"What?"
"One and a half million Gold Dragons!"
Nestor Royce, High Steward of the Vale and Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, bellowed across the Great Hall of the Eyrie, his voice carrying with no regard for decorum. He turned to Lady Lysa Tully, his expression a mixture of incredulity and frustration.
"With all due respect, Lady Lysa," Nestor continued, his tone attempting to mask panic beneath civility, "that sum is enough to equip an army of ten thousand men!"
He had every reason to be alarmed. Since the death of Jon Arryn, who had gone to King's Landing to serve as Hand of the King, Nestor had assumed much of the administrative burden of the Vale. He knew the difficulties of governing a region as isolated and treacherous as this one.
The Vale was a land defined by its natural fortifications. Encircled by the Mountains of the Moon, the only road leading to the Riverlands left it largely cut off from the outside world. While this made invasion nearly impossible, it also limited trade and wealth. Unlike the Lannisters, whose coffers overflowed with gold, the Vale's resources were modest, built over decades of careful stewardship.
And now, Lysa Tully, widow of Jon Arryn, demanded to give away nearly everything the Vale had accumulated over generations.
"Ser Nestor, I understand this request is extreme," Lysa said, cradling her six-year-old son Robin in her arms, nursing him openly, unbothered by the watchful eyes of her attendants. Her grief over losing Jon had left her emotionally fragile, but her doting love for Robin was boundless. This child had survived the tragedies that had claimed so many of her pregnancies, and she treasured him above all else.
"But Lord Baelish is in grave danger. He is a nobleman of the Vale. Surely we should help him in his hour of need."
Nestor glanced at Robin, seeing the young boy nestled in his mother's arms, oblivious to the political storm around him. He swallowed his frustration and replied carefully, "My Lady, I must warn you. Baelish is not to be trusted. Once this sum is given, I doubt any of it will ever be repaid. His ambition is boundless, and his loyalty questionable."
He had no illusions. Lysa's heart, ignited by love and longing, could not be reasoned with by simple logic. Yet Nestor knew it was his duty to try.
"Ser Nestor is correct, My Lady," added Ser Vardis Egen, Captain of the Guard. A man of unwavering loyalty and practical wisdom, Vardis knew the Vale could not afford such generosity. "Littlefinger is cunning and unscrupulous. He has been away for many years, and we have no obligation to send him this sum. Especially not such a vast amount."
The words were reasonable, but they fell on deaf ears. Lysa's mind was consumed by the image of Baelish, destitute and wandering the streets of King's Landing, a vision she could not tolerate. Her letter that morning had painted a picture of desperation that pierced her heart. Every line seemed filled with longing for her, a carefully crafted web that had ensnared her love-struck mind.
"No!" Lysa's voice rang through the hall, sharp and commanding. "This money must be paid!"
Her determination left no room for negotiation. With a regal air, she set Robin upon a chair in the center of the hall, raising her head to address those who might oppose her.
"Maester Colombre," she said, her voice firm, echoing across the stone walls.
The maester, a student of Grand Maester Pycelle and adept at observing without speaking, bowed respectfully. "At your command, My Lady."
Lysa's gaze swept the hall, fixing on Nestor and Vardis. "Did you both swear fealty to my husband, Jon Arryn?" she asked, voice rising with the authority of a queen.
"Yes, My Lady," came the prompt replies. The two men, bound by oath and respect, stepped forward and knelt, heads lowered in solemn obedience.
"Good," Lysa said, satisfaction flickering across her face. She then placed Robin firmly in the chair. "Jon Arryn has died in King's Landing. You will swear fealty to his legitimate heir, Robin Arryn. You will recognize his rightful status as Duke of the Eyrie and serve him faithfully."
Though the three men had intended to swear loyalty eventually, the grief and instability of recent days had delayed the ceremony. Now, pressed by Lysa's passion, they had no choice but to obey. They raised their voices in unison, swearing fealty to young Robin before the Seven.
"Very well, My Lords," Lysa said, smiling triumphantly. She now wielded power indirectly through her son. "Since you have sworn loyalty to the Duke of the Eyrie, I trust there will be no objection if the Duke uses his private property to aid those in need."
The men were silent, realizing the futility of opposition. "Of course, Lady Lysa," they replied. "That is his wealth. It is not ours to interfere with."
Satisfied, Lysa swept Robin's hand through the hall and departed, leaving the men and the maester behind. Maester Colombre's eyes narrowed. His voice carried the weight of experience and foresight:
"Westeros has not known a harsh winter for many years. The Vale is closest to the North. With the treasury now nearly depleted, this coming winter may test us in ways we have not yet imagined."
Nestor and Vardis exchanged grim looks. The maester's words were not mere speculation; they were a warning of consequences that may be impossible to reverse.
Far from the stone halls of the Eyrie, a small merchant ship cut across the waters toward the Vale. Old Jess, a seasoned smuggler, worked the winch with practiced efficiency, shouting instructions to his son, Morgen. "Morgen! Pull in the sails! We're about to dock!"
Morgen, still half-asleep, rubbed his eyes and moved to follow his father's orders. The two had spent their lives navigating these waters, transporting goods and occasionally discreet passengers for the right price. Last night, they had been entrusted with a particularly lucrative cargo: one high-ranking figure transported from King's Landing to the Vale, earning them three hundred Gold Dragons for a single night's work.
As the ship approached the coast, Old Jess gave further instructions. "Check on the gentleman who came aboard last night. Prepare food and make sure he is comfortable. He is a big spender, so treat him well."
Morgen, obedient and eager, prepared salted fish and cured meat, knocking cautiously on the cabin door. "My Lord, are you awake? We'll dock soon, and there's about an hour for resupply."
There was no response. Morgen called again, louder this time, but silence remained. Old Jess, sensing trouble, approached the door himself, rapping firmly.
"My Lord! Time to wake! Breakfast awaits!"
The door was unlocked. Old Jess pushed it open and stepped inside, expecting to find a noble still sleeping. His eyes fell upon the man in the bed—and what he saw made him scream.
Blood dried and crusted around a gaping wound at the man's throat, the elegant features of Lord Baelish's face distorted beyond recognition. The crimson flesh gleamed in the dim light, a horrifying testament to the power of the Death Knight who had orchestrated his fate.
Morgen, leaning into the cabin, stared in stunned silence. The horror of the scene was absolute. The man who had once schemed in the halls of King's Landing, who had manipulated women and nobles alike with unparalleled cunning, was now nothing more than a lifeless corpse, his ambition and deceit finally brought to an unceremonious end.
Outside, the waves lapped against the hull of the ship, indifferent to the tragedy within. And as the vessel continued toward the Vale, the shadow of Baelish's demise spread, a grim reminder of the terrifying power of a love-struck mind—and the deadly consequences for those who fall prey to it.