"Petyr, my dear, are we truly going to send troops to help the Lannisters?"
Lysa Tully lay tangled in the bedclothes, her flushed cheeks still pink with passion. She clutched her husband tightly, pressing her soft, heavy body against Petyr Baelish's chest. Her words, though framed as a question, carried the lilt of a playful whine rather than serious inquiry.
Littlefinger's lips curled in a faint smile. "How can you say we are helping the Lannisters? The Warden of the Vale is answering the call of the Iron Throne. Our little Robert must be seen leading the lords to crush the rebels. That is what a dutiful Duke should do."
His tone was low and coaxing, his right hand drifting idly through his wife's waist-length auburn hair. From time to time his palm wandered, lingering on her ample curves before sliding up the broad slope of her back to her shoulders.
Lysa let out a breathy giggle, her fingers tracing the lines of Petyr's chest. "That may be true, but many in the Vale will not agree. The Waynwoods, the Redforts, the Hunters…" Her hand drifted lower, suggestive. "Especially Jon Royce. His youngest boy was senselessly cut down by Loras Tyrell. Convincing him to fight on the side of Highgarden will be near impossible."
"But my sweet wife will find a way," Petyr whispered as he rolled over suddenly, pinning the plump woman beneath him with ease.
"Of course I will."
She squealed with laughter, her arms looping around his neck. "As long as our Robin gives the order, no house can refuse the command of the Duke of the Eyrie, right, my clever Petyr?"
"Of course," Littlefinger agreed smoothly. He bent to kiss her mouth, though his thoughts were elsewhere. He had not been long in the Eyrie, and Robert Arryn, frail and sickly, clung only to his mother while shrinking from the Mockingbird. To please Lord Tywin, he must first please Lysa Tully—and that meant enduring her softness, her clinginess, her petty jealousies.
One thing he knew for certain: he would not return to King's Landing now. Not for all the gold in Casterly Rock. Cersei would be half-mad with grief and rage at the death of her son, more dangerous than she had ever been as queen. To walk into the Red Keep now would be to sign his own death warrant.
But Tywin did not want Littlefinger. He wanted the Vale—the swords of its knights, the spears of its men-at-arms, and the strength of its impregnable castles. If those banners marched in answer to the crown, then whatever whisperings tied Petyr to Joffrey's death would scatter like smoke.
---
The great hall of the Eyrie glowed with firelight. Torches hissed on tall sconces, their flames casting long shadows across stone walls painted with falcons and crescent moons. The air was sharp with mountain chill even here, high above the clouds.
On the high throne sat Lysa Tully, wrapped in velvet the color of midnight, a pearl-embroidered falcon displayed proudly across her chest. In her lap perched the young Duke of the Eyrie, Robert Arryn, pale-faced and small, clinging to his mother's sleeve.
Petyr Baelish stood before them with the summons from King's Landing in his hands. His voice carried easily across the chamber as he read aloud:
> "In the name of Tommen the First, of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm: Lord Tywin of House Lannister, Hand of the King, commands the Warden of the East to raise an army in accordance with the laws of the realm, and march to King's Landing to bring the rebel Stannis Baratheon to heel."
When the words were done, silence fell heavy. Then, slowly, the chamber stirred. Whispers passed from man to man, rising to a low rumble like flies buzzing around the dungheaps of King's Landing.
Littlefinger folded the parchment and sat gracefully beside the throne. He let the murmur swell. Let them fret. Let them chatter. The more they argued, the more he would seem the calm voice of reason when he spoke.
At last, a tall figure strode from the crowd. Bronze Yohn Royce—broad of shoulder, stern of face—gleamed in his ancestral bronze armor, etched with runes said to turn blades. He bowed stiffly before Lysa and young Robert, though his gray eyes flicked to Petyr with open distaste.
"My Lady. Lord Robert." His voice filled the hall. "It would be folly for us to join this war—folly doubly so to fight on the side of the Lion and the Rose."
A ripple of agreement moved through the gathered lords. Royce pressed on, voice ringing like a warhorn: "The Reach lies in disarray, its armies broken by Stannis. King's Landing has only just changed kings. Hearts are restless, tempers raw. Tywin Lannister wages war not for justice, but for vengeance. Shall the knights of the Vale be spears in his hand, thrown away for the quarrels of others?"
A chorus of assent rose, but Lysa only smiled faintly, stroking her son's hair.
