Petyr Baelish smiled warmly. "Cat, the wind is strong here. Let's sit over there."
He pointed to a small round table with a few comfortable chairs.
Catelyn did not refuse. "You should feel the winter wind of Winterfell sometime," she said as they walked.
Petyr's eyes moved as he watched her back, thumb and forefinger brushing his neatly trimmed mustache.
Is Eddard Stark truly dead? From the intelligence he'd gathered, it was unconfirmed—no body found. "Missing" was the better word.
He guessed that a certain "devoted friend" would know the truth—or had intervened in secret to save the running wolf. If so… what a priceless favor to owe.
For now, the world believed the running wolf had perished in the riot at King's Landing. That suited him fine.
Lifting a gem-studded golden ewer, Petyr poured wine. "Cat, I actually think your son's coronation may be a good thing for you all."
At the sound of the old pet name, Catelyn's brow tightened—but she let it pass. There were larger matters at hand.
When the cups were full, Petyr gestured gracefully. "Given the current board, your son needs his family's support more than ever…"
He swirled his cup. "Lysa is mistress of the Vale—but she's also your son's aunt."
He opened his hands. "Family. Duty. Honor. Kin will always be more reliable than strangers."
Catelyn felt the pull of his logic, yet her voice was flinty. "Petyr—did Lysa do it? You know what I mean."
His gray-green eyes met hers. After a long beat, he gave a soft, derisive laugh.
Seeing her anger rise, he added lightly, "Why do I feel I'm the Tully now, and you've become the hardheaded Stark?"
"What do you mean?"
He sighed, looking out the window, sympathy in his tone. "Let's set Jon's murder aside for a moment. We both know Lysa's marriage was misery. We remember the girl she once was. If she has become what she is now… who forged it?"
He turned back to her. "Was it not Jon Arryn who made this fate?"
He'd admitted it—Lysa had poisoned her husband. Catelyn's heart lurched. Her hand trembled as she raised her cup to hide the turmoil.
A small curve tugged at Petyr's mouth.
"I'll persuade Lysa," he said softly. "Bend the Vale's knee to the King in the North."
Can Lysa speak for all the Vale? No—the League of the Just would never accept her rule.
What is your aim, Littlefinger? To use outside force to break the League, of course.
Smiling, he added, almost teasing, "Would you really put your own sister on the block? For a man long dead?"
Catelyn stared. "Littlefinger—what do you want?"
His answer came quickly, as if rehearsed. "Peace in the Vale."
She sipped, eyes mocking. "Petyr, we know each other. Tell me the truth."
He feigned sheepishness, scratching his head like the boy he'd been.
"Answer me," she pressed, lips cool.
He steeled himself, exhaled. "I suppose… the Stark King will need a Hand."
At once the old polish returned. He murmured with a helpless smile, "You never change—always seeing through me."
"Don't forget I watched you grow up," she snapped.
She believed she'd unmasked his little plot. But the true answer had already been given: he did want the Vale's "peace." The Hand's seat was merely the answer he wished Catelyn to arrive at by herself—his way of showing "good faith."
"Will you wed Lysa?" Catelyn asked.
"You know my heart, Cat—" He stopped when her face cooled.
After a moment beneath her stare, he smiled bitterly. "My holding is the smallest stony spit on the Fingers. With that station… everyone knows it's impossible."
He went on, gently, "We were childhood friends. Let me help as a friend. Think of me… as a physician who cannot let go of our golden youth—a healer to draw Lysa out of her pain."
"A healer who works the bedframe?" Catelyn couldn't resist.
The Eyrie had places that gave a grand echo. Petyr only lifted his shoulders, grinning. "You might try pitying me."
Catelyn had to admit—her sister lacked some womanly charm now. She turned away and drank.
Setting the cup down, she cleared her throat. "What do you propose?"
"Though Lysa was rude to you, she needs her sister. She will get better…"
Then, soberly: "Cat, I'll do my utmost to persuade her. Let me carry your signed letter and seek audience with our King in the North."
Catelyn studied him. "Petyr, I won't deceive you. A Hand needs the king's trust—not a mother's recommendation."
"I'll earn it. Thank you, Cat."
Back in his study, Petyr stood motionless awhile, then went to a hidden shelf and drew out a carefully concealed packet—a letter sealed in gold wax.
Crab Claw Peninsula — Whispering City, Lord's chambers.
