Just as the Battle of the Five Armies erupted at Ashford...
In the council chamber of the Eyrie.
The walls of blue-veined white marble shimmered faintly beneath the daylight filtering through the narrow arched windows. At the far end, the blue falcon sigil of House Arryn, wings spread in flight, hung high above the Guardian's Seat, watching over the hall below.
Littlefinger, the Guardian of the Vale, stood upon the dais. He wore a finely cut, dark velvet doublet, a crumpled parchment held tightly between his fingers. The face that usually bore a sly, knowing smile was now deathly pale. His gray-green eyes churned with restrained fury.
"Where did this thing crawl out from?"
His gaze dropped to Ser Lothor Brune standing below.
Ser Lothor hesitated before answering. "My lord, we've been unable to trace its source. In just three days, the entire Vale—every mountain village, every bustling market town, every tavern, mill, and castle courtyard—is talking about it."
"Three days..."
Littlefinger repeated softly, chewing on the words.
Too fast.
Far too fast to be natural.
Someone powerful was pushing this.
Who?
A dozen faces flickered through his mind. Yohn Royce, that old stone-hearted fool from Runestone? Or some schemer far away in Duskendale? No. Varys was dead—the eight-legged spider had lost his head to Cersei's sword.
But then who else could command such a vast web of informants—and have reason to strike at him?
He had come to the Vale on Cersei's orders, marrying Lady Lysa to secure the Vale's loyalty to the Iron Throne. His duty was to stabilize this rich yet perilous land, to rally its armies for the south, against Viserys Targaryen, the exiled prince across the Narrow Sea.
Through Lysa's near-mad devotion and manipulation, he had achieved that goal—becoming Warden of the Vale.
Yet scarcely had he warmed the seat when Yohn Royce of Runestone raised his banner in rebellion, joining with Houses Waynwood, Hunter, and three others to form the so-called "Lords Declarant."
Their proclamation thundered across the Vale:
"To purge House Arryn's domain of its petty scoundrels and restore the ancient laws and honor of old."
That "petty scoundrel," of course, could be none other than Petyr Baelish.
And just as he was wracking his mind for ways to divide and weaken this growing opposition, the rumor struck like lightning from a clear sky—straight at the foundation of his power.
The word was that Robert Arryn was his and Lysa's bastard son.
The council chamber's heavy oak doors burst open.
Lysa Tully swept in. She wore a lavish gown of pale lilac, her face flushed, her eyes burning with a feverish gleam.
Ser Lothor Brune, as if pardoned from execution, bowed quickly and nearly fled the chamber, shutting the door behind him.
Lysa paid him no attention. Her gaze was fixed solely on the gaunt man before her.
She rushed to him, the air around her thick with perfume. Before Petyr could react, her lips crashed against his in a fevered kiss.
Littlefinger froze, caught completely off guard. The sudden passion made his stomach twist.
He tried to push her away, but Lysa clung to him with startling strength, her grip suffocating, her need consuming.
When the long, breathless embrace finally broke, he forcibly pried her arms from around his neck and drew a shaky breath. Forcing a stiff smile, he tried to mask his disgust and the unease stirred by the spreading rumor.
"My dear lady, what has you so... excited?"
Lysa's eyes gleamed with wild light. She seized his arm again, her voice trembling with joy.
"Petyr, my love, my sweet—have you heard? Everyone's saying it. They're all saying it—Little Robert is our child!"
The smile vanished from Littlefinger's face.
"My lady, that's a vile rumor. A slanderous lie meant to disgrace House Arryn and undermine our rule. I'll order the knights of the Eyrie to root out every venomous tongue that spreads it—one by one, their tongues will be torn out."
"A lie?"
Lysa laughed softly, her eyes shining with mad triumph. "No, Petyr, it's not a lie. It's true—our child! Don't you remember? In King's Landing, in the Tower of the Hand, the time we spent together? Jon only cared for his laws and his kingdom. He ignored me. He was old! But you... you were different."
The shock in Littlefinger's chest twisted into disbelief. He blurted, "I'm not—"
He remembered clearly. Every time, he had been careful—meticulous.
Lysa was his most valuable piece, the key to power in the Vale. He had never intended for her to bear his child. That would have been a disaster.
He was sure he'd left no chance of it.
Yet as if reading his doubt, a sly glint flickered in Lysa's eyes.
She lowered her voice, excitement gleaming in her eyes as though she were sharing a secret.
"Once, when you were too tired, you fell asleep after finishing too quickly. You forgot to take care of it, so I kept it!"
She licked her lips. "Jon was too old, long past his prime. Only you, Petyr—only you still have the vigor! I conceived right away! Little Robert is our son! He carries your blood!"
CRASH.
Petyr's expression froze in disbelief.
She kept it?
This foolish, deranged woman—driven mad by lust!
How could she?!
A surge of humiliation and rage twisted in Littlefinger's chest, nearly cracking the calm mask he'd so carefully built. For a fleeting instant, he wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and hurl her from the Moon Door.
He drew in a deep breath, forcing down the violent urge. He had to stay in control.
Reaching out, he took Lysa's hand, pressing a smile onto his face.
"My lady, my dear Lysa, my sweetheart, don't you understand? If this news were ever proven true, if those who already despise us—those who want to see us fall—were to use it, do you realize what chaos it would bring? It would destroy everything. It would destroy you. It would destroy Little Robert. Think of the Lords Declarant—this would give them all the excuse they need to rise in open war. They would kill Little Robert, kill you, and kill me!
Lady, for Little Robert's safety, no matter who asks, you must swear—swear that he is Lord Jon Arryn's trueborn son, the rightful heir of the Eyrie. Do you understand?!"
The wild gleam in Lysa's eyes faded slightly. "I... I understand, Petyr. I won't hurt you. I did it all for you, for our son..."
She leaned into his shoulder, seeking warmth and comfort.
Littlefinger patted her back gently, his eyes drifting past her auburn hair to the gray sky beyond the high window.
For me?
He sneered inwardly.
He had never loved Lysa. His heart had always belonged to Catelyn—and now to Sansa, her mirror in youth.
But for now, he needed Lysa.
As for that boy—Robert Arryn—his son?
The thought made his stomach twist with disgust.
The situation had become far more complicated—and far more dangerous—than he had ever anticipated.
Littlefinger had to find the source of the rumor and crush it.
And he would need to move faster—much faster—to deal with Yohn Royce and his alliance.
...
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