The Giant's Lance pierced the sky, the cold wind howling between the precipices, swirling with a perennial cold mist.
The Eyrie perched upon the summit, so isolated it felt almost surreal.
A sea of clouds surged beneath the castle, separating the heart of the Vale into a fortress that seemed secure but was actually suspended in mid-air.
A raven flew through the clouds, landing on the rookery of the Maester's tower.
The scroll bound to its leg was quickly delivered to the solar. Once the proclamation from the Westerlands was unfurled, the peace The Eyrie had found by hiding behind its natural defenses was shattered.
In a secluded side hall of the castle, the fireplace glowed faintly, and the candlelight stretched the shadows of two people, swaying gently against the stone walls.
The thick stone walls blocked most of the wind and frost, and also contained a room full of silence.
Varys was wrapped in soft robes, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight. His voice was thin and light, devoid of any emotion:
"dragonfire will not stop at King's Landing. Lord Petyr, the Vale has closed its doors, seemingly avoiding the flames of war..."
"But when the outcome is decided, no matter how high the cliff, it cannot stop iron hooves, much less the dragons descending from the sky."
Littlefinger stood by the window, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing his chin.
He turned around, that half-smile still playing on his face.
"I never sit and wait for death, Lord Varys." His tone was light, but there was a hidden coldness beneath it. "In this game, the Vale can no longer remain a bystander."
"Enter the game?" Varys tilted his head, his expression as usual. "We both know Lady Lysa's mind."
"She only has eyes for Duke Robin and only wants to live a peaceful life guarding The Eyrie. Asking her to drag the Vale into war would be as difficult as climbing to the heavens."
"She will only shut the Bloody Gate tight and pretend nothing is happening outside."
Petyr gave a low chuckle, his laugh devoid of warmth, filled only with a certain confidence in human nature.
"She has no choice."
He took a few steps closer, the candlelight dancing in his eyes. "The Eyrie now has only a widow with a young son."
"The lords of the Vale—House Corbray, Royce, Waynwood... which of them is easy to deal with? They never respected this Lady Regent from The Riverlands; feigning compliance while acting in opposition has become the norm."
"Some even whisper in private that the death of Jon Arryn had everything to do with her."
Varys's brow twitched slightly, but he did not respond. These rumors were already caught in his web.
"She is isolated and helpless," Petyr's voice dropped even lower. "Other than believing in me and relying on me, she has no second path to take. And I, as it happens, can make her feel at ease."
Varys nodded slightly and asked slowly, "So, you intend to ally with Lord Tywin and respond to his call?"
"An alliance is possible." A calculating light flashed in Littlefinger's eyes, like a fox staring at its trapped prey. "But Tywin must show sincerity."
"Since he has crowned Tommen Baratheon as King, he should have this 'King' issue a legal decree... formally appointing me as Warden of the East and High Lord of the Vale."
Seeing the doubt on Varys's face, he calmly added:
"Back then, it was the lords of the Vale, along with the North, The Riverlands, and the Stormlands, who pushed Baratheon onto the iron throne."
"Tommen is of Robert's 'bloodline.' His decree, to those Vale nobles who still recognize the legitimacy of the royal family, even if they are dissatisfied in their hearts, they will not openly defy it."
"A mere decree might not be enough," Varys said flatly.
"Naturally, it's not enough." Petyr's smile remained unchanged, as composed as if everything were under his control. "The royal decree is just a title, the first step to suppressing dissent. To truly make those proud Vale nobles bow their heads, other methods must be used."
He looked out the window, as if he could see through the stone walls to the other side of the castle:
"For instance, Ser Lyn Corbray of House Corbray, who visited not long ago... his dissatisfaction with the family head and his thirst for inheritance rights might be a good opening."
Having said this, he spoke no more, straightened his cuffs, and turned to walk toward Lysa's quarters.
As the door opened, a warm breeze mixed with frankincense, powder, and a sense of confinement blew toward him.
Lysa Tully sat on a thick velvet-covered couch, holding her frail and slow son, Robin. Her bodice was open, as she nursed the child who was long past the age of weaning but remained clingy.
Years and paranoia had long since worn away her youthful appearance. Childbirth and constant anxiety had left her figure bloated, her skin sagging, and fine lines crawling across her cheeks.
Her former radiance was gone, leaving only the image of a middle-aged woman consumed by possessiveness and fear.
Hearing footsteps, Lysa looked up. Seeing it was Petyr, a light of obsession immediately lit up in her eyes.
She impatiently shooed away the grumbling and dissatisfied Robin, but made no effort to cover her open bodice.
She approached him in a manner completely unbecoming of noble etiquette, her tone soft and aggrieved:
"Petyr, my Littlefinger... you've finally come."
"Those Vale nobles each have their own ulterior motives, bullying us mother and son because we are isolated and helpless. They don't respect me at all, defying me both openly and secretly..."
She thought that by exposing her vulnerability like this, she could win his pity and bind him more tightly to her side.
Petyr smelled the overly strong fragrance on her, his fingertips stiffening imperceptibly. A flash of loathing quickly crossed his eyes, but his face remained fixed with the gentle smile she was most obsessed with.
He did not step forward to embrace her, nor did he make any move toward intimacy. He simply reached out and gently gathered her disheveled bodice, patiently tying the laces.
The action looked considerate, yet it always maintained a layer of cold distance.
"Don't worry, I am here," he said softly. "No one can hurt you and Robin."
The reassurance was immediate.
Lysa calmed down instantly, her gaze toward him filled with nothing but total dependence and infatuation.
Petyr knew the time had come.
He took her pudgy hand, his gaze earnest:
"Lysa, since those nobles do not respect you, then hand over the military and political power of the Vale to me."
"I will suppress all dissent for you and protect you and Robin so you can live a peaceful life in The Eyrie, free from anyone's bullying."
The smile on Lysa's face froze, replaced by hesitation.
Handing the Vale over to someone not of Arryn blood was truly against the rules.
Petyr immediately caught her hesitation and showed just the right amount of disappointment, letting go of her hand and stepping back slightly, his tone carrying a hint of self-deprecation:
"I was being presumptuous. I only wanted to protect you, but I forgot that I am, after all, only a guest of The Eyrie..."
"No! That's not it!"
Lysa hurriedly grabbed his hand, clutching it tightly for fear he would leave. "The Eyrie is your home! It's not that I don't trust you, it's just... I don't have that kind of power."
"Those nobles already don't respect me. Even if I issue an order, they won't listen; it will only make things more chaotic."
Petyr sneered inwardly, but his face showed an understanding expression. He patted the back of her hand, gentle and confident:
"I have already thought of that."
"I will write a letter to Duke Tywin in the Westerlands. He currently holds King Tommen and the legitimacy of the royal family."
"By using the King's decree to appoint me as Lord Protector of the Vale, I will have legal standing. No matter how dissatisfied the lords are, they will find no reason to openly defy it."
He stared into her eyes, each word slow and powerful:
"I Everything done,It's all for you and Robin..Everything about me,It was originally yours.."
Lysa was drowned in his 'deeply affectionate' gaze, her head already clouded by promises of security, completely failing to notice the ambition and calculation beneath the gentleness.
She nodded dizzily, like a drowning person grasping at a floating log, handing over herself, Robin, and the authority over the entire Vale into his hands.
"Alright, I'll do as you say, my Littlefinger." She leaned against his shoulder, her smile satisfied and illusory.
Petyr gently held her, his gaze passing over the top of her head to look out at the surging sea of clouds that seemed to swallow everything.
The corner of his mouth curled into a cold arc that no one saw.
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