The Braavosi merchant ship cut through the heavy sea fog like a blade.
At its bow stood the towering statue of the Titan of Braavos, grim and silent, staring ahead across the dark waters. To Petyr Baelish, sprawled across the deck in pain, it looked almost as though the Titan itself were mocking him.
His own guards were gone.
The Braavosi sailors he had bribed and commanded were gone.
Even the men he had trusted most had abandoned him.
The order to attack him had come from Lothor Brune, a man Petyr once believed he controlled.
How ironic.
The Titan had once symbolized House Baelish before Petyr adopted the mockingbird as his sigil. He had risen higher than any Baelish in history, climbing from a petty lord of the Fingers to one of the most dangerous men in Westeros.
And now he had fallen farther than any of them as well.
He had reached for the sharp summit of power.
Now he bled on wet planks like a beaten dog.
Littlefinger's Broken Dreams
"Sansa…"
"Cat…"
"Catelyn…"
His vision blurred.
The red-haired girl before him seemed to transform into Catelyn Stark.
Rain poured heavily in his memory, just as it had years ago at Riverrun when she rejected him.
He remembered the pale blue handkerchief embroidered with the leaping trout of House Tully.
He remembered begging.
He remembered humiliation.
She had given her favor to Brandon Stark.
She never looked back.
Then came Brandon Stark—the Wild Wolf.
Brandon strode toward him with sword in hand, every strike harder than the last. Petyr stumbled backward, covered in blood, unable to defend himself.
Then one brutal slash sent him crashing to the ground.
That pain…
That humiliation…
He had never forgotten it.
But Brandon's face cracked apart like glass.
Another face emerged.
A black-haired, blue-eyed warrior.
The Storm.
A far more terrifying man than Brandon Stark had ever been.
The Storm laughed as fists and steel rained down upon him, smashing him into flesh and ruin.
Then more faces emerged from the darkness.
Catelyn.
Edmure.
Cersei Lannister.
Tyrion Lannister.
Even Eddard Stark stared at him coldly.
"Fool."
"You idiot."
"You were always a fool."
"No!"
Littlefinger sank into endless darkness as countless hands pushed him downward into the abyss.
"Come back…"
He tried to call for Oswell.
But the old knight would never return.
Sansa Learns the Truth
Nearby, Sansa Stark stood pale and shaken.
"What exactly is happening?" she asked.
Lothor Brune faced her calmly.
"The world is full of lies and truths, my lady."
"For Littlefinger, most of what he offered you was lies."
He continued in a measured voice.
"Think of the troubles your father faced in King's Landing. He visited Lord Stark many times, feeding him suggestions and confusion. Had he not interfered, you and your father might have returned north long ago."
"And after he escaped the Black Cells, he sided with Queen Cersei. He even introduced Janos Slynt, commander of the Gold Cloaks, into her service."
Sansa lowered her head in shame.
Everything her father had warned her about had been true.
She had doubted him.
She had believed Petyr Baelish.
She had believed Joffrey was a prince from songs rather than a monster.
She had believed court smiles meant kindness.
Now she knew better.
"If you wish to go home," Lothor said, "come to the godswood tonight."
"That parchment… was it real?"
"Yes."
"Only the godswood could be trusted. The rest of the Red Keep crawls with Varys's little birds."
He glanced toward the sea.
"In the godswood there are no walls, no ceilings, no corners for spies to hide."
"Only trees, roots, stone, and sky."
"Even rats cannot hide forever."
Sansa said nothing.
Everything she thought she understood had shattered in a single night.
Mercy Denied
She glanced toward Petyr, who lay groaning and twitching on the deck.
"What will happen to him?"
Lothor's face remained unreadable.
"You are safe now, my lady. But a noble girl such as yourself should not witness ugly matters."
He lowered his voice.
"The Storm ordered that Littlefinger remain alive until reaching the Eyrie."
"He did not specify how alive."
Sansa stared at Petyr.
Once, she might have pitied him.
Once, she might have believed he had rescued her out of love for her mother… or kindness toward her.
But now she remembered too much.
He had watched Joffrey torment her.
He had done nothing.
He had watched the Kingsguard strike her.
He had done nothing.
