firm voice. "Calm down."
"Terie is only a handmaiden; she was merely delivering a letter to me. If you do this, it will frighten the other maids, and it will make the lords think you lack composure."
"I don't care!" Lysa's lips trembled. "I don't care what they think! I only care about you, Petyr!"
"You are mine, mine alone! I waited twenty years to marry you, and I won't let anyone take you away from me!"
Lysa spoke with deep emotion, tears welling up in her eyes.
Petyr sighed inwardly, set down the bowl of porridge, and gently took Lysa into his arms, his The Fingers caressing her loose, long hair.
"No one can take me away, Lysa," he whispered in her ear. "I am your husband. Always."
The words worked like a magic spell.
Lysa's trembling gradually subsided. She held Petyr tightly, burying her face in his chest like a drowning person clutching at a straw.
"Promise me, Petyr. Promise me you will never leave me."
"I promise you."
"Promise me you won't look at other women."
"I have eyes only for you."
"Promise me we will have many children, so, so many..."
"..."
"We will have a big family, Lysa, I promise."
The lies slipped smoothly from Petyr's mouth, as natural as breathing.
Even as he comforted the woman in his arms, his gaze drifted over her shoulder, casting out toward the churning sea of clouds in the distance.
He needed Lysa—at least for now.
This woman's madness was a double-edged sword; it could harm him, but it could also be used by him to harm others.
With careful manipulation, she would be his most powerful weapon in the Vale—a blade that could clear obstacles without him ever having to get his own hands dirty.
As for children...
Petyr narrowed his eyes slightly.
That would depend on whether Lysa's body could even hold out until she became pregnant.
Her numerous miscarriages had already severely damaged her health. The maester had privately told him that it was highly unlikely Lysa could conceive again, and even if she did, she would probably be unable to carry it to term.
But it didn't matter.
AI Model: gemini-3.1-flash-lite
If Lysa couldn't give birth, he could always find another way.
The key was time.
Just then, a sound of footsteps came from behind.
Heavy, clumsy, and carrying obvious anger, they clearly belonged to a man, a large man.
Petyr turned around.
He saw the eternal guardian of the Gates of the Moon, Nestor Royce, walking up from the stairs.
He was an important member of a cadet branch of House Royce, and he had served as High Steward of the Vale for fourteen years by the time Lord Jon Arryn passed away.
He was very sturdy, bald, his scalp shining in the morning light, and his thick beard was already streaked with quite a bit of gray.
However, the High Steward of The Eyrie had no polite smile on his face at this moment; instead, he was suppressing anger, his eyes, set deep beneath thick brows, staring fixedly at Petyr as if eyeing a beast that had trespassed on his territory.
"Ser Nestor, so early..."
"A raven from King's Landing." Nestor interrupted him, his voice rough, like two stones rubbing together.
He pulled a scroll of parchment from his tunic, not handing it to Petyr but clutching it tightly in his hand: "It just arrived, it bears the wax seal of the Hand."
At these words, Petyr's heart sank a little.
But the smile on his face did not change, becoming even gentler: "Oh? Does Lord Tywin have any instructions?"
However, Nestor did not answer, instead looking at Lysa Tully in his arms.
"Whatever business Tywin Lannister has, speak quickly, Ser Nestor."
Lysa's tone carried obvious displeasure, as if she were very dissatisfied that Nestor had interrupted her morning alone with Petyr.
Hearing this, Nestor took a deep breath.
"My Lady." Nestor's voice was even rougher as he turned to Lysa and bowed deeply: "There is news from King's Landing; the Hand, Tywin Lannister, has sent an urgent order."
As he spoke, he paused, glancing at Petyr with a flash of barely concealed hostility in his eyes.
"He demands that Lord Petyr Baelish return to King's Landing immediately to be questioned!"
He said the last four words with extra volume.
Petyr's pupils contracted slightly.
To be questioned?
Did Tywin know something?
Although it was a questioning rather than a trial, this meant Tywin had no hard evidence yet; he was merely suspicious, testing the waters.
But it also meant that going to King's Landing would be walking into a trap.
On Tywin's turf, facing Tywin's interrogation, no matter how skilled Petyr was with words, he could not guarantee he wouldn't reveal a flaw.
He couldn't go.
He absolutely could not go.
These thoughts flashed through his mind in a split second.
