The torches on the walls cast flickering shadows.
Step—step—Gawen climbed two steps, then turned, looking down at Petyr from above.
"Lord Petyr, it seems you still haven't understood the situation. The evidence against you is already conclusive…"
His tone was calm. "If you try to flee, I could execute you here and now."
At his words, Petyr's heart gave a sickening jolt.
His face grew ashen. He had clawed his way from the Fingers to his seat on the Small Council, so close to winning the trust of the Wolf and climbing at last the ladder he had schemed for all his life. Years of work, a lifetime's ambition… and in one night, it might all be undone.
Petyr gave a bitter, mocking smile.
Gawen's brown eyes shifted slightly, and his voice gentled. "Lord Petyr… in the game of thrones, victory and defeat often come in an instant. The victor need not gloat, nor the defeated despair. Once you step onto the board—whether as player or piece—so long as your life is not lost, it is only the first round."
Even Petyr had to admit Gawen's words carried a certain comfort. At least for the moment, the hopelessness weighing on him lightened a fraction.
The day's upheaval had shaken him, forced him to falter under threat of death. But at heart, Petyr Baelish was a hardened player of power.
"Perhaps my wealth could tempt you into a new bargain."
"Lord Petyr," said Gawen evenly, "you need that wealth more than I. We both know that golden dragons are the quickest way to buy support. I would not endanger your safety by taking what you require."
"…"
Petyr slowly adjusted his collar before answering. "It seems then my second round must be in the Vale."
Step—step—Gawen descended one stair. "The Vale is a fine place."
Petyr's eyes flickered. "It is also a dangerous place."
After a pause, he added, "The lords of the Vale will not support me."
"Lady Lysa and her young son will. That will be enough."
Petyr lifted his gaze, staring directly at him. "Lord Gawen, what is it you truly want?"
Step—step—Gawen descended another stair, clapping Petyr lightly on the arm.
"King's Landing will await your return, Lord Petyr."
Petyr held his stare for a long moment before looking away. A smile curved his lips, his voice regaining its familiar polish and composure.
"Lord Gawen, what would you have me do?"
"Lord Petyr, a man as wise as you does not need another to teach him how to walk."
"I stand before a true man of wisdom."
Gawen glanced at the darkened corner. "Mere fortune…"
"…The Direwolf…"
"…Fortune…"
"…Friendship…"
"…Patience…"
Their voices and footsteps faded away.
The Hand's Solar
Varys was speaking rapidly to an enraged Lord Eddard Stark.
"My little birds only watch and listen, my lord. They do not fight. Without protection, how could I dare to speak at all? You must know—if Lord Petyr wished, he could buy the loyalty of anyone around me, even my most trusted servants, even my cook. I live in fear each night that I may never wake again!"
His round face wore abject terror.
Eddard's brows knit tight. "Varys, had you not kept silent, the Hand might yet live."
Varys widened his eyes. "My lord, when I learned of it, you knew how poor the Hand's health was. How could I dare tell him his wife had—"
He broke off hastily, then resumed in a lower voice. "I waited for him to recover some strength. How could I risk shattering him further? I loved and respected him as much as any man."
Ned closed his eyes in pained silence.
Lysa Tully. In his memory she was a lively, beautiful girl. Could time truly twist a soul so cruelly?
He opened his eyes again, voice weary. "Do you know why, Varys?"
Varys shook his head. "My lord Hand, you have surely heard Lady Lysa miscarried five times before that frail boy was born. She grew convinced enemies meant to murder her child. Such fears can drive anyone to madness."
He sighed and lowered his voice. "It was said Lord Arryn meant to send the boy to Dragonstone, to be fostered with Lord Stannis. Husband and wife quarreled bitterly over it more than once. In the end, the thought of being parted from her son must have unhinged her utterly… but who could have imagined she would go so far?"
Ned's silence was heavy. No excuse could absolve Lysa's crime. When Cat learned the truth, her heart would break. And what of young Robert Arryn, Jon's only heir? Without a mother, who would care for the boy?
And Petyr…
The Lord of Winterfell rose, his great frame filling the solar. He seized Ice from the wall, the dark greatsword heavy in his hand, and murder shone in his eyes.
Varys shrank back a step, sweat gleaming on his brow.
A knock came at the door—then it swung open. Gawen shoved Petyr Baelish inside.
Petyr nearly stumbled, catching himself just barely.
"Shameless wretch!" Ned's voice thundered, Ice gleaming in his hand.
The Hand had heard enough from the witnesses—five servants of Jon Arryn besides Shyf, each telling the same tale. The proof was ironclad.