He had whispered honeyed words while building cages around everyone near him.
He had taken her away, yes.
But only for himself.
"Mm."
She nodded once.
There was no pity in her heart.
Then she removed the heavy cloak bearing the mockingbird sigil and dropped it to the deck.
The ship rocked beneath her feet.
It felt as though her old life had fallen away with it.
The Storm Revealed
"Are you one of the Storm's men?" Sansa asked.
Lothor nodded.
"Yes."
"I have always served Prince Gendry Baratheon."
He handed her another cloak—thick, plain, and somewhat worn.
Sansa accepted it gratefully.
"I'm tired."
Ser Rosso escorted her below deck.
Littlefinger had prepared a chamber for her, and to his credit, some effort had gone into it.
The cabin was small and cramped, but warm.
A narrow wooden bed had been layered with feathers and thick furs.
A cedar chest stood beneath the window.
"Inside are clean clothes," Lothor said. "Not luxurious, but warm."
"Thank you, ser," Sansa said quickly.
He studied her for a moment.
"Change before we arrive."
"You are going to meet a king."
"Possibly your great-uncle, the Blackfish, as well."
"You are graceful by nature, my lady."
"It is a pity you ever came to King's Landing."
After he left, Sansa opened the cedar chest.
Inside were dresses, stockings, underclothes, and cloaks made of wool and linen.
Simple garments.
Nothing grand.
But clean.
Warm.
Safe.
That alone felt priceless.
Sansa's Dreams
She lay upon the bed and whispered the name softly.
"Gendry."
"The Storm."
Would he come to see her?
"What does he look like?" she had asked.
Lothor had answered:
"Lord Renly was his uncle, so there is resemblance."
"But the Storm is taller."
"Stronger."
"And far more dangerous."
Sansa smiled to herself.
In her imagination she saw a young man with black hair and blue eyes, broad-shouldered and handsome, every inch the warrior king.
What did it matter if he had once been a bastard?
King Robert had acknowledged him.
Now he stood poised to claim more wealth and power than any ruler alive.
She turned onto her side, hugging a fur blanket.
"If only I could marry the Storm…"
She imagined him taking her hawking.
She imagined tourneys in blooming gardens.
She imagined singers playing harps while they watched the sunset together.
She imagined children.
Strong sons named Eddard, Brandon, and Rickon.
A daughter fierce like Arya.
Children who would hate the Lannisters.
Children who would love her.
But even in her dreams, one thought troubled her.
Such a glorious face likely belonged in another woman's embrace already.
Still…
Dreams cost nothing.
Lothor's Judgment
Back on deck, Lothor climbed the stairs and looked down at Petyr Baelish.
Littlefinger's body had curled inward, shaking with pain.
A pathetic sight.
Once a master manipulator.
Now just another broken man.
"Do you see what you are?" Lothor said quietly.
"A petty lord who wanted to climb too high."
"Your path upward was built on women, whispers, and betrayal."
He motioned to the mercenaries and attendants nearby.
"Once we deliver him to Seagull Town, your task is complete."
The men nodded.
Lothor had already paid them once.
They would be paid again on arrival.
Littlefinger had bought loyalty with gold.
So others had sold him for better gold.
That was the nature of hired men.
They served coin.
Nothing more.
And now the Vale was changing.
Littlefinger's secrets with Lysa Arryn were spreading.
His roots had been torn from the ground.
He belonged nowhere.
Lothor crouched beside him.
"Do you know why you lost?"
Littlefinger could only twitch.
Lothor smiled thinly.
"You had gold."
"Others had gold too."
"But all you had was gold."
He leaned closer.
"Power is power, Lord Baelish."
"Coin alone is not enough."
He rose and looked east.
The sun was beginning to break through the fog.
"Under sunlight," he murmured, "shadows cannot hide."
Toward Seagull Town
The ship continued onward across calm waters.
Fog drifted behind them.
The mockingbird cloak lay abandoned on the wet deck.
Littlefinger groaned in defeat.
Sansa dreamed below.
And the vessel sailed steadily toward Seagull Town, as though this were just another ordinary day.
Yet by the time it arrived, another piece of the realm would belong to the Storm.
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