Petyr raised his smile again, a smile that was gentle and calm.
Because he knew very well that Lysa would not agree.
Sure enough, in these few short seconds, Lysa's expression had already changed.
Her face flushed, her lips trembled, and those eyes that always seemed clouded were now frighteningly bright.
"How dare he!"
Lysa screamed, her voice shrill: "He dares to command Petyr like this? Petyr is my husband now! Even as the Hand, Tywin has no right to command us!"
She grabbed Petyr's arm, her nails digging into his skin with astonishing force; Petyr could feel the pain, but he did not pull away.
"You are not allowed to go!"
Lysa stared at him, her eyes churning with frantic possessiveness and a hint of fear: "Do you hear me, Petyr? I forbid you to go!"
"King's Landing is a filthy, evil place; everyone there is jealous of you and wants to harm you! They can't stand to see you do well, can't stand to see you with me!"
Her voice grew higher and sharper.
Nestor frowned.
This old knight's loyalty to Lysa was unquestionable, but he was clearly unaccustomed to dealing with this state of hysteria from her.
He opened his mouth, seeming to want to say something, but Petyr spoke first.
"Lysa, calm down." Petyr raised a hand and gently stroked her cheek: "Ser Nestor is only delivering a message; we can talk about this properly and discuss it."
"There is nothing to discuss!" Lysa shook her head violently: "You cannot go! You just cannot go!"
"If you go, they will surely detain you, frame you, or even... even kill you!"
Tears gushed from her eyes, mixed with anger and fear.
"They already took my first husband!" she cried: "Now they want to take you too. No, I will never agree! I have lost too much, Petyr, I cannot lose you too!"
She threw herself into his arms, holding him tightly, her body trembling violently from sobbing.
Petyr embraced her, his The Fingers stroking her back, but his gaze went over her shoulder to lock eyes with Nestor.
Nestor's expression was extremely complex.
There was concern for Lysa, disgust for Petyr, and a deep sense of helplessness.
The old knight had loved Lysa, perhaps still did, and seeing her go mad like this for a man must have been very painful for him.
"Ser Nestor." Petyr spoke, his voice still gentle but with a hint of helplessness: "You see, Lysa is too worried about me."
"I think perhaps we need some time to discuss this matter."
Hearing this, Nestor's lips pressed into a thin line, and he spoke stiffly: "Lord Tywin's order is for immediate action; it takes time for a raven to fly from King's Landing to The Eyrie, and if you spend time discussing it, by the time a decision is made, I fear it will already be..."
"Then let him wait!" Lysa suddenly lifted her head from Petyr's arms, her face covered in tear tracks, her eyes fierce: "My husband does not need to obey orders from King's Landing! If Tywin Lannister has an opinion, let him come to The Eyrie and say it himself!"
These words were extremely arrogant, but also entirely in keeping with Lysa's character.
Nestor's brow furrowed even deeper.
He looked at Petyr, seemingly waiting for his response.
And Petyr sighed.
The sigh was light, but full of helplessness and doting—at least, that was how it sounded.
He cupped Lysa's face and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes with his thumb.
"My dear, you cannot speak like that." he said softly: "Lord Tywin is the Hand of the King of The Seven Kingdoms, his authority must be respected, and there must be a reason why he requires me to return to 'be questioned'."
"Perhaps something has happened in King's Landing that requires me to provide information; if I refuse to go, it will only make me look guilty, as if I have something to hide."
He spoke with great candor.
Even Nestor was slightly moved, a flash of doubt crossing his eyes; perhaps this fellow really had a clear conscience?
But immediately, Petyr shifted the tone.
"But what I am worried about is not myself; I am worried about you, Lysa, and Robin."
Lysa was stunned.
"If I leave the Vale and go to King's Landing, the round trip will take at least a month."
Petyr continued, his The Fingers gently rubbing her cheek: "During this month, with you here alone, facing those lords of the Vale, facing the rumors that might come from King's Landing... I am uneasy."
As he spoke, his gaze turned to Nestor.
"Ser Nestor is loyal and reliable, I know, but he is, after all, only the High Steward, not the Lord."
"If certain people take the opportunity to make trouble, questioning your authority, questioning the legitimacy of our marriage, or even questioning Robin's right of inheritance..."
He didn't finish, but the meaning was already very clear.
Lysa's face went pale.
She was foolish, but not stupid; she k