As the council concluded after days of debate, new ravens arrived.
Lord Eddard Stark was to become Hand of the King, and a grand tourney was to be held in his honor.
The Vale's young lords burned with excitement. They would travel south together, and Alderic, bound by diplomacy, agreed to accompany them.
Before they departed, one last message was also conveyed which was also comes along with the raven.
Grand Maester Pycelle was dead.
The lords dismissed it as age and frailty. But Alderic's gaze lingered on the wax seal, his thoughts dark and calculating.
So the game begins, he thought. And already, the board shifts.
His subordinate handed him the sealed parchment with a solemn face.
"From our watchers in the North, my lord. It concerns the Starks."
Alderic broke the wax and read in silence. Each word drew his frown deeper.
"Bran Stark has fallen from a tower… his injuries grave. There was a knife found — Valyrian steel, with a dragonbone hilt. An assassin sent in the night."
He set the parchment down slowly. "A knife of such worth is no common cutthroat's tool," he murmured.
He nodded. "The word spreads that it may have come from the capital… or worse — through someone in the Vale."
And then there was another letter — a copy of Lysa Arryn's message to her sister, Lady Catelyn Stark.
She claimed that the Lannisters had murdered Jon Arryn. That Eddard Stark, soon to arrive as Hand of the King, must beware.
Alderic's eyes lingered on the parchment, cold realization dawning. "So this is Petyr's game…"
He leaned back, voice soft but edged. "He sowed the seeds before the harvest even began. A knife for the wolf child, a whisper for the mother — and a letter to light the pyre."
His subordinate said nothing.
"Petyr Baelish plays for chaos," Alderic murmured. "But he forgets — chaos cuts both ways."
Later that night, as the fire burned low and the moon rose silver above the trees, Alderic heard soft footsteps behind him.
He turned — and froze for a heartbeat.
A young woman stood in the firelight, her dark hair tied back, eyes bright with mischief and warmth. Her simple riding clothes bore the dust of travel, but her smile was unmistakable.
"Mya," he said quietly. "It's been years."
She grinned, the same fearless spark in her eyes that he remembered from his wandering days. "Too many years, my lord Ravenshade."
He rose, smiling despite himself. "I told you not to call me that when no one's watching."
"Then perhaps I'll call you Alderic again, as I used to — when you were just another traveler with kind eyes and a silver tongue."
Their laughter softened the night.
When he had wandered the Vale as a young runaway, Mya had been little more than a girl guiding travelers through the mountain passes — brave, sharp, and unashamed of her birth. He had treated her with kindness, not pity, and shared bread by the fire more than once.
Now she stood before him, nineteen and beautiful in her simplicity.
"I heard you were leaving for King's Landing," she said. "So I came."
"For what reason?" Alderic asked gently.
She hesitated, then smiled. "To serve you, if you'll have me. As I once did — as your caretaker on the road."
He raised a brow. "You need not—"
"I know," she interrupted softly. "But I want to."
There was an earnestness in her eyes he couldn't ignore.
He studied her for a long moment. "Tell me, Mya — do you still think kindly of your father?"
Her smile faded slightly. "The king? I don't know him. He left me when I was barely old enough to speak his name. I don't hate him… but I don't love him either."
"And what do you want for yourself?"
She looked down, thoughtful. "A place to belong. Not for a name, but for what I can do."
Alderic nodded slowly. "Then you'll ride with us. The road is long — and dangerous. Better I keep you close than have you caught in someone else's game."
She smiled — radiant and relieved. "Thank you, Alderic."
He turned back toward the fire, missing the faint blush that touched her cheeks.
Mya's heart fluttered quietly as she watched him — the same calm strength and gentle manner that had once captivated her still alive in every word he spoke. He had forgotten the effect he had on her; she never had.
The dawn that broke over the Vale was soft and cold, the mists coiling lazily between the mountain peaks. The banners of House Ravenshade and its allied knights fluttered in the high wind — black ravens on silver fields, marching under the watch of the Eyrie's pale towers.
In the courtyard, Alderic Ravenshade oversaw the final preparations for departure. His retinue — fifty riders, twenty knights, and a full cavalry escort — assembled in neat ranks. Their armor glinted faintly with the first rays of morning light.
Alderic's thoughts, however, were far from the ceremony of travel.
