Chapter 100 — Lord Petyr, You're in Trouble. Come With Me.
"In truth," Petyr Baelish said lightly, "Lord Hoster's two daughters never liked me much. Even if I had advice to offer, they probably wouldn't care to hear it."
He shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"But if those same words came from your mouth… then suddenly, they'd sound sweet as honey."
The bluntness of it was almost startling.
Unfortunately for Baelish, Tyrion had only just been wondering—who exactly had been lying to him all along?
So Petyr's 'honesty' earned him nothing.
The dwarf didn't believe a single syllable.
Littlefinger didn't seem to mind. He continued smoothly, as if he were merely discussing the weather.
"Of course, it depends on what you intend to say. If you plan on trading Sansa for your brother, then you're better off wasting someone else's time."
"Joffrey will never let go of his toy," Petyr said, smiling faintly, "and Lady Catelyn isn't foolish enough to exchange the Kingslayer for a single daughter."
Tyrion's face didn't change.
"Then I'll return Arya as well," he said flatly. "I've already sent men to find her."
Littlefinger only smiled.
"Searching and finding," he said gently, "are two very different things."
"Thank you for your invaluable counsel," Tyrion replied with a casual wave, voice dry as dust. "I'll treasure it."
Then his eyes sharpened—just slightly.
"But that isn't my real intention."
He leaned forward.
"What I want is for you to go to Lady Lysa Arryn… and win her over."
"Lysa is certainly more obedient than Catelyn," Baelish murmured.
Then, with the same effortless tone, he added:
"Though her courage is… limited."
"And," he said, almost lazily, "she hates you."
The words carried no malice—only certainty.
Tyrion's expression tightened.
The Eyrie.
His "guest stay" there.
Even thinking about it made his skin crawl.
"A charming memory," Tyrion said, voice edged. "When I was her guest at the Eyrie, she insisted I murdered her husband. She refused to hear a word of my defense."
He leaned in further and deliberately lowered his voice, forcing Petyr to do the same if he wanted to listen.
"So tell me… if I promised to deliver her the true murderer of Jon Arryn—wouldn't that change her view of me?"
For the first time, Littlefinger's posture shifted.
His back straightened.
His eyes brightened with something quick and hungry.
"You've found the killer?" Petyr's voice lifted despite himself.
Then he smiled, openly pleased.
"I'll admit it—you've awakened my curiosity."
He watched Tyrion closely.
"So… what do you intend to do?"
Now it was Tyrion's turn to smile.
The balance of the room flipped—quietly, cleanly.
Attack becoming defense.
Defense becoming attack.
"Lady Lysa Arryn," Tyrion said softly, "must first understand one thing."
He paused, savoring it.
"When I give gifts to my friends… I do it willingly."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes.
"So," he said softly, "what do you want from her? Her friendship… or her army?"
A man had to know what he wanted—especially when he came bearing gifts.
Tyrion didn't even hesitate.
"Both."
Littlefinger clicked his tongue and stroked his neatly trimmed goatee, casting the dwarf a sideways glance.
"Greedy as ever."
Then, casually—almost as if they were discussing fashion—Petyr added:
"Lysa has troubles of her own. The mountain clans in the Mountains of the Moon have grown bolder—more numerous… and their weapons improve by the day."
"What a headache," Tyrion said dryly—the very man responsible for much of that weapon supply.
But Littlefinger smoothly shifted the topic again.
"Still, I can help you with this. All it takes is a word from me…"
"And what does that word cost?" Tyrion asked.
Everyone in the room understood Tyrion could force this through if he wished.
So Littlefinger didn't bother with games.
"I want Lady Lysa and her son to recognize Joffrey as king. Publicly. And swear loyalty."
"And then…" Tyrion began.
"And then she marches against the Starks and the Tullys?" Petyr cut in at once, seizing the thread before Tyrion could finish. His voice held mild amusement—yet his eyes were sharp.
"Lannister, that's where your plan breaks. Lysa will never turn against Riverrun."
