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The river water soaked the hem of Lysa Arryn's dress.
The wet fabric clung to her legs, making every step a struggle.
After swimming across the channel, she was practically dragged along, stumbling frantically across the muddy bank.
Behind her, Riverrun—the castle where she was born and raised—now seemed like a beast devouring life.
The fires and screams were left far behind.
But the heavy scent of blood seemed stuck in her nose, clinging like a curse she couldn't shake off.
"Petyr! My Petyr!"
Lysa babbled incoherently, one hand clutching the man's sleeve in a death grip.
As if he were the only piece of driftwood in a raging flood.
"I knew it! I knew you wouldn't die!"
"The Seven preserve us, you're alive!"
Her voice was thick with emotion and lingering terror, tears mixing with river water on her face.
She didn't care about the slaughtered Freys, didn't care about her poisoned brother and uncle, didn't even care about the fall of House Tully.
She only cared about one thing.
He was alive.
Petyr Baelish, the man she had loved her entire life, was alive!
That was enough.
Everything she did was to avenge Petyr.
Littlefinger loved Lysa's sister, Catelyn.
But Lysa loved Littlefinger deeply.
The root of all this sin began when Littlefinger was gravely wounded in a duel for Catelyn, and Lysa nursed him back to health.
"Quiet down, my little Lysa."
Petyr's low voice sounded in her ear.
That nickname felt like a warm hand clutching her heart.
All her fear and anxiety were smoothed away in an instant.
He always called her that.
In those secret nights that belonged only to the two of them.
Petyr pulled her along, expertly turning into a dense forest.
The noise behind them was completely cut off, leaving only the rustle of wind through the leaves and their ragged breathing.
After running for who knows how long, Petyr finally stopped, leading her into a cave hidden by vines.
Inside, it was dry and secluded. Petyr produced a flint from somewhere and quickly lit a small pile of dry twigs.
The orange flames danced, chasing away the night's chill, and finally giving Lysa a chance to properly look at this man who had returned from the dead.
He was still Petyr.
Gaunt cheeks, carefully groomed goatee, a well-tailored black tunic.
Even in flight, he maintained a meticulous dignity.
But he seemed... different somehow.
His eyes were still that familiar grey-green, but they were so deep she couldn't see the bottom.
His movements had changed too.
The Petyr of old was elegant, composed, a shadow weaving among the highborn.
But just now, in the Great Hall, facing those monster-like warriors... the skill he displayed... that speed, that lethality, was something Lysa had never seen before.
"Petyr..."
Lysa's voice carried an imperceptible tremor.
"They... they showed me your head... in the Eyrie... that head..."
She didn't dare recall that image.
That severed head, eyes wide open in death, had been her deepest nightmare for days.
"A trick, my dear little Lysa."
Petyr sat by the fire, casually tossing a twig into the flames.
"Just Lynn's parlor trick. He wanted you to think I was dead, to make you despair completely."
"And he succeeded."
"He used your love for me to achieve his goals."
His voice was calm, as if discussing something that had nothing to do with him.
"But... your fighting..."
Lysa finally voiced her biggest question.
"When did you... become so skilled?"
"Even those monsters... you could..."
Petyr didn't answer immediately.
He just stared quietly into the fire, the dancing flames reflecting two eerie lights in his grey-green pupils.
For a moment, the only sound in the cave was the crackling of the wood.
Just as Lysa thought he wouldn't answer, and the seed of doubt began to sprout in her heart, Petyr slowly raised his head.
His gaze cut through the flames, staring straight into Lysa's eyes.
"Because I saw the gods."
His voice was soft, yet it carried a strange magic that instantly seized Lysa's entire soul.
"Gods?"
Lysa was stunned.
"Yes. The true gods."
The corner of Petyr's mouth curled into a smile that wasn't quite a smile.
"In the moment I was closest to death, I saw them."
"The Seven... they stood right before me."
"The Mother granted me her mercy."
"She said your love for me is the purest fire in this world, and it should not be extinguished."
