"Drip." "Drip." "Drip."
The soft sound of water drops echoed through the empty room, mingling with the faint hiss of sand falling through an hourglass.
In a room somewhere in The Eyrie, Anguy set an hourglass before Petyr, who sat bound to a chair, his body beaten into a bloody mess. It was an hourglass of blue crystal filled with white sand, just like the blue and white colors of House Arryn.
The sand trickled down, like years slipping through the fingers. Petyr could feel his life fading away bit by bit.
The former Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish, had lips cracked dry from thirst. His face was ashen, his whole body gaunt and withered. Beneath the fine clothes he had been dressed in for the occasion, one could still glimpse piercing wounds, scrapes, and the marks left by fists, spears, sword scabbards, and whips. The soldiers of Gulltown and House Arryn had shown no mercy to a traitor.
"Your time is almost up, Lord Petyr. This is all you have left," Anguy said to him.
Once this hourglass ran out, Petyr and Lysa would be executed together. On the table sat a cup of wine, a fine vintage from the Arbor, with the taste of oak, fruit, and high summer. At this moment, however, it represented death.
"The Storm. I want to see the Storm." Petyr's eyes were dull and empty. He felt as light as a feather, drifting toward the end of his life.
"You want to see Prince Gendry? You?" Anguy looked at Littlefinger Petyr with open disdain.
"The list. I can give him a list. The names he wants to know." Petyr looked at Anguy, the fiery-haired young man. He was the Storm's squire, and he could carry a message for him.
"Oh? And what value do you still have? Your men in Gulltown, the customs officers, brothel owners, and granary owners, have all been executed by House Grafton. Their wealth, and your wealth, have all been confiscated."
"I have connections Across the Narrow Sea. Braavos, Pentos. Even Qarth and Lys. They... they'll come save me."
"Don't be stupid." Anguy looked at the madman. "Your subordinates have already confessed everything. Besides, the Sealord of Braavos is sickly now, and Braavos itself is far from peaceful."
"There's more. More..." Petyr pleaded. "I can give names. Names Lord Gerold Grafton and the Golden Eagle don't know."
"I'll go fetch my lord. Watch him," Anguy said to the Gold Cloaks in the room, then left.
His lord had guessed correctly. It seemed Littlefinger really did want to say something before he died.
A short while later, Gendry entered the room and looked at the dying Littlefinger. Petyr was certain to die. The only question was what sweet words he would use this time to try to deceive him.
"You are cruel, Prince Gendry. No, you are a king who plays with the world in the palm of his hand." Petyr looked at Gendry, yet there was no insult or pleading in his voice. "You killed his mother and his good uncle in front of a child."
"Sweetrobin is asleep, Petyr. As for you, no one would have known that beneath the mask of the Master of Coin, you were also a master of poison." Gendry replied. Getting a child to sleep was indeed troublesome, but after Sweetrobin had spent some time flying in his palm, the boy tired himself out and fell asleep more quickly. There would be bloody executions today. It was no place for a child.
"Poison is the weapon of cowards, eunuchs, and women. I am a coward, and since everyone looks down on me, poison is the best weapon I have. It was so with Jon Arryn, and it was so with Robert Arryn." Petyr smiled miserably, admitting that he had taught Lysa to poison Lord Jon and use sweetsleep flowers to make Sweetrobin sleep.
"I lost. I lost completely. I ask for paper and a pen," Petyr said. "My final wish."
"You want to write someone a letter?"
"No." Petyr shook his head, pain filling his gray-green eyes. "I will not write to Catelyn. Letting a woman see a man at his most wretched is the greatest failure a man can suffer. It was true many years ago, and it is true today. My list is for you."
"That is interesting. Write it."
Anguy placed pen and paper before Petyr. Only the hand holding the pen was freed, trembling violently.
"These are my former networks. Intelligence, money, King's Landing, the Vale, Across the Narrow Sea. There is also some wealth I hid elsewhere, in the Iron Bank and trading houses. Do not... do not spare them."
Petyr wiped his bloodied fingers across the paper, a faint smile still hanging on his face, one last mocking smile.
"There are Magisters of the Free Cities, great merchants, and that little island where your smuggling fleet is hidden. Your network is quite extensive." Gendry put away the blood-stained letter, but showed no intention of acting at once.
