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Chapter 198 - A Devious Plot in the Vale

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A crisp snapping sound echoed faintly in the darkness, sharp yet subtle. Right after, a thin thread of firelight sparked to life, glowing weakly in the pitch black. Perhaps it was because his eyes had long grown accustomed to the dark, but this sudden flare of brightness felt almost blinding for a moment.

Squinting slightly, Lord Cerwyn narrowed his eyes and stared dazedly toward the source of the flame. Beneath the faint, flickering glow, half-hidden within the shadows of a black cloak, was a face he recognized — much to his "fortune." He had seen this face before, back in King's Landing. After all, the man before him was no ordinary courtier, but a major figure seated at the Small Council itself.

His lips were dry and cracked, the skin splitting and bleeding from severe dehydration, while his nostrils were filled with the foul stench of rot that clung to the air of this cold, damp cell. Yet despite the miserable state he was in, the moment Lord Cerwyn clearly saw who had come, he let out a long, weary sigh and leaned his body against the frigid stone wall behind him.

"Have you thought it through, Lord Cerwyn?" The voice of the visitor drifted over, light and mocking, carrying with it a faint air of amusement. "All you need to do is confess to the murder of that poor woman, Lysa Tully, and I'll give you my word… I'll let you return to the North. How does that sound?"

Cerwyn scoffed lightly, his voice hoarse yet steady, as he replied, "Save your breath, Littlefinger. To this day, I still can't understand why you would go through all this trouble… But it doesn't matter. The moment you locked me up in here, you became my enemy. And whatever my enemies wish for me to do… I'll make sure they never get their way."

"Oh dear… Is that so?" Littlefinger chuckled softly, shaking his head with mock regret. "What a pity, Lord Cerwyn. Your good companion, the ever-loyal Lord Roose Bolton, sworn to the North just as you once were… Well, he has already agreed to my terms."

Cerwyn no longer had the patience to argue with him. He simply slumped back against the wall, defeated in body yet stubborn in spirit, muttering under his breath again and again:

"Prepare for the War… Winter is coming…"

That was the ancient saying of both House Cerwyn and House Stark. In these chaotic times, there were always those stubborn souls who refused to bow their heads, even to the ones holding their lives in their hands. Admirable, perhaps — but such people rarely lived to see the end.

"Well then, farewell… Lord Cerwyn." Littlefinger's voice grew fainter, though the sinister amusement within it remained. "Let me tell you plainly — whether you agree or not, whether you confess or stay silent, in the end… you will still be the murderer of Lysa Tully. The only difference lies in whether you walk free… or die here."

With another sharp snap, the flame was extinguished. Darkness swallowed the room once more.

In that suffocating blackness, Lord Petyr Baelish, known to most as Littlefinger, turned and left. His footsteps echoed down the cold, empty corridor, like the fading approach of some lurking demon, growing fainter… and fainter… until only silence remained.

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Medger Cerwyn became a prisoner, while Roose Bolton, who had come south with him, somehow found himself a favored guest at Lord Petyr Baelish's side. The stark contrast between their fates pointed to only one explanation — Lord Bolton was wise enough to know how to read the times.

Even now, Roose Bolton could recall every single detail of that murder which had taken place just over half a month ago.

It had all happened in the grand hall of the Eyrie. Lysa Tully, the Lady of the Vale, a woman who still insisted on feeding her healthy six-year-old son like an infant and who resembled a cow far more than a noble lady, had hosted them for a feast. It was meant to welcome the guests who had traveled all the way from the North, Lord Roose Bolton and Medger Cerwyn.

Even during the banquet, Roose Bolton sensed that something was off. Not a single other noble from the Vale had shown up to attend. At the time, he had assumed it was merely because their arrival had been too sudden, leaving no time to send proper invitations.

It wasn't until later that he learned the truth. Ever since Lysa Tully had hurried back to the Eyrie after the death of Lord Jon Arryn, the entire Vale had already begun to unravel under the rule of Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger had swiftly tightened his grip on power by remaining constantly at her side.

In many ways, the Eyrie had already lost the power to command the rest of the Vale.

