While the king and his entourage journeyed north to Winterfell, the affairs of King's Landing were managed by Lancel Lannister, Varys, and Petyr Baelish.
"My dear lords, the death of Jon Arryn is indeed a tragic misfortune," Varys lamented, wiping away non-existent tears. His round face was etched with a performative fatigue. He had chosen to don a modest black outfit, the usual sweet scent absent, as if he genuinely mourned. "In these trying times, even Eunuchs must bear such burdens."
Lancel Lannister offered a gentle, condescending smile. "If the three of us do not take charge, we cannot expect Robert, who is merely visiting Winterfell, to handle these trivial matters." Mentioning the late Hand, he added, "It appears his lady wife, Lysa, has returned to the Eyrie."
Petyr set aside his quill with an air of casual detachment. "Indeed. Poor Lysa. Her child has already departed for Winterfell, and it seems only the Vale can provide her solace now."
The eunuch sighed, his expression suggesting he harbored thoughts of his own. Petyr, too, intended to voice a suggestion—perhaps that Lysa suspected Queen Cersei of orchestrating Jon Arryn's assassination. The rationale, of course, was the Lannisters' desire to keep their incestuous secret hidden. Such matters, once suspicion arises, require no proof. Alternatively, the blame could be shifted onto Lysa's cousin, a lesser Baelish. Should the prince meet his demise, Joffrey would be summoned back from Casterly Rock, and Joffrey, as heir, would be far more malleable than Renly.
A charming smile crept across Petyr's face as he weighed his options. However, before he could resolve whom to implicate, the council chamber doors burst open. A troop of fully armed guards marched in, led by a golden-haired, blue-eyed young man of House Lannister.
"Ah, to what do we owe this pleasure?" Petyr greeted nonchalantly, only then noticing the lack of surprise on the faces of Varys and Lancel. The Spider, in fact, seemed to have been expecting this.
"His Highness, Prince Renly, has just dispatched a raven from Winterfell," Varys said, stroking his long, powdered beard with an air of grave trouble. "The prince asserts that Lord Jon Arryn's death was the result of your instigation, that you prompted Lady Lysa to poison him. A dreadful accusation… yet we must concede that you indeed possess the means to accomplish such a deed, do you not?"
That old rogue is nothing more than a sycophant of House Lannister, Petyr thought with a surge of panic.
Two towering guards seized him by the arms. The mockingbird emblem on his chest seemed to pale into insignificance next to their roaring lion insignias. As he was escorted away, his witty jests and charming smiles fell on deaf ears; the guards maintained stoic expressions, resolutely silent. One even shot him a glare of pure contempt.
Good heavens, he thought, had I known, I would not have boasted of my influence over Lysa to others. That foolish woman was likely being confined in the Eyrie at this very moment. He shuddered to think how the enraged lords of the Vale would treat the woman who had murdered their liege lord.
Meanwhile, in the Eyrie, Lysa Arryn was preparing herself as usual. Her handmaidens meticulously arranged her gowns, though she had deliberately donned black to signify her mourning. If all went well, today Lord Yohn Royce would ascend the mountain to visit his beautiful liege lady. Lysa would then entrust this reliable lord with the task of escorting her son, Robert Arryn, back home. She would never allow her child to remain in the clutches of the Starks.
The reason I refrain from writing to Petyr, she thought, is that this uncle seems inclined to keep Robert in Winterfell. He even insinuates in his letters that I am not as adept at raising children as Eddard Stark.
"Am I beautiful today?" Lysa scrutinized her reflection in the mirror.
"Exceedingly beautiful, my lady," came the automated response, a lie uttered without even a glance upward. Yet Lysa particularly relished the sensation of being praised. "You speak the truth," she said, content.
She descended the stairs and proceeded to the high hall of the Eyrie, taking her seat upon the Weirwood throne. However, the hall felt desolate. Not only were the ever-obsequious Lord Lyn Corbray and Ser Albar absent, but even the ever-loyal Ser Vardis Egen seemed to have vanished.
This is highly unusual. Ser Vardis would never betray House Arryn.
"What is amiss?" Her voice echoed through the empty hall.
"In the name of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and True Warden of the East," a voice boomed.
Ser Vardis Egen appeared alongside a silver-haired Nestor Royce, flanked by guards clad in sky-blue cloaks, their auras menacing. At that moment, Lysa was horrified to realize that their gazes were those reserved for a sworn enemy.
"Lysa Tully," Ser Vardis declared coldly, "you are charged with the murder of your husband. Take her to King's Landing to await judgment from the small council."
"No! This is a falsehood! I did not slay my Jon! This is slander, sheer, unabashed slander!" Lysa cried out, yet no one heeded her. She was forcibly escorted from her throne, destined for the King's Road under the guard of menacing sellswords.
Meanwhile, Renly Baratheon reached out to take a small scroll from a messenger raven. The winds of Winterfell were perpetually frigid, yet after a few days, he had begun to acclimate.
The message was brief. As anticipated, the trap had been sprung. Petyr Baelish was imprisoned in King's Landing, and Lysa Arryn would soon join him in confinement.
Renly had long decided to recall Alfie to testify in the capital, but on the counsel of Jon Snow, he had abandoned the notion of having the boy traverse the King's Road.
Jon watched him with her characteristic calmness. "It is fortunate you chose to send him by sea. Alfie is an exceedingly vital witness. Yet, I doubt Petyr Baelish retains any freedom in his cell. Throughout Westeros, the only one who shares Petyr's penchant for stirring the pot is Varys. Either the Spider has an inside man in the dungeons, or Petyr has hidden agents quite deeply."
Renly felt a slight headache coming on. As a man of principle, he possessed an instinctive aversion to such sordid tales. With players like Petyr and Varys scheming in the shadows, he could hardly expect to sit comfortably upon the Iron Throne in the future. If Robert Arryn were to inherit the title of Lord of the Eyrie, it would signify a resurgence of a powerful political alliance.
It appears I can no longer afford to be the quiet observer, he thought. I must become the storm. Or I may find myself unaware of my own demise.
Just then, a voice called from the doorway, pulling him from his thoughts. It was Jon Snow, a practice sword in her hand.
"Renly," she said, "would you like to practice Sword ?"