How he connected the dots so quickly was anyone's guess.
Or perhaps it wasn't guessing at all.
Perhaps it was exactly what he would do.
"I'm not that foolish," Tyrion replied flatly.
But he forced himself to explain, patiently, like one might humor a smug child.
"We don't lack enemies. The Vale could be turned against Lord Renly… or Lord Stannis—if Stannis sails from Dragonstone."
"As payment," Tyrion continued, "I will give her justice. I will pursue the truth of Jon Arryn's death, restore peace to the Vale…"
"And I will name that terrifying child of hers the Warden of the East—giving him his father's title."
Tyrion spoke with practiced generosity, temporarily forgetting the boy's shrill, chilling words:
"I want to see him fly!"
Then—at last—the blade beneath the velvet.
"And to guarantee I keep my promise… I will send her my niece."
For the first time, genuine shock flickered in Petyr Baelish's grey-green eyes.
"Myrcella?" he blurted.
Tyrion only nodded, chin lifting.
"When she comes of age, she'll marry young Lord Robert. Until then, she will remain in the Eyrie—Lady Lysa's ward, and adopted daughter in all but name."
It was a dangerously tempting gift.
And far too meaningful to dismiss.
Petyr Baelish's gaze shifted—calculating, weighing, re-evaluating.
After a brief silence, he looked Tyrion directly in the eyes.
"And what does the Queen Regent think of this?"
Tyrion merely shrugged.
Petyr stared at him—then laughed.
"Of course," he said. "Lannister… you are a dangerous little creature."
Then, smoothly:
"Very well. I can whisper that song into Lady Lysa's ear."
But the moment he said it, his smile turned sharp again—foxlike.
"If I wish to."
Tyrion gave a small nod, calm and unreadable.
Because he knew the truth:
Petyr wouldn't be able to hold back.
And sure enough, silence lasted only a heartbeat before Baelish shamelessly leaned in.
"Fine. What do I get?"
"Harrenhal," Tyrion replied.
The word landed in the room as lightly as if Tyrion were discussing breakfast.
Two eggs or three.
Inside, Tyrion watched Petyr's face with fascination—like a man studying a play with no dialogue.
Petyr's father had been among the lowest of the noble class.
His grandfather hadn't even owned land—only a sword and a rented name.
What Petyr inherited was a storm-lashed scrap of rock on the Fingers.
But Harrenhal?
One of the richest and most fertile domains in the Seven Kingdoms—vast land, fat soil, and a fortress so massive and grim it felt carved from myth itself.
Beside Harrenhal, even Riverrun seemed small.
Petyr had once lived there as a fostered ward of House Tully—until his ambition overreached, until he dared covet one of Hoster Tully's daughters…
…only to be thrown out like filth.
Tyrion simply watched, saying nothing, as if observing a silent tragedy.
Petyr even took his time smoothing his cloak—yet Tyrion caught it:
that flash in the clever cat-eyes.
Hunger.
He's hooked, Tyrion thought.
His own mouth curved into a faint smile.
"Harrenhal is cursed," Petyr said at last, pretending disinterest. "An ill-fortuned place."
Tyrion opened his mouth to reply—
But at that moment, chaos erupted outside the Hand's Tower.
Shouts.
Curses.
Then the unmistakable sound of fists and boots landing—followed by muffled screams and groans.
Both men frowned at once.
Petyr moved to the window, peering down.
"Goldcloaks?"
His frown deepened.
"Why are they fighting your men?"
Everyone in King's Landing knew whose army the City Watch belonged to now.
But from the look of it, the two sides had clashed—hard.
Tyrion's eyes widened.
A giant question mark might as well have appeared above his head.
And just as both men tried to make sense of it—
The door to Tyrion's solar exploded inward with a brutal kick.
Dust and smoke surged through the room.
Through the haze came a young man's voice—cold, firm, and utterly unafraid.
"Lord Petyr."
"Your business has been exposed."
"Come with us."