The Vale's convoy descended from the high passes. Their banners streamed like ribbons against the morning mist. Alderic rode at the head beside Lord Yohn Royce, the two silent for most of the way, save for the distant clatter of hooves.
Royce glanced sideways at the young lord. "You look troubled, Ravenshade."
"Only thoughtful," Alderic replied. "The realm changes faster than the wind. And we, who ride beneath its banners, must know when it turns against us."
Royce chuckled. "Spoken like a man twice your age."
Alderic smiled faintly. "Perhaps my house's ghosts are wiser than I."
That evening, as they camped near a stream, another raven arrived — this time from the Reach.
Ser Galdun read aloud:
"The envoys of Highgarden have departed for King's Landing. Lady Olenna Tyrell, Lord Mace, Ser Garlan, and Lady Margaery travel under escort for the Hand's tourney and the Grand Maester's passing."
Alderic set his cup down thoughtfully. "The Tyrells travel with roses, but their roots always reach for power. I wonder what game they'll play at court this time."
By the twelfth day, the towers of King's Landing shimmered on the horizon like molten gold in the morning sun.
The Vale's banners joined the river of arriving lords — Reach, Stormlands, Riverlands, and even Dorne's neutral envoys.
The Hand's tourney was to be the grandest since Robert's coronation, but to Alderic's eyes, it was no celebration — it was a battlefield of courtiers.
He could already sense the whispers gathering like flies to the crown.
Their journey toward the capital was long, winding through the Riverlands where the tension in the air thickened like smoke.
When they heard shouting — and the clash of steel.
The Vale's vanguard rode ahead and found chaos on the roadside: Lannister guards clashing with Stark men under gold cloaks banner.
"Hold!" Alderic commanded, spurring his horse forward. "By whose order do you draw steel on the King's Road?"
A battered Stark soldier turned to him. "My lord — they struck first! The lion's men demand our surrender, claim we carry traitors' words!"
The Lannister captain snarled, blood spattering his gilded armor. "The Hand's men spread lies about the Queen! They'll hang for it!"
Alderic raised his sword — not to strike, but to divide. "Enough!"
His voice rang out, cutting through the din. "By law of the realm, the King's Road is neutral ground. The next man to swing steel will answer to me."
The combatants hesitated, glaring but obeying.
Royce's men formed a wall between them, forcing the two sides apart. After tense negotiation, both parties withdrew — though the air still crackled with hatred.
As the armies rode onward, Royce muttered darkly, "The lions bare their teeth already. The wolves will not forgive this."
Alderic nodded. "And the vulture will feast on the corpses when they fall."
Petyr Baelish(pov): Reflections of the Littlefinger
In the capital, within the tower of the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish stood before his mirror. Candlelight danced across his sharp features and mocking smile.
He traced a finger across the polished surface, almost tenderly.
How far you've come, Petyr of the Fingers.
He remembered himself at eight — a thin boy with a bundle of rags and dreams, stepping into Riverrun's great hall. He remembered the laughter of young Edmure, the pitying smiles of Hoster Tully's court, and the bright eyes of Catelyn Tully, who had smiled at him not as a lord, but as a friend.
He remembered Lysa too — her infatuation, her softness, her eagerness to please. She was the key, always. Through her, he found his way into Jon Arryn's service, first as a customs officer in Gulltown.
From coin to court, from whispers to power.
He chuckled softly. "And they still call me Littlefinger," he murmured. "As if the name mocks me — not crowns me."
He turned toward the city below — the Red Keep's towers, the sept's spires, the teeming filth of Flea Bottom.
Lysa Arryn lay half-dead in her mountain bed, her mind shattered. He had planned to use her, wed her, rule through her — but Alderic Ravenshade had stolen that chance.
Now the Vale's lords scorned him as an outsider, the boy from the Fingers.
His mouth curved into a cold smile. "No matter. If the Vale will not have me, the capital will."
He poured himself a cup of Arbor gold and raised it toward the open window.
"To new games," he whispered. "And to new pieces."
Far below, the sound of hooves echoed on the cobblestone streets. The Vale's banners had entered the city.
And among them rode Alderic Ravenshade — young, calm, unknowingly stepping into the same web Petyr had spent a lifetime spinning.