Petyr Baelish hovered on the brink of life and death, but eventually, tenaciously survived.
During the days he lay bedridden with heavy injuries and persistent high fever, Lysa Tully disregarded the gaze of others, guarding his bedside day and night. She wiped cold sweat from his forehead with damp linen and personally spooned broth and medicine into his pale lips.
Amidst the chaos brought by strong painkillers and continuous low fever, Petyr's consciousness was blurred.
Pain and drugs stripped him of clear discernment. Petyr only felt a gentle figure constantly busy beside him and smelled the faintly familiar fragrance belonging to a Tully maiden. In the agony and hallucinations of half-sleep, he mistook Lysa, who cared for him meticulously before his eyes, for the bright moon he yearned for but could never touch—her sister, Catelyn.
One late night, when the drug's effect was at its peak, his burning hand grabbed Lysa's wrist. His blurred vision focused and scattered, and the murmur spilling from his mouth was a name that broke Lysa's heart yet drove her mad: "Catelyn..."
Lysa's breathing stopped abruptly. She looked at his face, appearing exceptionally fragile from pain and weakness, and saw the burning, hazy desire in his eyes that did not belong to her. An emotion mixing pity, jealousy, and intense possessiveness consumed her completely. She did not correct him; instead, in the shadows, she acquiesced to and catered to this dangerous mistake.
Thus, between the unconscious fog brought by painkillers and the deliberate indulgence of sobriety, a relationship built on phantoms and deception quietly occurred. Outside the window, the river of Riverrun rushed endlessly, silently covering it all.
---
Regarding the news of Lyanna Stark's disappearance, as the host, Lord Hoster Tully felt a heavy responsibility and dared not slack off in the slightest. He immediately dispatched nearly a hundred capable riders to conduct a carpet search and inquiry along the main roads of the Trident and the territories of neighboring bannermen.
After a few days of anxious waiting, Lord Hoster summoned Lord Rickard Stark and his two sons—Brandon and Eddard—to his solar.
A heavy silence filled the room; only the firewood in the fireplace crackled. Lord Hoster looked grave. He placed the secret report just received on the table, his rough finger tapping the roll of parchment.
"We found witnesses," his voice was low, breaking the suffocating silence. "At the Inn at the Crossroads, and... closer to Harrenhal." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the instantly tense faces of the Starks, knowing the following words would ignite an unpredictable fire.
"More than one person saw her—Lady Lyanna." He took a deep breath and finally spoke that earth-shattering name. "And the one accompanying her was not a guard, nor an ordinary traveler... it was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."
He pronounced the last few words clearly and slowly.
Brandon Stark slammed his palm onto the heavy oak desk, making the cups rattle. He stood up abruptly, his tall frame trembling slightly with rage, flames of disbelief burning in his gray eyes.
"Rhaegar Targaryen?!" His roar almost lifted the roof. "That mad Targaryen dragon! He dared to abduct my sister!"
In his mind, there was never a second possibility. Mutual affection, voluntary elopement... such thoughts never once, and could absolutely never, appear in his mind.
Lyanna was his willful, stubborn sister, and Rhaegar was the prince who hid baseness beneath a gorgeous exterior. There was only one conclusion—this was the most shameless abduction and kidnapping!
"No! I absolutely cannot sit by and do nothing!" Brandon turned to rush for the door, the northern cold in his blood seemingly boiled over by rage. "I'm going to King's Landing right now! I'll break into the Red Keep and personally snatch my sister back from that bastard's hands!"
---
He had just taken a step when a hand heavy as an iron pincer slammed onto his shoulder. His father, Lord Rickard Stark, stood up, his face shrouded in frost colder than severe winter. "Sit down!" Lord Rickard's voice was low as ice, carrying unquestionable authority and suppressed anger.
Lord Hoster Tully also hurried forward, his tone full of a politician's prudence and an elder's earnestness. "Brandon, I implore you, patience! The news we received is not yet definitive; everything is just the one-sided word of witnesses. Is it abduction? Kidnapping? Or perhaps... truly just traveling together by coincidence? Before the truth is out, any reckless action, especially going directly to King's Landing to question the royal family, will only place Lady Lyanna in greater danger and thoroughly stain her irrevocable honor!"
"Honor?!"
Hearing this word, Brandon's face instantly flushed red with rage, as if all the blood in his body rushed to his head. He almost squeezed the word out through clenched teeth, his voice hoarse and trembling from extreme anger.
"What honor does our House Stark have left to speak of?!" He turned sharply to Lord Hoster, his eyes erupting with long-accumulated humiliation and hatred. "As early as the Tourney at Harrenhal, that son of a bitch Rhaegar already trampled our family's honor underfoot and ground it into the mud!"
He extended a trembling finger, listing the bone-deep humiliations one by one:
"First hatred! In the joust, I lost to Rhaegar under the gaze of everyone. That was my lack of skill; I accept it! I refuse to accept I am weaker than him, and one day I will defeat him, but that is a private grudge!
"Second hatred! The Mad King Aerys treated all nobles like clowns at that tourney. His suspicion and madness were an insult to all participants; that is public outrage!
"But the deepest, third hatred—!"
Brandon's voice rose sharply, almost roaring: "Was when that bastard, after winning the championship, bypassed his own wife, bypassed all the noble ladies and maidens in the arena, and presented that crown of 'Queen of Love and Beauty' made of winter roses to my sister Lyanna! By what right? How dared he?!"
He panted heavily, as if every breath carried blood foam.
"From the day we left Harrenhal, this heart-burning hatred has tormented me every single day! And now, he dares to disappear without a trace with my sister?! Tell me, where is the honor of House Stark?!!"
Lord Hoster Tully sighed deeply, a sound full of powerlessness and worry. Looking at the nearly out-of-control heir of the North, he knew any admonition about prudence and honor was pale and weak before the raging fire at this moment. He opened his mouth but found himself momentarily speechless, unsure how to soothe this wounded direwolf.
Lord Rickard Stark's face was already iron-green. His son's defeat in the lists was indisputable, but the Mad King Aerys's various humiliating actions at Harrenhal, and Prince Rhaegar's meaningful, almost provocative presentation of the crown, were like poisoned thorns deeply embedded in the heart of the Warden of the North, accumulating unspeakable resentment.
As the head of the house and Lord of the North, cold political reason transcending personal emotion ultimately prevailed. He exchanged a heavy, understanding look with Lord Hoster. Almost simultaneously, in an unquestionable, calm voice suppressing a storm, they said in unison:
"Right now, what we need most... is patience."
But this sentence, attempting to stabilize the situation, was like a stone thrown into a deep pool, stirring only ripples of dead silence.
The burning fire in Brandon's eyes showed no sign of extinguishing. Stalemate and oppression shrouded the entire room. Finally, this crucial meeting broke up unhappily in suffocating silence, leaving only heavy suspicion spreading in the air.