"Gawen…"
"Gawen…"
"Gawen…"
Gawen jerked awake, cold light in his eyes. The same dream again.
"Attend me," he said from the bed.
The door swung open at once. Fully armed, Ser Massen Beck and the others strode in.
Gawen's gaze swept them; backs straightened.
"Find any suspicious persons. If they resist, cut them down."
To let his simple folk sleep in peace, Gawen had instituted a nightly curfew soon after taking up the lordship—never once lifted. At such hours, anyone about besides patrols and sentries could be suspect.
"As you command, my lord!" they answered as one.
When they were gone, Gawen rose and opened the narrow casement. Night wind poured in.
Outside, the full moon hung high. He stared into the haze, replaying the dream.
For the third time… He could be sure the voice was Daenerys's. All else remained blurred.
Melisandre's sorcery? After the second dream, he'd suspected the red priestess he'd once met at Dragonstone.
And if Gawen suspected, he acted—he loathed sorcery for one simple reason: he could not wield it.
Crabb men waited at signal points for beacon-fire orders.
Shadow-binding or glamours alike—casters needed to be within some range in this world (the three-eyed exception aside).
Tonight, on his covert orders, Ser Massen stood ready. At a word, Crabb soldiers would sweep the city in a dragnet.
If not a human spell—then what? As he paced to the Westeros map, he scowled.
Melisandre was unlikely, he knew—but caution ruled him. He would test, rule out each suspect, and hunt the truth.
If not sorcery, then why the same dream three nights running?
Finding no answer, his mind strayed… Ice is too large for daily wear. He needed a Valyrian steel side-sword. Tobho Mott in King's Landing knew how to reforge Valyrian blades… His finger tapped Crab Isle on the map.
At first light, Ser Massen returned.
"My lord, aside from a dozen poachers and smugglers, nothing unusual."
Gawen nodded. "Well done, loyal Massen."
Massen hesitated. "What of the prisoners, my lord?"
"By the laws of the land."
Dismissed with a wave, Massen withdrew.
Gawen leaned back and shut his eyes. A Targaryen dragon's call? A prophecy? Or…
Flames everywhere. Daenerys, hair and skin dusted black, violet eyes wide with fear and helplessness.
She stretched a hand toward him, lips working soundlessly. What is she saying?
At last he heard it: Gawen… save me…
He snapped his eyes open. Dawn already blazed through the narrow window.
Next day, the Mermaid slid from Siren's Port with five Crabb warships in her wake.
Essos — City-state of Viserys.
In a certain room, Jon Snow, Young Griff, and Rolly sat in a ring amid a sea of empty jugs.
Rolly slurred, "On my sixteenth name day—my father's a smith, famous enough—he forged me a longsword. A lordling stole the blade meant for me and mocked me… said my hands were born for a hammer, not a sword. I lost my temper, fetched a hammer, and broke both his arms—and half his ribs."
He took a deep pull. "I fled that night, crossed the Narrow Sea, and became a sellsword."
He added, "A sellsword who carries a sword."
Jon had drunk plenty. Rolly kept swaying in and out of his vision. He knew it was the wine. He'd had too much.
Leaning back against the wall, Jon grinned. "You're brave, Rolly. A true man."
Rolly laughed, then turned. "Young Griff—your story?"
Jon blinked through the haze at the boy's flushed face. In the twilight, the youth's eyes seemed almost violet. Surely a trick of light.
Young Griff smiled. "My father also fled the far side of the sea. I grew up here. He dislikes speaking of his youth."
Dropping his voice in mock secrecy, he went on, "Once he was deep in his cups and told me he'd crossed a family named Lannister—powerful people. He had no choice but to run."
"I know that name," Rolly said. "A Lannister always pays his debts."
"Lannisters again," Jon snarled. "Damn them."
Both boys looked at him—rare anger.
Rolly asked, "Jon, sounds like you hate them a fair bit?"
After a silence, Jon nodded. "They almost harmed my kin. I don't like them."
"Your kin?"
Another pause. Then Jon said, "I misspoke. I'm a bastard. What kin does a bastard have?"
Rolly clapped a big hand on his shoulder. "This isn't that cursed sunset land. Don't dwell on it. As a sellsword, no one will care. With your skill, respect will come."
Young Griff, tipsy but gentle, said, "None of us chose it. Given a choice, who would wish to be born a bastard?"
Rolly nodded hard. "Right. Blame others, not yourself."
Jon's eyes were glassy, his smile bright. "I understand."
.
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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