Aside from the ever-fickle Gulltown, the major noble houses that had long been loyal vassals of House Arryn — such as House Royce of Runestone, House Waynwood of Ironoaks, House Hunter of Longbow Hall, House Belmore of Strongsong and many others — these great families, who held tremendous influence within the Vale, immediately understood what was happening. They were well versed in the subtle power struggles of the nobility, and the moment they learned that Littlefinger had arrived at the Eyrie, they saw the writing on the wall.

And so, the commands issued by the Eyrie gradually lost all authority in their eyes. Some of the most powerful lords, led by none other than 'Bronze' Yohn Royce himself, had even begun publicly mocking the Eyrie at noble gatherings.

Under normal circumstances, news like this would have spread across the entire realm at lightning speed. But these were not normal times. With all seven kingdoms drowning in war, the Vale's troubles were locked down tight, and not a whisper of it made its way out. Roose Bolton, oblivious to the truth, had walked straight into the dark with his eyes wide shut.

After sharing that bland, tasteless meal with Lysa Tully and Petyr Baelish, the Northern envoys finally brought up the real reason for their visit — a proposal of alliance, sent by King Robb Stark of the North.

Lysa Tully did not immediately reject them. Instead, her eyes drifted toward the man beside her… Lord Petyr Baelish. That single glance said it all. And in that moment, both of the Northern men, seasoned as they were, felt a chill creep down their spines and a wave of nausea stir in their guts.

Truth be told, throughout the entire banquet, aside from a few words of courtesy, Lysa Tully barely spoke at all. She kept her head down, drinking glass after glass of wine, as if the contents of her cup were the only thing she found pleasant in life.

It was Petyr who suggested that the two envoys from the North join him and Lysa Tully for a private discussion at the Moon Door.

Neither of them had ever set foot in the Eyrie before. They had no idea what the Moon Door was, so they simply nodded and followed along.

What happened next… was a scene Roose Bolton still remembered vividly to this day.

The moment they arrived at the Moon Door, Roose Bolton finally remembered what this place was. At some unknown point, that great door — the one that led straight to death — had already been opened.

Right at that moment, Medger Cerwyn suddenly felt the world spin beneath his feet, his body collapsing as though he'd lost all strength.

With two dull thuds, the Northern envoy and Lysa Tully, who had been standing beside Petyr Baelish, both crumpled to the ground at the same time.

The moment he saw this, cold sweat instantly broke out across Roose Bolton's forehead. His pale, leaden eyes darted anxiously around the room, scanning every corner with sharp, calculating precision. In that instant, he understood perfectly. He had been lured into a trap, a carefully prepared snare that was meant to catch him off guard.

He was still standing, perfectly fine, while both Medger Cerwyn and Lysa Tully had collapsed to the floor. There could only be one explanation—the wine that Petyr Baelish had so generously provided them earlier… there was something wrong with it!

At this point, Roose Bolton was still very much Robb Stark's obedient little vassal. After all, House Bolton barely possessed any cavalry of its own, and all the heavily armed spearmen and shield-bearers had already marched south with Robb Stark's infantry. Disloyalty was not an option, even if he wanted to entertain the thought.

His throat bobbed with difficulty as he swallowed hard, taking a cautious step back, trying to retreat without drawing attention. He wanted to escape from here. He didn't believe Petyr Baelish would dare to detain him in broad daylight, with so many eyes watching.

If Petyr truly intended to seize him, he wouldn't have waited until they were all gathered here to make his move.

But his hopes were quickly dashed.

His hand yanked fiercely at the door handle, only to find it completely unmoving. That damned Littlefinger… at some point, he had locked the door. Roose Bolton couldn't even run if he wanted to.

By now, Littlefinger had already finished examining the two figures lying sprawled on the floor. He casually picked up an ornately carved dagger from the table, spinning it back and forth in his hand with practiced ease, his lips curled into that sly, playful smile, his eyes fixed mockingly on Roose Bolton.

"Lord Petyr… what… what exactly are you trying to do? I… I hardly think I'm of much help to you."

The smile on Littlefinger's face didn't waver in the slightest. He shook his finger lightly, his voice carrying that same teasing, careless tone.

