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The air in the secret passage was cold and stagnant, smelling of old lime and dust.
Lysa Arryn's heart hammered against her ribs.
Every beat sounded like a war drum in her ears.
She followed close behind Petyr, treading carefully with every step.
Through the crack in the stone slab above, warm candlelight spilled down, along with the sound of her son's muffled, timid sobbing.
Every whimper branded itself onto her heart like a hot iron.
She wanted to take her son and fly far away!
Right now!
Immediately!
"It's time."
Petyr's voice whispered in her ear.
"Wait for me."
Leaving only those two words, Petyr slipped silently into the room above.
Lysa didn't even see how he moved.
She only heard a faint shhhwick, like fabric tearing.
Then, the dull thud of a heavy object hitting the floor.
And then, silence.
Lysa clapped both hands over her mouth, terrified of making a sound.
Moments later, the stone slab was pushed open soundlessly.
Petyr's face reappeared in the darkness, extending a hand to her.
"Come up, my little Lysa."
"Time to take our son."
Trembling, Lysa took his hand and was pulled into the room.
Inside, the tall Northern soldier was gone.
Her son, Robert Arryn, was curled up in the corner of his bed, shaking with fear.
"Robert! My sweet baby!"
Lysa couldn't hold back anymore.
With a suppressed sob, she rushed over and pulled the small, frail body into a tight embrace.
"Mommy! Mommy!"
Only when wrapped in that familiar warmth did Robert Arryn snap out of his terror.
He burst into loud wails, his thin arms locking around Lysa's neck in a death grip.
"Mommy! I was so scared! He's a bad man! He tried to make me take bitter medicine!"
"Don't be scared, don't be scared, my sweet baby."
Lysa kissed her son's forehead, tears streaming down her face.
"Mommy's here. Mommy's here to take you."
"We're leaving. We're leaving right now."
Holding her recovered son, she felt like she held the whole world.
The fear, humiliation, and despair of the past days seemed to vanish in this moment.
As long as she could be with her Petyr and her Robert, she would die happy right now.
"Mommy..."
Robert nuzzled into her chest, his crying subsiding to sniffles.
He looked up at her with a tear-streaked face, his eyes full of timid longing.
"Mommy, I miss Daddy..."
Lysa's body went rigid.
The smile on her face froze instantly.
"What did you say, Robert?"
"I miss Daddy..."
Robert's voice was thick with congestion, full of grievance and yearning.
"I miss Daddy Jon Arryn."
"He used to... he used to tell me stories, and let me ride on his shoulders..."
"He's gone now. No one tells me stories anymore..."
BOOM—!!!
Lysa's world collapsed inside her mind.
Jon Arryn...
Jon Arryn!
Her son, hers and Petyr's son...
He missed the old man she had poisoned with her own hands!
An extreme chill shot from the base of her spine straight to the top of her skull!
She stared blankly at the son in her arms.
That innocent face was written with pure love for his "father."
It wasn't fake.
It was a child's purest, truest emotion.
In Robert's heart, the old man she saw as a burden, a cage, a thorn in her eye, was his only father!
A terrifying thought drilled into her brain.
What have I done?
She personally handed a vial of the Tears of Lys to the husband who, though old, had always been gentle and tolerant toward her.
She watched him writhe in agony on his deathbed until he became a cold corpse.
For what?
For Petyr.
Then, she personally smothered the father who gave her life and raised her.
Lord Hoster Tully.
His eyes, wide with disbelief in his final moments, seemed to stare at her right now!
For what?
For Petyr.
Then, she used her body to conspire with that old bastard Walder Frey, planning a bloody massacre of House Tully at her own brother's wedding!
She wanted to kill her uncle, kill her brother, kill all her kin!
She wanted Riverrun to drown in blood and House Tully to be extinguished!
For what?
Just to avenge "dead" Petyr, to drag the entire Riverlands into war!
She betrayed the Arryns, betrayed the Tullys, betrayed everyone who loved her, and betrayed herself.
She went from a noble lady, the Lady of the Vale, to a husband-slayer, father-slayer, a venomous, mad woman attempting kinslaying!
Everything she did was for the man she loved deeply.
But in the end, her son, the only "fruit of love" between her and that man, missed the person she murdered.
What irony is this?
What absurdity is this?!
Could it be... that she was wrong?
If she had just married Jon Arryn back then and cut ties with Petyr completely, would she have ended up here?
She... should have accepted her fate long ago...
"Ah..."
A sound filled with pain and despair squeezed out of Lysa's throat.
Her arms holding Robert began to tremble uncontrollably.
She looked at her hands.
These hands...
Stained with the blood of kin, committing crimes too numerous to list!
What on earth... had she done?!
"Lysa! Calm down!"
A dark, unreadable light flashed in Petyr's eyes.
His voice pulled Lysa back from the edge of breakdown.
Petyr grabbed her shoulders, shaking her hard.
"We have to go! Now!"
"Go?"
Lysa looked up. Her eyes were empty, void of any light.
She looked at Petyr.
The man she had loved her entire life.
"Where?"
"Where can we go?"
Her voice was like a wisp of smoke about to vanish in the air.
"Leave here! Leave Westeros!"
Petyr's tone became "anxious."
"We'll go to Essos! Start a new life! Just the three of us!"
Just the three of us...
Lysa looked at her sobbing son, then at the man whose face was full of urgency.
She smiled, a look uglier than crying.
"Petyr..."
"Are the gods you spoke of... real?"
"Did they really... bless our love?"
Petyr's expression changed "slightly."
"Lysa, now is not the time for this!"
"Answer me!"
Lysa's voice suddenly turned shrill.
She stared dead into Petyr's eyes.
"Petyr, tell me!"
"Would the gods really bless a woman who killed her husband and her father?!"
"Would the gods really bless us, hiding in the shadows, rutting like beasts?!"
Just as she was shouting her questions...
BANG—!!!
A massive crash!
The heavy oak door of the room was kicked open violently from the outside!
A group of knights clad in heavy armor, swords drawn, poured into the room!
Leading them was a tall, burly old man with white hair and beard, his spirit still sharp and fierce.
His hawk-like eyes contracted sharply the moment he saw the scene in the room!
Bronze Yohn Royce!
Behind him were all the bannermen and nobles of the Vale!
Ser Lyonel Corbray, the heir of House Waynwood, knights of House Templeton...
They stared at the woman holding the child...
When their gaze finally landed on that face twisted by madness and despair...
Expressions of utter shock and disbelief appeared on every single face!
"Lysa Arryn?!"