"How can you say it is for the Lannisters alone?" she asked sweetly. "The command comes from the Iron Throne. Our dear Robin holds his title by royal decree. Surely we cannot refuse the summons of the crown?"
"My Lady," spoke Morton Waynwood of Iron Oaks, attending in his mother's stead. He bowed deeply before raising his voice. "The Vale has its own troubles. Winter bites hard upon our mountains. The clans of the Moon grow bolder with each moonrise. To guard our harvest and protect our smallfolk is our duty—not to march into some faraway quarrel without honor."
Morton's words were polite, but his eyes burned with old grievance. Lysa had chosen Petyr Baelish, lowborn upstart of the Fingers, over the nobility of House Waynwood. He bore the slight like a blade in the ribs, hidden but never forgotten.
Earl Gerold Hunter rose next, nodding in grim agreement. "The boy speaks wisely. Our men must defend their hearths, not bleed for Tyrell or Lannister."
Horton Redfort followed, then Bennard Belmore of Strongsong, and more besides. One by one, voices joined the opposition until more than half the lords of the Vale had spoken against the summons.
Still Lysa did not falter. She shifted Robert in her lap, murmuring softly, "Do you remember the story from this morning, my darling? Stannis is a wicked man. He must be captured, brought here, and made to fly."
At once, the boy's shrill voice pierced the hall: "Bring Stannis to me! Make him fly! I want to watch him fall from the Moon Door!"
The chamber erupted in uneasy murmurs. Petyr rose smoothly to his feet, the picture of calm authority.
"My lords," he said, smiling thinly, "you have heard the Duke of the Eyrie's command. For thousands of years, since the War of the Seven Stars, your families have served the Arryns with loyalty. Surely you will not defy your liege lord today?"
"Of course not," bellowed Bronze Yohn, though his eyes blazed. "We will obey the Duke's command. But we must also heed reason. Ruby Ford lies in Riverlands hands. Your niece now calls herself Queen of the Trident, and her regent, Eddard Karstark, will never allow Vale men to cross his lands to fight for the Iron Throne. Would you go to war against your own blood, my Lady?"
Lysa's round face was powdered pale, her lips curling in a faint smile. "How could I ever war against my own kin? My brother serves her at Harrenhal as well. Kinslaying is an abomination. But—my clever Petyr has already devised another way. You may listen to him."
Every gaze turned to Littlefinger. He savored the attention like wine on the tongue before inclining his head.
"Gather your banners at Gulltown," he instructed smoothly. "From there, the Redwyne Fleet shall carry you down the Narrow Sea, past the Claw, to rendezvous near Dreadfort. Once ashore, you may march south along the coast until King's Landing lies before you. Lord Tywin has prepared for every need. Supplies will be provided."
"Absurd!" Bronze Yohn thundered. "You would make us wholly dependent upon the Iron Throne for food and arms, with no line of retreat? To cast the Vale's strength upon the waves, isolated and exposed, is madness!"
Littlefinger only smiled. "How can you question Lord Tywin's sincerity, my lord? He rewards those who fight in the crown's cause. Doubt him if you will—but doubt not his power." He turned then to Robert Arryn. "What say you, my lord Duke?"
"I want Stannis to fly!" the boy screeched, his pale face blotched red, hands waving wildly.
"That settles it, then," Lysa declared, rising. "Robin grows tired. There will be a feast tonight. You may go."
Reluctantly, Bronze Yohn bowed and withdrew, his jaw tight with anger. The decision had been made, though his heart railed against it.
---
Outside the hall, Royce strode away with his sworn men. A broad-shouldered Northerner intercepted him—Cregan Karstark of Karhold, nephew to Lord Rickard and kin to the new rulers of the Trident.
"Lord Jon," he rumbled, "what stirs such fire in you?"
"The peace of the Vale is at an end," Bronze Yohn muttered darkly. In a low voice he recounted the council, dwelling on the Redwyne Fleet and the perilous plan. Then his eyes glinted with sudden thought. "Tell your uncle this: I believe Lord Rickard's daughter would suit my Andar well. Return with my answer—and my respects to Lady Sansa and Lord Eddard Karstark."
Cregan grasped his meaning at once. Alliances forged now might shape the wars to come. He took his leave swiftly, bound for Gulltown and a waiting ship.
That same evening, black-winged messengers burst from the towers of New Castle, winging south across sky and storm. Their destination: Harrenhal.
The Vale had chosen its path—but not all its lords would march willingly.
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