"Oh no, no, Lord Roose… you really underestimate yourself," Littlefinger chuckled softly, still twirling that ornate dagger between his fingers, his tone light and playful. "Everything I have done… all of this… has been for you. If you are not even worthy to stand beside me, would that not make all my careful efforts a complete waste? Don't you agree?"

For me? What is that supposed to mean? I am just a northern lord who spends half his life freezing in a land where piss could turn solid before it even hits the ground. What could possibly make someone like Littlefinger, a man soaked in that insufferable southern stench from head to toe, care enough to scheme for him?

Roose Bolton could faintly sense something lurking beneath the surface, some hidden scheme quietly taking shape, but it was as though the final thread that tied all the pieces together was still missing. He couldn't see the full picture. He couldn't understand the true logic behind Littlefinger's actions.

His brow furrowed deeply as he stood silent, his pale, sharp eyes fixed steadily on Littlefinger's face… and on the two bodies lying motionless on the floor. At their level, among nobles of their rank, lies were the easiest thing in the world to spot. In the end… everything came down to power, and how you chose to wield it.

A long silence stretched between them. Littlefinger waited with his usual smile, but as the seconds dragged on, even his grin began to stiffen ever so slightly from impatience.

Finally, just as the cracks were beginning to show in Littlefinger's mask of calm, Roose Bolton spoke.

"Lord Petyr… King Robb's forces are very strong. He has united the North and rallied the Riverlands under his banner. It is not so easy to bring him down."

That single sentence seemed completely disconnected from their earlier conversation. Yet the moment those words left Roose's lips, Littlefinger's fading smile returned, brighter than before. He nodded with quiet satisfaction, his thoughts turning sharp.

As expected… it's always easier to talk business with smart men. Just a few well-placed hints, and Roose Bolton had already grasped what he was getting at.

"They may seem strong, but they are far from united," Littlefinger replied with a faint smirk. "It would be best for Northerners to stay in the North, not come south to meddle in matters that don't belong to them. That… would be unwise."

Another stretch of silence settled over the room. At last, Roose Bolton let out a quiet sigh. His voice, when he spoke again, carried a complicated tone, one that was hard to describe — as though admiration and weariness were tangled together in his words.

"Lord Petyr… I admire your ambition. In times like these, ambition is worth more than gold. But the problem is… even if I were to help you deal with Robb Stark, it wouldn't be enough. Because there's still one man you'll never get past."

His cold, gray eyes stared straight into Littlefinger's, and slowly, deliberately, he spoke the name.

"Clay Manderly."

Littlefinger didn't answer immediately. He poured himself a full cup of wine, raised it to his lips, and drained it in one long gulp. Only then did he nod, rubbing his temple slightly as though the name itself gave him a headache.

"Indeed… that name is nothing but trouble," Littlefinger muttered, his voice laced with frustration. "The Manderlys already had a powerful spy network to begin with. The agents I planted in White Harbor and the Twins… most of them have already been rooted out thanks to him. Up to this point, I still know precious little about that man."

"Then you had best get to know him properly," Roose Bolton said quietly. "Just like last time, he now holds command over the entire cavalry force of the North. I cannot say for certain how his horsemen compare to your Vale knights, but his victories in the Riverlands… I am sure you know those details better than I do."

"Yes… that is precisely why he is so troublesome," Littlefinger agreed, his expression turning cold for a fleeting moment. "But that is why we settle everything before he arrives. It is as simple as that. After all, he is a Manderly. If he were a Stark… well, I would not even be standing here having this conversation with you today."

There was no need to say anything more. Roose Bolton still had no idea what cards Littlefinger was hiding, nor could he predict what the man's next step would be. But things had already come this far. To keep playing dumb now… well, there would be more than just two bodies lying on the floor by the end of it.

And so, when Littlefinger finally sighed, reached out, and gently stroked Lysa Tully's bloated, lifeless cheek… then, with the same casual ease, pushed her coldly through the Moon Door… Roose Bolton could not help but feel a chill run down his spine. This man's ruthlessness… the madness behind those calm eyes. It was… terrifying.

Littlefinger didn't bother to explain himself, but Roose had already pieced it together.

It was all too obvious now. Medger Cerwyn, lying unconscious on the floor, had been set up as the perfect scapegoat.

