The dragon's slit pupils fixed on Littlefinger, cold and unblinking.
And on its back, the long-unseen masked King from the East hopped down with ease, landing on the balcony.
Littlefinger's heart hammered in his chest.
But he was quick on his feet. Once the first spike of terror passed, instinct and performance took over.
In the blink of an eye, his face rearranged itself into a delighted, ingratiating smile, the change so fast it was almost unbelievable. He hurried forward and bowed deeply.
"Your Grace! You've finally come. I… I've been putting on an act for so long. To honor our alliance, I had to appear to serve the Lannisters, playing the factions against one another. But in truth, I have always been loyal to you alone, Your Grace!"
He sounded so sincere he might have convinced himself.
Lo Quen watched the display with a faintly mocking smile. "Lord Littlefinger, you do have a talent for talk. An alliance? When, exactly, did we ever have an alliance?"
Littlefinger froze, then rushed to recover. "Your Grace, have you forgotten? At that banquet at Conquest Keep, we reached an understanding, did we not? You even said—"
Lo Quen cut him off with a soft laugh. "Oh, that time. I was making an offhand joke. You actually took it seriously?"
Panic flashed across Littlefinger's face. Cold sweat soaked through his fine clothes. "Your Grace! I have been utterly loyal to you, I—"
"Loyal?"
Lo Quen interrupted again, his voice turning colder. "Shall I count how many people you've sworn that same loyalty to? Cersei Lannister? Renly Baratheon? Me? And next, would it be that Blackfyre? Your loyalty is cheap, Lord Littlefinger."
With Meizo's intelligence network, Lo Quen had long since seen through every scheme Littlefinger ever laid.
Littlefinger felt as if lightning had struck him. His whole body went icy.
All those secret plots, those carefully woven contacts he'd believed flawless, were being named one by one with casual ease.
The realization that everything was already in someone else's hands sent a chill straight through his bones.
Lo Quen stepped closer, leaving him no room to wriggle. "Enough. No more acting, Lord Baelish. Before I send you on your way, I have a single question."
Littlefinger stared at him in horror. A thousand lies clogged his throat, and none would come out.
Lo Quen studied his face and smiled. "Did you notice, from the moment you had Lysa Tully poison Great Lord Jon Arryn, that the realm stopped following the script you'd so carefully written?
Eddard Stark suddenly learned Renly's secret plan to replace Cersei with the Tyrell girl.
Jon Snow's parentage was exposed by pure accident.
Cersei's scandal broke, forcing Robert back to the capital early, and Tywin Lannister arrived in King's Landing just before Robert truly lost control. Then came the bloodshed at the Red Keep, and the war of kings erupted across Westeros.
And later, the Duskendale affair and Varys being accused of freeing Tyrion, ending in his execution…
One thing after another. Didn't it all leave you confused?
Wasn't the timing a little too perfect?
Perfect enough to feel as though an unseen hand was pushing everything from the shadows, even using the traps you set to do it?"
Littlefinger's eyes widened further and further, all color draining from his face.
Not because Lo Quen knew the real truth of Jon Arryn's death, but because Lo Quen's words carried something deeper.
Shock and dread surged through him like a flood.
Littlefinger looked at the Eastern ruler standing under the pale moonlight, and in that instant, every lingering doubt vanished.
It was him. It was all him.
A crushing sense of helplessness flooded Littlefinger, the feeling of being played like a toy in someone's palm. It shattered the smug confidence he'd always worn.
Lo Quen seemed pleased by the reaction. "Yes. I did all of it. In my eyes, every one of you, Tywin, Eddard, Renly, Cersei, even Varys… and you as well, Lord Littlefinger, are nothing more than pieces struggling on a board. I'm the only true player. You all thought yourselves clever as you leapt onto the board and tore at one another until you were exhausted. Only then did it become my time to move, and to reap."
Littlefinger crumpled to the floor, trembling all over, filled with a shock and despair unlike anything he'd ever known.
He finally understood just how laughable and small his little plots were in the face of someone who could see the whole board and steer the entire game.
The instinct to survive drove him into one last, desperate struggle.
He jerked his head up, tears and snot streaming down his face, his voice hoarse as he begged, "Your Grace! Don't kill me! I beg you! I… I didn't hear anything! I know nothing! Spare me, I can still be useful to you! The nobles of the Seven Kingdoms will rise against you sooner or later. I know every one of them. I can advise you, help you deal with them! Please! Give me a chance!"
Lo Quen looked at him, his gaze utterly cold.
"Do you really think…"
He slowly drew the sword at his waist, the blade glinting with icy light under the moon. "I would give you that chance, let you have even the slightest hope of striking back?"
Before the words had fully fallen, the blade flashed.
Cold steel swept cleanly and swiftly across Petyr Baelish's throat.
Littlefinger's pleas cut off at once.
He clawed uselessly at his gushing neck, eyes wide with disbelief and unwillingness to accept it. His body jerked violently a few times, then collapsed to the floor, completely still.
Blood spread quickly beneath him.
At that moment, a shrill, piercing scream rang out from inside the tower.
"No—!"
Lysa Tully had heard the noise and rushed out, just in time to see the bloody scene.
She wailed like a madwoman, throwing herself toward Littlefinger's corpse, then spun and lunged at Lo Quen, flailing wildly.
Lo Quen frowned, stepped aside with ease, and struck the back of her neck with a precise chop.
Lysa's cries stopped instantly. Her body went slack and fell to the floor, unconscious.
Lo Quen turned and entered a lavish bedchamber in the Moon Tower.
On the bed, young Robert Arryn lay sunk deep in soft goose-down quilts, completely unaware of the tragedy that had just taken place.
Lo Quen wrapped the boy tightly in a thick blanket and lifted him up.
The child muttered in his sleep, displeased, but did not wake.
Then Lo Quen walked back to the unconscious Lysa Tully and hoisted her over his other shoulder.
He cast one last glance at Littlefinger's body on the floor, then gave it a firm kick toward the balcony.
Like a puppet with its strings cut, Littlefinger's corpse tumbled soundlessly over the edge and fell into the boundless sea of clouds below, vanishing without a trace.
When it was done, Lo Quen carried the still-unconscious Lysa and the blanket-wrapped young Robert, mounted Blooddancer, and settled into the saddle.
Blooddancer let out a low, rumbling roar, beat its wings, and rose into the air, carrying the three of them away from the lonely castle hanging in the sky and down toward the encampment in the mountains below.
...