The crow is lonely, for no eagles circle above the Eyrie.
Lysa Tully's new husband spent far more time down the mountain than he ever did atop it.
Below, he had spent four straight days in talks with House Corbray. From the fragments the crow overheard, Jon Arryn's vassals resented Lysa's marriage and envied Petyr for gaining the authority of the Vale's Protector.
They seized upon Lysa Tully's refusal to send troops to aid Robb as their charge. House Royce stood on the edge of open rebellion, and Houses Waynwood, Redfort, Belmore, and Templeton backed Bronze Yohn with full support.
The mountain clans were impossible to control. After returning from King's Landing, the clansmen had brought back large quantities of weapons, armor, supplies, and newly learned tactics. Small forces no longer dared approach the Mountains of the Moon. The Bloody Gate was almost never opened. Lysa Tully had withdrawn many of the Bloody Gate knights into the interior to keep order and maintain safety.
At such a critical moment, the old Lord Hunter suddenly died. His two younger sons simultaneously accused their elder brother of murdering their father. The Vale had remained untouched by the larger war, but now Lady Lysa's dream of keeping the peace grew more impossible by the day.
Snow fell upon the Eyrie.
The cold was harsh, too harsh for crows to fly so high. Perhaps only one in dozens—or hundreds—ever reached the peak. The mountaintop did not belong to crows.
Snow drifted down, soft and silent as secrets. Was it the snow that woke the crow? In the gardens below, the snow had piled deep, covering the grass, cloaking the statues in white, bowing the short branches under its weight.
"Lord Robert."
Robert Arryn was playing in the snow.
"Lord Littlefinger!" the young Lord of the Eyrie shrieked in his high, childish voice. "I don't want to sleep with the bastard!"
"Then with whom would you sleep?"
"I don't know, I think…" the boy protested. "May I sleep with you, Lord Littlefinger?"
"No, Lord Robert." Petyr Baelish reached out to steady him, both his little fingers long since chopped away. "I must share a bed with your mother."
"I want to sleep with you too!" Robert Arryn shivered uncontrollably. "I want to fly! I heard her! Mother cried out last night—she can fly! I want to fly too!"
He seized Littlefinger's sleeve and tugged without stopping, flinging snow and spit onto Petyr's face.
The young lord had also wet himself.
Petyr Baelish's expression twisted with disgust as he yanked his arm free. Robert toppled into the snow and immediately began screaming.
The cry of an eagle echoed across the mountain peaks, strong in its ancient blood.
Guards and maids rushed in to restrain the boy, and Maester Colemon arrived moments later. Robert Arryn's seizures were nothing new to the Eyrie; Lady Lysa had trained everyone to react the instant the child cried. The Maester held Robert's head, murmuring soft reassurances as he fed him half a cup of sleep wine.
Slowly, Robert's convulsions waned and finally stopped, though his hands still trembled faintly.
"Carry him to my chambers," Maester Colemon told the guards. "Later, we'll let the leeches draw some blood."
"I don't want leeches sucking me!"
"My lord, there are toxins in your blood," Colemon said gently. "They make you angry, make you shake. Come now, be good."
"Maester," Littlefinger called after him, "would it be possible for the lord to have a stronger dose of sleep wine tonight? You know… I cannot have him overhearing me."
Colemon lingered. "My lord, could we delay that a day? Since you arrived at the Eyrie, the boy's condition worsens with each passing day—not only are the fits more frequent, each one grows more violent. I have bled him as much as I safely can, given him sleep wine and milk of the poppy to help him rest, yet he needs real rest…"
"He sleeps twelve hours a day," Petyr cut in. "I only need him awake when it matters."
"Whenever he grows agitated, Lady Lysa feeds him milk. Archmaester Ebrose says a mother's milk has strange properties."
"This is your advice, Maester? That I should sleep with Lady Lysa and with him?" Petyr's face darkened. "You want us to find a wet nurse for the Great Lord of The Eyrie and the Warden of the Vale? And when he marries, how should we wean him? Or teach him to give up the wet nurse's breast and go straight for the bride's?" Petyr let out a harsh laugh. "No, that won't do. I suggest another path. Children love sweets, don't they?"
"Sweets?"
"Sweets. Cakes, pies, jams, jellies, honey… things like that. Perhaps… a pinch of sweet sleep flower in his milk. Have you tried it? Just a little, enough to calm his nerves and ease the fits."
"A little?" The maester's Adam's apple bobbed. "A little… perhaps, perhaps… Not too much, not too often, but I could try… A pinch of sweet sleep does help suppress epilepsy, yet the toxin accumulates over time. Day by day…"
The crow blinked. Sweet sleep flower—taken in small amounts—soothes the nerves and suppresses seizures. Its sweetness makes it a perfect assassin's poison. Mixed into sweet food or drink, it can be consumed without notice.
A few grains slow the heartbeat and steady the tremors, giving calm. A pinch ensures dreamless sleep. Three pinches make sleep unending. It grants a painless death.
Poor Great Lord.
Littlefinger sighed. He had hoped to father a child with Lysa Tully quickly, but whether due to the lady herself or the toll Qyburn's tortures had taken on him, nothing had happened.
He was now like Jon Arryn—cornered, with no way out.
The Great Lord of the Eyrie had little time left. His life, like the Baratheon dynasty, trembled on the brink of collapse.
Damn Tyrion Lannister. He had taken Sansa, taken Harrenhal, taken Petyr's health, taken…
…taken everything, just as Eddard Stark once had. Everything… Lysa…
A young woman stepped out of the castle, brown hair, brown eyes, undeniably beautiful—or made to seem so—but lacking the bearing of a noble-born lady.
"Father." She curtsied. "Let me help you back to your chambers."
"Alayne." Littlefinger brushed a hand through his daughter's hair. "You grow lovelier by the day. I suppose I'll have to hire someone to tutor you in courtly manners."
"Forgive me, Father. I know I'm not as—"
Littlefinger pressed a finger to her lips. "No need to speak of her. You and she were best friends. You only need to learn to play her."
Best friends. The crow heard it, fluttered its wings, and flew away.