The true cause of Jon Arryn's death?
The ecstasy on Robert's face froze.
Cersei's momentary lapse in focus was replaced by shock.
Everyone's eyes shifted from Lynn to Petyr Baelish, who sat in his wheelchair, face pale as a ghost.
"Lord Lynn, what are you saying?"
Varys's soft voice drifted through the air, breaking the suffocating silence.
"Grand Maester Pycelle diagnosed Lord Arryn's death as a sudden illness..."
"Illness?"
Lynn sneered, cutting him off.
"Yes, an illness called ambition."
His gaze pierced straight through Petyr Baelish.
"Your Grace, Lord Hand."
Lynn turned to the throne and the Hand.
"Aren't you curious?"
"Why did Lord Jon Arryn die so suddenly?"
"Why, after his death, did the entire Seven Kingdoms fall into endless chaos and suspicion?"
"Because there was an invisible hand in the shadows, toying with everyone's fate!"
Lynn's voice rose sharply, and he extended a hand, pointing directly at the Master of Coin, who was already breaking out in cold sweat.
"And that person is you! Petyr Baelish!"
"Preposterous!"
Petyr finally snapped out of his shock.
He retorted shrilly, trying to maintain his last shred of composure.
"Lord Lynn, I know you dislike me, but you cannot use such despicable methods to slander a high minister of the Crown!"
"What proof do you have?"
"Proof?"
Lynn smiled, a smile full of mockery.
"Let's start from the beginning."
"First, Bran Stark's fall. A seven-year-old boy falls from a high tower."
"And while he lay in a coma, an assassin with a Valyrian steel dagger tried to end his life!"
Lynn's gaze swept over Ned's pain-filled face.
"Many here recognize that dagger."
"It once belonged to you, Petyr Baelish!"
"Yet you claimed you lost it to Tyrion Lannister in a tourney wager!"
"It was you who tried to single-handedly provoke a feud between House Stark and House Lannister!"
"I did not!"
Petyr's voice rose steeply.
He hadn't ordered that assassination. It was Joffrey, hearing Robert drunkenly say the boy would be better off dead than crippled, who did that stupid thing to prove himself to his father.
Littlefinger had only seized the opportunity, claiming the dagger belonged to Tyrion to cement the Lannisters' guilt.
"Of course you deny it."
Lynn gave him no chance to defend himself, continuing relentlessly.
"Then, there was the assassination attempt on Prince Joffrey!"
"Right on the streets of King's Landing, a poisoned crossbow bolt aimed straight at the Prince's back!"
"It was I who personally blocked that arrow for Joffrey!"
"Afterward, the Gold Cloaks searched the building but found nothing."
"The assassin vanished as if he were a ghost."
"Your Grace, aren't you curious?"
"In King's Landing, who has the connections to make an assassin vanish into thin air?"
Lynn's gaze locked onto Petyr again.
"It was you! Petyr! You planned that assassination!"
"Whether it succeeded or failed, the fury would have burned the two Stark girls accompanying the Prince!"
"Your goal was to make the Lion and the Wolf fight to the death!"
"You are spewing blood!"
Petyr's body shook violently in his wheelchair.
He realized that what Lynn was saying was terrifyingly accurate!
It was a plot he had laid!
How does this guy know?
"Spewing blood?"
The mockery on Lynn's face deepened.
"Then let's talk about your greatest masterpiece!"
"An assassin, in broad daylight, charging into the Iron Throne room to kill the King!"
"After being caught, the assassin insisted Queen Cersei ordered it!"
"What a clumsy and vicious frame-up!"
Cersei's body jerked. She looked at Lynn in disbelief.
He... he was defending her?
Moreover, Lynn had chosen to conceal the fact that Bran had caught her and Jaime.
He could have used this opportunity today to expose it all.
But he didn't.
This made Cersei sigh in relief.
Out of nowhere, a shred of gratitude for Lynn rose in her heart.
"Why would a Queen assassinate her own husband and son?"
"It defies logic!"
"But what if the person orchestrating it all intended for House Baratheon and House Lannister to break completely?"
"Piece by piece, seemingly unrelated events all point to the same outcome."
"To make the most powerful houses of the Seven Kingdoms slaughter each other and plunge the realm into war!"
"And you, Petyr Baelish, with no soldiers and no horses, can only use such underhanded methods."
"So you, a lowly Master of Coin, can reap the rewards in the storm of chaos, climbing your ladder of power built on blood and bones!"
"And the beginning of it all was the death of Jon Arryn!"
"It was you! You made Lysa, a woman blinded by love, poison her husband with the Tears of Lys!"
"It was you, who coveted Lady Catelyn but played with Lysa's feelings, promising to marry her once the deed was done."
"That fool Lysa actually believed you."
"Furthermore, Lord Arryn was old. Doesn't anyone find it strange he produced an heir so late?"
"It's not that Lord Arryn never had women, but neither his wives nor his mistresses ever bore him children. Why did Lysa get pregnant immediately after marrying him?"
