Jon Arryn's true cause of death?
Robert's wild joy froze. Cersei's momentary confusion turned to shock. All eyes shifted from Lynn to Petyr Baelish in his wheelchair, face white as bone.
"Lord Lynn, what are you saying?" Varys's soft voice drifted up, breaking the suffocating silence. "Lord Jon Arryn's death—Grand Maester Pycelle diagnosed it as sudden illness..."
"Illness?" Lynn laughed coldly. Cut him off. "Yes. An illness called ambition."
His gaze stabbed straight at Petyr Baelish.
"Your Grace. Lord Ned." Lynn turned to throne and Hand. "Aren't you curious? Why did Lord Jon Arryn die so suddenly? Why, after his death, did the Seven Kingdoms descend into endless chaos and suspicion? Because an invisible hand has been manipulating everyone's fate!"
Lynn's voice rose sharply. He extended his hand. Pointed at the sweating Master of Coin. "And that person is you! Petyr Baelish!"
"Lies!" Petyr finally snapped from shock. Shrieked back, trying to maintain composure. "Lord Lynn, I know you dislike me, but you can't use such vile methods to slander a royal minister! Where's your proof?"
"Proof?" Lynn smiled. Mockery dripping. "Let's start from the beginning. First: Bran Stark's fall. A seven-year-old boy tumbling from a tower. Then, while he lay comatose, an assassin with a Valyrian steel dagger tried to finish him!"
Lynn's gaze swept Ned's pain-written face. "Many here recognize that dagger. It once belonged to you, Petyr Baelish! You claimed you lost it to Tyrion Lannister in a tourney bet! You tried to ignite hatred between House Stark and House Lannister!"
"I did not!" Petyr's voice shot up. The assassination wasn't his doing—it was Joffrey's stupid attempt to prove himself to his father after Robert drunkenly said the boy would be better off dead. He'd just gone with the flow, giving the assassin the dagger nominally owned by Tyrion, cementing Lannister guilt.
"Of course you'll deny it." Lynn gave him no chance to explain. Continued: "Then—Prince Joffrey's assassination attempt! On King's Landing's streets, a poisoned crossbow bolt aimed at the prince's heart! I personally blocked that arrow for Joffrey! Afterward, the Gold Cloaks searched that building. Found nothing. The assassin vanished like smoke."
"Your Grace, aren't you curious? In King's Landing, who has the reach to make an assassin disappear? You, Petyr! You planned that assassination! Success or failure, fury would fall on the two Stark daughters accompanying the prince! Your goal: make lion and wolf fight to the death!"
"Slander!" Petyr's body shook violently in his wheelchair. He realized—Lynn was right on every detail! That was his scheme! How did this man know?
"Slander?" Lynn's mockery intensified. "Let's discuss your masterpiece! An assassin, broad daylight, stormed the Iron Throne room. Tried to kill His Grace! After capture, he accused Queen Cersei of ordering it! What crude, vicious framing!"
Cersei's body jolted. She stared at Lynn in disbelief. He... he was defending her? And Bran witnessing her and Jaime—Lynn deliberately concealed it. He could've exposed it today. But didn't.
Relief washed through Cersei. Gratitude sparked unexpectedly.
"Why would a queen assassinate her own husband and son? It makes no sense! Unless—the planner's goal was to shatter House Baratheon and House Lannister completely? Each incident, seemingly unrelated, points to one result: making the Seven Kingdoms' strongest houses slaughter each other. Descend into war!"
"And you, Petyr Baelish—no army, no horses—could only use such base methods. A mere Master of Coin, profiting from chaos, climbing your ladder of power built on blood and bones! And it all began with Jon Arryn's death!"
"You! You made Lysa—that woman blinded by love—poison her husband with Tears of Lys! You didn't just covet Lady Catelyn—you manipulated Lysa's feelings, promising to marry her if she succeeded. That fool believed you!"
"And Lord Arryn—at his age, suddenly fathering a child? Doesn't anyone find that strange? He'd had women before. Wives, mistresses—none bore children. Why did Lysa conceive immediately? Setting aside whether it was Lord Arryn's issue—in all Westeros, all the world, at his age, who could impregnate a woman? That child Lysa never weaned—he's yours, isn't he, Lord Baelish?"