Petyr did not bother with words. He knew this was not Winterfell but the Red Keep. Here he was no lord's prisoner—he was a king's counselor. The Hand could not strike him down without the king.
Varys stepped forward, voice heavy with lament. "Petyr, how could you? Jon trusted you most of all, and this is how you repaid him… oh, shame, shame."
Petyr kept his head bowed, jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
At last, Ned Stark forced himself to sheathe Ice, fearing if he held it longer he would not resist the urge to strike.
"Petyr," he said coldly, "what poison did you use on Lord Arryn?"
Petyr gaped in shock. "My lord, I swear, I did not! I never poisoned him!"
"Littlefinger, only the Others would believe your oaths."
"I swear it, Lord Hand," Petyr pleaded. "It's true. I admit the Tears of Lys came from me—but I never dreamed she would use it on her husband!"
Ned's eyes were sharp as steel. "A pitiful defense."
"She told me," Petyr insisted desperately, "that if ever I betrayed her, she would use it on me. That she'd make me drink my own gift…"
"Enough!!" Ned roared.
Breath ragged, fury boiling, his voice echoed through the chamber. "I will hear no more of your filth!"
"I speak the truth, I—agh!!"
CRACK.
Gawen's scabbard slammed behind Petyr's knees. With a thud, Littlefinger collapsed to the stone floor, crying out in pain.
"Seven hells!" Varys gasped.
Gawen pressed the scabbard hard against the back of his neck. "Petyr, the Lord Hand cares nothing for your adultery."
Sweat streamed down Baelish's brow. Still he rasped, "But it is the truth—I swear it by the gods!"
Gawen's eyes narrowed. He turned to Ned.
"My lord, when Lady Lysa is brought to King's Landing, the truth will be laid bare. And guilty though Petyr is, he remains a witness."
Ned understood. To act by law would prevent chaos.
He gave a short nod.
"Guards!"
The doors opened, and Jory Cassel entered with several Northmen at his back.
"In the name of King Robert, and of the Hand of the King, take Petyr Baelish to the Black Cells!"
The Red Keep's dungeons had four tiers.
The top held windowed cells for common criminals. The second tier, cramped stone cells for noble captives. The third was the Black Cells—tiny pits of darkness, no light at all, where the worst of traitors and monsters were cast. Beneath them lay the torture chambers.
The Gardens of Maegor's Holdfast, the next morning
Queen Cersei sipped her summerwine, clad in a high-collared gown of deep red, sewn with glittering gems.
Sansa Stark could not help but stare—so beautiful!
Cersei's green eyes softened, and she gave the sweetest smile Sansa had ever seen.
"Come here, child."
Sansa curtsied prettily.
"I've long wished to look at you properly," Cersei said, "but matters of state have kept me from it. Are you well, here in the Red Keep?"
"Your Grace, everyone has been so kind to me. I like it very much."
"Good girl. Sit beside me."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Cersei took her hand. "You are such a lovely child. Joffrey tells me he cares for you very deeply."
"Truly?" Sansa blurted, all thought of Septa Mordane's lessons forgotten.
Cersei smiled. "Of course. With you here, I am happy."
Flushed with joy, Sansa nearly forgot to breathe. To be loved by the queen herself!
Cersei brushed a lock of her auburn hair back, fingertips brushing her cheek.
"By the gods," she said softly. "I shall bless you both."
When Gawen entered, he found them seated like mother and daughter, warmth between them.
The queen… setting her sights on Sansa? The little wolf was defenseless.
He sighed inwardly. At the feast, Joffrey too had played his part, winning the girl's heart completely. Like mother, like son—Cersei with her beauty, Joffrey with his boyish charm.
Approaching, Gawen bowed. "Your Grace. Lady Sansa."
Cersei smiled. "Lord Gawen, the matter is settled?"
He inclined his head, casting Sansa a glance.
The girl made to rise, but Cersei restrained her gently. "Stay, child. You are as a daughter to me already, and I know you truly love Joffrey. Soon enough we shall be one family."
One family?! Sansa's face flamed crimson.
Gawen drew back his gaze. "Your Grace, the culprit has been found. There is now a vacancy upon the Small Council."
Cersei mused aloud. "That is good news indeed."
Gawen bowed low. "All has unfolded as you foresaw, Your Grace. The gods have blessed you with every gift."
A loyal servant gives all credit to his mistress.
Pleased, Cersei lifted her chin and sipped her wine.
"Lord Gawen, my children delight in your lessons."
Sansa watched every movement of the queen in rapt admiration.
I will wed Prince Joffrey. I will be a good wife, like Mother. And one day, a queen as great as Cersei herself.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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