"Leaving aside whether it was Lord Arryn's problem..."
"Looking across all of Westeros, or even the world, at Lord Arryn's age, who could make a woman pregnant?"
"I fear Lysa's child, the one still at the breast, is your seed, Lord Baelish, isn't he?"
The looks others gave Petyr changed.
This guy just loves other men's wives.
Who can stand that?
Petyr's face turned green.
He can say this in public?
Toying with another man's wife to get her pregnant, then inducing her to poison her husband—was this something a human would do?
But sadly, Littlefinger was exactly the kind of person who would do anything to achieve his goals.
Lynn had gotten it all right!
It was as if Lynn had watched him crawl into bed with Lysa.
How does he know such detail?
Can he see the past?
Before he could defend himself, Lynn spoke again.
He gave Petyr no chance.
"Then, you wrote to Lady Catelyn Stark, lying that the Lannisters were the poisoners, tricking Lord Ned into coming to King's Landing!"
Lynn's words perfectly threaded together the mysteries everyone knew but couldn't solve.
The story was so logical, so shocking.
"No... it wasn't me..."
Petyr panicked completely.
He realized that what Lynn said was a mix of truth and lies.
Assassinating Joffrey was true, but assassinating Bran really wasn't his order!
Poisoning Jon Arryn was true. He framed the Lannisters to bring Ned to King's Landing to confront them!
If Ned succeeded, Robert's reputation would be damaged, and the Stags would turn on the Lions.
If Ned failed and the King was killed, the Lannisters wouldn't spare Ned, who knew Joffrey was a bastard. Robb would fight to save Ned, causing a war between Wolves and Lions.
At worst, Ned would be sent to the Wall, losing his voice forever.
But that assassin who attacked Robert and blamed Cersei... that really wasn't him!
Heaven knows why that assassin suddenly went mad and attacked Robert?
But now.
Under Lynn's narrative, all crimes, all conspiracies, formed a complete loop, a pot of shit firmly buckled onto his head that he couldn't take off!
He truly had no way to defend himself!
Because he couldn't explain why he plotted to assassinate Joffrey!
He couldn't explain why he poisoned Jon Arryn.
Because those were facts.
"Petyr——!!!"
A roar like a wounded beast interrupted Petyr's attempt at a pale defense.
Robert Baratheon's bloodshot eyes glared death at Petyr in his wheelchair.
His massive frame shook with extreme rage, looking ready to lunge and tear the man who had played him like a fiddle to pieces.
"It was you!"
"It was always you!"
"You gutter rat!"
"You played me for a fool!"
Spittle flew from Robert's mouth onto Petyr's face.
He yanked his ornate sword from its sheath, pointing the tip at Petyr's throat.
"I'll kill you right now!"
"Your Grace! Calm yourself!"
Ned and Renly stepped forward simultaneously, holding back the furious King.
"Let go of me! I'll take his head myself!"
"No one stops me!"
Robert struggled wildly.
"No! Your Grace!"
Looking at the cold gleam of the sword tip, Petyr finally squeezed the last drop of reason from his overwhelming terror.
He let out a shrill scream.
"These are lies! Lynn has no proof! This is all his conjecture!"
"I deny all charges!"
Petyr struggled with all his might in the wheelchair.
Half his body leaned out, his face twisted in fear, carrying the madness of a gambler.
"I am a minister of the Small Council!"
"You cannot condemn me on one man's word!"
"I demand a trial!"
"Before the Gods and men, I demand a trial by combat!"
Trial by combat!
These three words instantly silenced the mad Robert, the angry Ned, and everyone in the hall.
It was the oldest tradition in the Seven Kingdoms.
When evidence was insufficient and words clashed against words, judgment could be handed to the Gods.
A duel to decide right from wrong.
Anyone had the right to demand a trial by combat. No one could defy the will of the Gods.
Not even the King.
Petyr Baelish, the cripple in the wheelchair, used his last and only right to hand his fate to the Gods.
Or rather, to steel.
Robert's chest heaved violently.
He looked at Petyr's frantic face, then at the terrifyingly calm Lynn.
After a long time, he squeezed out a word through gritted teeth.
"Fine!"
"I grant it!"
"Let the Gods see what color your maggot blood is!"
Robert slammed his sword back into its sheath and slumped onto the Iron Throne, as if the rage had drained all his strength.
"You, Petyr Baelish."
Robert pointed at him.
"Since you demand a trial by combat, choose your champion."
Everyone's eyes fell on Petyr.
He was just a scheming politician, a cripple in a wheelchair. How could he fight?
And who would be willing to stake their life for a fallen conspirator burdened with such heinous crimes?
Petyr's gaze swept frantically around the hall.
Renly Baratheon?
Renly turned his head away in disgust.
Jaime Lannister?
He was looking at Petyr as if looking at a dead man.
The nobles he had once bought with gold and favors?
Now they avoided his gaze like he was the plague.
When the tree falls, the monkeys scatter.