"If the world turned me into a whore, then I would turn the world into one great brothel." Petyr laughed bitterly, but the smile pulled at his wounds, and he spat out a great mouthful of blood. Even without the death sentence, the days of travel and brutal beatings had slowly drained the life from him.
"Will you act?" Petyr asked.
The Fingers, his homeland. He would never return there again.
"Simple. I will pretend I know nothing and wait to see what happens. If they remain loyal, then this list never existed. If they refuse to be loyal, then naturally, I will send them to meet you."
"As thanks for your hospitality before my death, beware your greatest enemies, Varys and Braavos," Petyr said. "If you want to uncover the Red Keep's tunnels, find the rat-catchers. They are the professionals. As for Braavos, you know the weight of the Sealord, the fleet, the Faceless Men."
"Power comes from Bloodline, Petyr. I will thank you for the warning." Gendry looked at Petyr, who was still weaving pretty words even on the verge of death.
Still, the man's mind was truly sharp. Littlefinger had thought of a way to break Varys's network, and Gendry himself had already found a ground-level hidden passage in the Red Keep. The Faceless Men were indeed terrifying, but he had the power of Bloodline and the Dragons. Those were his true trump cards.
"How will you deal with Varys?" Littlefinger Petyr asked Gendry. He had already understood that Gendry had long since marked them all as enemies and threats to guard against: Littlefinger, Varys, and Braavos.
"Considering Varys once found me work as a Smith, I will let him die quickly."
"Wonderful. Wonderful indeed. Varys has dug his own grave." At the thought of Varys's death, Petyr felt delighted. Varys would soon come as well. It seemed Petyr would not be lonely.
The hourglass trickled on. Time was almost up.
"Good. Very good. I never thought that fool Robert would sire a true king. You are... you are the king I dreamed of becoming. You have strength, and you have skill. Only a king who is both lion and fox can be a true king." Petyr looked at Gendry and suddenly grew agitated. "King. King."
"Farewell, Petyr."
Gendry walked out of the room. Petyr's final moments were counting down. Petyr had only ever wanted to be a fox, but in a lion's world, a fox would be hunted down in the end.
At the same time, in a room at the far opposite end of the castle, another hourglass was ticking away.
"Sweetrobin! I want to see Sweetrobin! He loves nestling against me!" Lysa wailed.
"That is enough, Lysa. We will not let Sweetrobin see you again," Ser Brynden said. Sansa was also in the room. They were Lysa's two relatives.
When Sansa saw Lysa, she was startled. Her aunt was now a huge woman, without any of her mother's elegance.
Lysa's once-fluffy red hair was dull and lifeless, and without her expensive velvet dress and jeweled bodice, she looked even more bloated and sagging, though her brief imprisonment had made her lose quite a bit of weight. Her breasts were large, her limbs fat. She was both taller and heavier than Littlefinger.
"I am a Lady. I am the regent mother of the Great Lord of The Eyrie. I want to see Petyr. What have you done to him?" Lysa screamed. "Uncle, why didn't you come save us?"
"You are not anymore." Ser Brynden's face was livid. "Both of you will die once the hourglass runs out."
"This is unfair. This is unfair!" Lysa cried and screamed.
"Why? Why did I have to marry an old man while Cat married Eddard Stark, a young man, back then? I was so beautiful then. I made Catelyn look plain. But I married an old man, and all he wanted was an army to support the child he loved. My father insisted on it. He said a woman like me, one who had lost her virtue, was already greatly blessed to marry Jon.
"I hate Jon. I hate my father. I hate Cat too. I never loved Jon. Half his teeth were gone, and his breath smelled like rancid dry Cheese. What I hated most was his smell... Petyr, his breath was so fresh and clean. He may not have looked impressive, but he was so good. Jon Arryn's seed was old and weak. A cold old man, yet he never gave me a good child. Only Sweetrobin survived."
Ser Brynden trembled all over. He truly wanted to strangle his niece. Grief and pity tangled together. This was a fate shaped by the gods above. Lysa was a fool, and Great Lord Hoster had been a fool as well.
