Chapter 108: The Dragon Who Hates Writing
"Robin—save me! Get me out of here!"
The moment Petyr saw the boy, his eyes lit up as if he had found salvation itself. He rushed toward the cell door, only to be stopped by two guards who crossed their spears in his path.
"You killed my mother and still expect me to save you?" Robin shrieked.
"I want to see you fly—right now!"
At the sight of Petyr, Robin's eyes instantly reddened with fury. With a sudden motion, he snatched a longsword from a nearby guard and thrust it straight at Petyr inside the sky cell.
Petyr never imagined that Robin—who had always been close to him—would actually try to stab him. Caught off guard, he barely managed to dodge; the blade tore through his sleeve.
Luckily for Petyr, Robin was frail. Had the boy possessed any real strength, that sword might have gone straight into his belly.
Yohn was badly startled as well. He wasn't afraid of Robin hurting Petyr—he was afraid Robin might hurt himself, or worse, that Petyr might panic, seize the sword, and take Robin hostage.
When the first strike missed, Robin only grew more unhinged. Seeing Petyr retreat deeper into the cell instead of coming out, Robin waved the sword wildly and tried to charge inside.
That movement nearly gave Yohn a heart attack. The sky cells bordered a sheer drop—one misstep could send someone plunging hundreds of feet to their death. With Robin in this state, letting him enter the cell was unthinkable.
Yohn hurriedly shouted orders for the guards to drag Petyr out of the cell while lunging forward himself to grab the sword from Robin's hands.
But he overestimated his own strength—and forgot his age. Not only did he fail to seize the weapon, he nearly got stabbed in the attempt.
"Lord Yohn—what's going on?"
In the middle of the struggle, Arya suddenly appeared from who knew where, calling out sharply.
"Pull Robin away—now!" Yohn shouted the instant he saw her.
At that moment, Robin had already stepped into the sky cell, while the two guards were just beginning to haul Petyr toward the door.
Seeing Arya, a flash of venomous hatred passed through Petyr's eyes.
If not for Arya's sudden arrival, Sansa would never have changed her testimony—and he would never have been thrown into the sky cells.
Arya glanced at Petyr once, then moved toward Robin.
"Ah! Lord Petyr—you…!"
In the chaos, Arya suddenly cried out. Only then did everyone notice that Petyr had somehow obtained a slender blade and slashed Arya's arm.
"Robin!" Arya shouted, calling to the boy closest to Petyr. Ignoring the blood running down her arm, she seized Robin's sword hand and drove it forward toward Petyr.
Petyr hadn't even realized why a thin blade had appeared in his own hand when Robin's sword pierced straight into his chest—
"You… you…"
The slender sword slipped from Petyr's fingers and clattered to the floor. He stared down at the blade embedded in his chest, pointed weakly at Arya, blood spilling from his mouth. He managed to utter only two words—you… you—before collapsing lifelessly to the ground.
To the very end, he never imagined that someone like him would fall at the hands of two young girls.
The sudden turn of events left everyone stunned. Even Robin—who moments earlier had been wildly swinging the sword—froze in place.
Arya herself seemed shocked. She had only acted out of fear that Petyr would hurt Robin; she never expected that a desperate thrust would strike Petyr squarely in the chest. Startled, she quickly let go.
Yohn and the two guards stared at Petyr's body in disbelief.
"Is Littlefinger dead?" Robin asked suddenly.
"I haven't seen him fly yet! Guards—drag Littlefinger to the Moon Door! I want to see him fly!"
A tall, thin guard crouched down, checked Petyr's neck, then looked up at Yohn.
"My lord… he's dead."
"Where did that thin sword come from?" Yohn demanded grimly, turning to the two guards.
He had ordered them to escort Petyr away—yet somehow Petyr had acquired a blade, wounded Arya, and even tried to kill Robin.
The two guards exchanged confused looks. Neither could explain how the man they were dragging had ended up with a sword.
"That sword—Needle—is mine," Arya said, recovering from her shock.
"Needle?" Yohn frowned.
"It's that thin sword," Arya explained, pressing a hand to her bleeding arm.
"My brother Jon gave it to me. I named it Needle. I never thought Lord Petyr would manage to snatch it."
Yohn was taken aback. He hadn't expected Eddard Stark's bastard to give his sister a real blade as a 'toy'—one that nearly allowed Petyr to harm Robin.
"I want to see him fly!" Robin shouted again, waving his sword impatiently.
Petyr was already dead, yet Robin still wouldn't let it go. Thinking of the inevitable reckoning from King's Landing—and the trouble of dealing with Robin himself—Yohn's head throbbed.
"Take Petyr to the Moon Door," Yohn said wearily. "Throw him down."
"Great! I get to see someone fly again!"
Robin tossed aside his sword and clapped excitedly.
"Arya, come on!" Robin grabbed her hand.
"I'll take you to see him fly—you've never seen it before!"
Arya glanced back at Yohn, unsure, picked up Needle from the floor, and let herself be pulled out of the sky cell.
Watching Robin's retreating figure, Yohn let out a deep sigh. He needed to inform the other two members of the Lords Declarant immediately—and discuss how they would answer for this to King's Landing.
…
Meereen.
Inside her chambers, Daenerys was holding Drogon's claw, patiently guiding him as she taught him to write.
After the exhausting first day of the academy's opening, she finally had some time to herself.
And in her spare moments, she had become utterly enamored with teaching Drogon how to write—cherishing the closeness they shared. What frustrated her, though, was that every time she taught him, he would start off seriously… only to grow sleepy halfway through.
If she wanted to speak with Drogon properly as soon as possible, Daenerys had no choice but to persevere—teaching him until he inevitably fell asleep.
At another table in the room, Shireen sat distractedly reviewing the history lesson she would teach the next day.
The first time she saw Daenerys teaching Drogon to write, her initial reaction had been disappointment.
Drogon being able to write had once been her secret alone. Now, it was about to be known by everyone.
Her second reaction had been to curse Drogon inwardly as a little liar—he clearly knew how to write already, yet still let Queen Daenerys teach him. If that wasn't deception, what was?
But soon she noticed something odd: Daenerys was holding Drogon's right claw.
Shireen distinctly remembered that when Drogon had communicated with her in writing, he had used his left claw.
She didn't know why Drogon wouldn't let Daenerys teach him with his left claw—but it reminded her of how Tyrion had repeatedly questioned her about her departure from Dragonstone.
He had asked in great detail—so much so that she had nearly let slip the truth about Drogon communicating through writing.
She had concealed it in the end. Somehow, she felt Tyrion was searching for a secret about Drogon—and that secret was very likely tied to Drogon's ability to write.
Lost in thought, she noticed Drogon growing drowsy again.
This wasn't the first time she'd seen him nod off while practicing writing. And according to Queen Daenerys, whenever Drogon fell asleep during these lessons, he would sleep for a very long time before waking again.