Others' gazes at Petyr shifted. This man liked other men's wives. Who could handle that?
Petyr's face turned green. Could this be said publicly? Impregnating another man's wife, then inducing her to poison her husband—was this human behavior?
But Littlefinger was exactly someone who'd do anything to achieve his goals. Lynn was right about everything! Even the affair with Lysa—as if Lynn had witnessed it personally. How did he know such details? Could Lynn see the past?
Before Petyr could defend himself, Lynn continued. No chance to speak.
"Then you wrote Lady Catelyn Stark, falsely claiming the Lannisters poisoned him, luring Lord Ned to King's Landing!"
Each sentence connected mysteries everyone knew but couldn't solve. The story was so logical. So horrifying.
"No... it wasn't me..." Petyr panicked completely. Lynn's accusations mixed truth and lies. Joffrey's assassination was real—but Bran's wasn't his doing! Poisoning Jon Arryn was real—he framed the Lannisters to make Ned investigate, clash with them!
If Ned succeeded, Robert's reputation would suffer. Stag and lion would turn on each other. If Ned failed, the king would die. Ned, knowing Joffrey was a bastard, wouldn't be spared by the Lannisters. Robb would try to rescue him. Wolf and lion would war.
Ned's worst outcome: exile to the Wall as a Night's Watchman. Silenced forever.
But that assassin who attacked Robert and accused Cersei—that wasn't his scheme! Who knew why that assassin suddenly went mad?
But now—under Lynn's narrative, all guilt, all conspiracy formed a perfect closed loop. A massive shit-bucket clamped on his head. Impossible to remove!
He couldn't defend himself! He couldn't explain why he'd plan Joffrey's assassination! Couldn't explain why he'd poison Jon Arryn! Because those were facts.
"PETYR—!!!" A roar like a wounded beast cut off Petyr's feeble attempts at explanation.
Robert Baratheon's bloodshot eyes bore into Petyr in the wheelchair. His massive body trembled with rage. Ready to pounce. Tear this man who'd played him for a fool to shreds.
"It was you! Always you! You gutter rat! You made a fool of me!" Robert's spittle sprayed Petyr's face. He ripped out his ornate sword. Blade pointed at Petyr's throat. "I'll kill you now!"
"Your Grace! Calm yourself!" Ned and Renly rushed forward. Restrained the furious king.
"Let go! I'll take his head myself! No one stops me!" Robert struggled wildly.
"No! Your Grace!" Petyr, seeing the gleaming blade, squeezed out his last shred of reason from shattered terror. Shrieked: "These are lies! Lynn has no proof! Pure speculation! I deny all charges!"
Petyr struggled from his wheelchair with all his strength. Half his body leaned out. His fear-twisted face carried a gambler's madness.
"I'm a royal minister! You can't convict me on one man's word! I demand trial! Before gods and men, I demand trial by combat!"
Trial by combat! Those four words silenced mad Robert, furious Ned, everyone in the hall.
The Seven Kingdoms' oldest tradition. When evidence was insufficient, both sides claiming truth, judgment could be given to the gods. A duel to decide right from wrong.
Anyone could invoke trial by combat. No one could defy divine will. Not even the king.
Petyr Baelish—this crippled schemer in a wheelchair—used his last, only right. Gave his fate to the gods. Or rather, to swords.
Robert's chest heaved violently. He looked at Petyr's maddened face. Then at Lynn's terrifyingly calm expression. Finally, he ground out through clenched teeth: "Fine! Granted! Let the gods see what color a worm's blood runs!"
Robert slammed his sword back in its scabbard. Slumped onto the Iron Throne. As if that rage had drained all his strength.
"You, Petyr Baelish." Robert pointed. "Since you demand trial by combat, choose your champion."
All eyes fell on Petyr. He was just a scheming politician. A cripple in a wheelchair. What could he fight with? Who would risk their life for a disgraced conspirator bearing such vile charges?
Petyr's gaze swept the hall frantically. Lord Renly? Renly turned away in disgust. Jaime Lannister? He stared like Petyr was already dead. The nobles he'd bought with gold and favors? Now they avoided his gaze like plague.
The tree falls, the monkeys scatter.
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