"And you. You have the same face as that damned mother of yours. You are so beautiful, young men can't take their eyes off you. That bastard of Robert's must have taken a fancy to that pretty face. That is why he tried so hard to rescue you, and why he had to kill my Petyr. Men are all the same. Robert slept with more women than anyone can count. Only my Petyr was faithful." Lysa raged at her. "That Joffrey, that monster, why didn't he kill you? Joffrey is a wicked thing. He was always giving my Robert vicious nicknames, and once he even hit someone with a wooden sword."
Sansa looked at her raving aunt and could not stop herself from trembling. It seemed the rumors were true. Her aunt's mind had been completely taken by Littlefinger.
"You never told your father, your sister, or your brother?" Ser Brynden asked.
"No. I only want Petyr. And my little Robert. Let me see my Sweetrobin!" Lysa screamed.
"Let's go, Sansa." Ser Brynden shook his head. There was truly no saving her. Even if he did not want to harden his heart, he had no other choice.
"Yes, great-uncle."
Sansa followed Ser Brynden out of the room. The white door slowly closed, and no light remained inside.
Lady Lysa's story made her shudder. She did not want to marry an old, ugly man. She wanted to marry someone young and handsome, someone like the Storm.
Brynden's face was heavy with gloom. The hour of parting had come. From this day on, there would be no more Lysa and Petyr in the world.
...
The Eyrie was unusually lively today. It was the day of execution. Beyond the pure white walls, there were only mountains and endless empty sky.
In the great hall of The Eyrie, many prominent lords of the Vale had gathered. They trailed after Gendry like butterflies among flowers, eager to flatter this future man of power. Once the Eagle, Wolf, Fish, and Stag joined forces, with the Stag's outstanding command besides, victory would not be far off.
Outside the hall's finely carved wooden doors, two guards in sky-blue cloaks stood on either side, spears in hand. All the lords stood solemnly below.
Gendry did not sit on the high-backed Weirwood throne atop the dais. The Weirwood made him wary. Instead, he sat on another throne, the one belonging to Robert Arryn. Thick blue cushions had been placed on it, making him appear even taller and more imposing. On the wall behind the dais hung a great banner, a white crescent moon and falcon on a sky-blue field.
Barristan, Lothor, the girl from House Mormont, and Anguy stood to either side of Gendry. Brynden and Jon should have been there as well, for seven was a sacred number, but as relatives, they now stood below.
Gendry wore simple black leather armor, light and easy to move in. Over it he wore a heavy velvet cloak in three colors: black, red, and gold.
Brynden, Jon Snow, and Sansa stood together. The lords lined the sides of the blue silk carpet in the hall, and farther out stood rows of slender pillars like long spears. Bluecoats were stationed on both sides, with the occasional gold-cloaked knight from Gendry's company mixed among them. The important figures of the Guardians' League had all arrived: Bronze Yohn, Lord Nestor, Maester Colemon, Lady Anya of House Waynwood, and Ser Vardis. Only Grafton was absent, occupied with purging Gulltown.
Even Harry, that proudest of fools, now obediently followed behind his foster mother. Since the Vale folk were stiff and concerned with appearances, they had not invited the Crackclaws, with whom they had bad blood, to watch the spectacle.
The floor and walls of the hall were built of milky white marble veined with blue. Pale, lazy sunlight filtered in through the narrow arched windows on the eastern wall. Between the windows, torches stood in tall iron brackets, though they cast almost no light. Outside the windows, the cold wind howled in lonely gusts.
The marble was so white that it seemed to carry a cold, distant chill, enough to make one shiver.
"It is time," Maester Colemon announced, glancing at the blue-and-white hourglass in his hand.
"Bring in the traitors," Gendry said, rising to his feet.
Wherever his gaze passed, the people of the Vale fell silent. The chill in the hall seemed to deepen sharply. Under the weight of his words, the place seemed to turn frozen, as if the walls, floor, and pillars had all become black ice.
A man and a woman were dragged in from opposite sides, both with their hands bound. The Gold Cloaks shoved them forward. They were Lysa Tully and Petyr Baelish.
The two traitors were dragged to the center of the hall. Between two slender pillars, set into the marble wall, was a narrow Weirwood door. A crescent moon had been carved into the white wood. This was the Moon Door of House Arryn. It was tightly shut and fastened with three heavy bronze bolts, but Sansa could still hear the sharp wail of the wind slipping through the cracks.