Not long after that, shocking news spread like wildfire, carried swiftly on the wings of ravens to every noble castle large and small across the Vale.

The Northern envoy, Medger Cerwyn, had requested a private meeting with Lady Lysa Tully after the banquet. But upon arriving at the Moon Door, he suddenly pushed Lady Lysa to her death. Afterward, he shamelessly claimed that the Lady had slipped and fallen by accident.

Fortunately, the 'brave' Lord Roose Bolton and the 'wise' Lord Petyr Baelish had quickly arrived on the scene. Sensing that something was amiss, they struggled with Cerwyn and subdued the murderous criminal after a fierce scuffle.

The moment this news broke, every noble lord and lady of the Vale rushed to the Eyrie. After all, the death of their former Lady was no small matter. Naturally, they had to be present to investigate what had happened.

But there was one thing they simply couldn't understand. This Northern envoy… had never even met Lysa Tully before. Why would he suddenly kill her? It made no sense.

And yet, when all the lords had gathered at the Eyrie, Littlefinger revealed the interrogation report, already prepared in advance and signed, sealed, and witnessed by both himself and Roose Bolton.

The report stated everything clearly. Medger Cerwyn had confessed that this was a secret mission entrusted to him by Robb Stark. His orders were to do whatever it took to persuade Lysa Tully to side with the North.

But Cerwyn, having had too much wine at the banquet, lost his senses and made a reckless, despicable choice. He had threatened Lysa Tully with the life of her son, young Robert Arryn, saying that if she refused to form an alliance, assassins would be sent to kill the boy.

For a mother who hadn't even properly weaned her six-year-old child, Lysa Tully's reaction to those words was all too simple. Without thinking, she snatched a dagger from the table and lunged straight at Lord Medger Cerwyn in a blind rage.

But how could a woman possibly overpower a man? In the struggle that followed, Medger Cerwyn shoved Lysa Tully through the Moon Door. Afterward, he shamelessly lied, claiming she had slipped and fallen by accident. Thankfully, Lord Petyr's keen eyes had seen through his lies.

Later, they even found the dagger at the scene. Those who recognized it all confirmed the same thing — it had been a favorite weapon of the late Lord Jon Arryn himself.

On top of that, Roose Bolton, who under normal circumstances ought to have stood firmly on the same side as Medger Cerwyn, had declared before everyone, swearing with complete confidence that everything had unfolded exactly as they described.

Faced with such convincing evidence, the noble lords of the Vale, though many of them still harbored doubts in their hearts, eventually pinched their noses and accepted this version of events.

But this led to a new problem. When all was said and done, wasn't it technically Robb Stark who had orchestrated the death of the Lady of the Vale? Even if that hadn't been his intention… how exactly was this debt supposed to be repaid?

The Vale lords broke into fierce arguments over the matter. Some demanded they march to war immediately, to avenge Lady Lysa, to let the wolf cubs of the North taste the sharp claws of the mountain eagles.

Others insisted the whole situation was still suspicious. After all, Medger Cerwyn had been so severely beaten during his interrogation that he could barely speak and had slipped into unconsciousness for a long time. Perhaps, when he woke, the truth might yet be revealed.

But those cautious voices were quickly drowned out by the rest.

The truth was… everyone in the Vale had been itching for war for a long time. The only thing that had held them back was Lysa Tully herself, pressing them down and denying them the chance to act.

Now, with her gone, the opportunity for war was finally right before their eyes.

Everyone knew there was something fishy about the whole affair… but they chose to ignore it.

The Lannisters in the South were faltering, crippled after their disastrous defeats at the hands of the North. The two Baratheon stag brothers fighting for King's Landing were nearing the end of their battle, and when only one was left standing, he would still need time to lick his wounds.

This… this was the Vale's perfect moment to march. It didn't even matter who they decided to fight.

If they waited until the Starks grew even stronger, or until whichever victor held King's Landing had firmly secured the throne, or until the old lion of the West, Tywin Lannister, rebuilt his armies and tightened his grip on the Westerlands… then when the Vale finally entered the war, their influence, their advantage, would be nothing compared to now.

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