"She said our love is blessed by her."
These words struck Lysa's heart like a bolt of lightning!
Her mind went blank. All reason, all doubt, was instantly washed away by a flood of ecstasy!
Yes!
That must be it!
Her love for Petyr was sacred!
Protected by the gods!
That's why he came back from the dead!
That's why he had god-like power!
"The Warrior taught me how to fight. The Father granted me wisdom."
Petyr's voice, like the whisper of a devil, continued in her ear.
"They gave me a second life for only one purpose."
"To return to your side and protect you, my little Lysa."
"Petyr!"
Lysa couldn't hold back anymore.
With a muffled sob, she scrambled over and threw herself into Petyr's arms, hugging him tightly.
"I knew it! I knew it!"
She buried her face in his cold robe and wept loudly.
Pouring out all the grievances, fears, and despair of these days into hot tears.
Petyr reached out and gently stroked her hair.
His movements were tender, but his eyes were cold as frost.
He looked down at the woman in his arms, who had completely broken down over a few of his lies, trusting him implicitly.
Deep in those grey-green eyes flashed a trace of imperceptible mockery and disgust.
Fool.
Once Lysa calmed down a bit, Petyr helped her sit up.
He cupped her face, gently wiping away her tear stains.
"Alright, don't cry."
"We have something more important to do now."
Petyr's tone turned serious.
This shift sobered Lysa instantly.
"What is it?"
"Our son."
Petyr stared into her eyes, enunciating every word.
"Robert?"
Lysa's heart clenched.
"My sweet boy! How is he? Did that demon Lynn hurt him?"
"He is safe for now."
Petyr's voice carried a convincing strength.
"I have been watching from the shadows."
"Lynn kept him in the Eyrie, but he hasn't harmed him."
"The Eyrie..."
Despair flashed in Lysa's eyes.
"That's Lynn's territory now. How do we get in? How do we save him?"
"Others can't, but I can."
Petyr's face wore that confident smile of someone in control of everything.
"Don't forget, the Eyrie is our home too."
"I know every secret passage, every corner of that place."
"Lynn's men are just bandits squatting in our house. They know nothing about it."
His words were like a shot of adrenaline, giving hope to Lysa's sinking heart.
"I can take you in."
"Without anyone noticing, we will quietly take our son away."
"Our son..."
Lysa mumbled the words, a sickly light shining in her eyes.
Yes, Robert was their son.
The fruit of her love with Petyr!
Even though... even though his father in name was that old corpse Jon Arryn.
In her heart, Petyr was Robert's only father!
"Once we get Robert," Petyr's voice became incredibly soft, painting the picture Lysa had dreamed of.
"We will leave this hellhole of Westeros."
"We'll go to Essos. To Pentos, or Myr. We'll buy a manor by the sea."
"There will be endless sunshine and sweet wine."
"No more wars, no more schemes, no more damn kings and lords."
"Just the three of us."
"A family, together forever."
"How does that sound?"
Lysa stared at him blankly, looking at the tender "love" in his eyes, at the beautiful future he sketched for her.
She felt like she was drowning in sudden happiness.
"Yes..."
Lysa nodded vigorously.
Afraid that if she hesitated, the dream before her would shatter.
"Yes! Petyr! Let's go! Let's go get our son! We'll be a family, together forever!"
She threw herself into his arms again.
This time, not crying, but filled with infinite longing and joy for the future.
Petyr held her, a gentle smile on his face.
He patted her back softly, like comforting a child who finally got their candy.
"Sleep now, my love."
"Rest up. We have a long road ahead."
Soothed by him, Lysa—mentally and physically exhausted from days of fear and a bloody massacre—finally fell into a deep sleep in her lover's arms, dreaming of a beautiful future.
Hearing her breathing even out, the smile on Petyr's face vanished instantly.
He looked down at the woman whose face was stained with tears, still clutching the corner of his robe in her sleep. There was not a shred of pity in his eyes, only cold indifference.