Sansa had never seen a killing before, but after King's Landing, she had slowly begun to grow stronger.
"In the name of Robert I of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Warden of the Realm, I, Gendry, rightful heir to the Iron Throne and Perpetual Triarch of the Stepstones, Tyrosh, and Myr, hereby sentence you both to death," Gendry declared.
Gendry handed Ser Vardis a sword. It was the Falcon Sword that had once belonged to Lord Jon. Ser Vardis had pleaded bitterly for the right to execute Lysa himself.
Ser Vardis stepped forward, silver-haired and sturdy, wearing a sky-blue cloak and a breastplate marked with the crescent moon and falcon. In his hand was the Falcon Sword, a beautiful double-edged longsword. Silver lines had been engraved along the blade, tracing the patterns of the open sky above the mountains. The hilt was shaped like a falcon's head, and the guard formed two wings. This sword had originally been forged by Lysa for her husband when she was in King's Landing, yet now she would die beneath its edge.
The Bluecoats lifted the three heavy bronze bolts and opened them one by one. Beyond the door were only blue sky, emptiness, and wind, lonely and cold. No one dared look down. Six hundred feet below lay Sky Castle.
"Sweetrobin, Sweetrobin, come save me," Lysa begged, but no one listened. The Bluecoats escorted the two of them to places near the roaring wind.
At last, Lysa saw Petyr. The man she had longed for day and night had changed beyond recognition.
"Petyr, though they have hurt you like this, I will avenge you. If we die together, then I am willing. Everything I did, everything, was for you," Lysa cried. "You told me to put the tears down, and I did."
"Lysa, you really... really had a hard time," Petyr said, looking at this foolish woman.
The Bluecoats pushed them not far from the Moon Door. Their wailing before death only made the onlookers sick. A round tree stump was placed in front of each of them. Simply throwing them out would have been too merciful. First came the beheading of the traitors.
"Do you still not understand? In all my life, I only ever loved one person." Petyr looked at Lysa, his eyes full of weariness and disgust. At this point, he no longer deceived even himself.
Lysa actually smiled before her death. "Only one? Oh, Petyr, will you swear it? Only one? Then before I die, it was worth it. What a pity we never became husband and wife. I think of all the storms we weathered together. We stayed by each other's side, never apart, and I would have borne you children."
"Only Cat."
Petyr turned his head away and did not look at Lysa again.
The lords of the Vale all looked livid. If these two kept talking, old Lord Jon's dignity would be stripped bare.
"Liar. No, you're lying to me!" Lysa wailed in despair.
Poor, foolish woman. Her end suited her stupidity.
Ser Vardis walked toward Lysa, and the Bluecoats pressed her head down onto the stump. He tightened his grip on the Falcon Sword, and then Lysa's head parted from her body. Bright red blood gushed out like a spring.
Then the Bluecoats put their strength into it, and Lysa, together with the stump, vanished into the wild wind. The cold wind howled without end, leaving only a sheet of blood behind.
Petyr watched it all without the slightest expression. He remained kneeling on the ground, waiting for his death. He saw Cat's girl. How much she looked like Catelyn in her youth. Unfortunately, she did not spare him even a glance. Her attention lingered only on the steps of Gendry Storm. Women were all the same. Their eyes and hearts were stolen by tall, handsome men.
"Tie him to a pillar."
Gendry stepped down from the dais. He was so tall that he stood out above everyone else. He took the sword from Vardis's hand, its blood still unwiped.
"The ladies and children present had best cover their eyes. What comes next may be rather cruel," Gendry said to the crowd.
Brynden told Sansa to cover her eyes.
Sansa looked at Gendry's back, and her heart felt like a frightened fawn running wild. He was so handsome and strong, as if no one could compare to him. If he could only be gentle with her, that would be wonderful.
"Yes, Prince."
The Bluecoats tied Littlefinger to the pillar nearest the Moon Door, and Gendry gripped the sword himself.
"Petyr, it is not someone else who will kill you. It is me," Gendry said. "You will die the same way as Khal Drogo and Bloodbeard. That is hardly unfair to you."
"You have won this round of the game. I hope you keep winning, until you defeat Braavos, defeat the Faceless Men, and defeat Qarth. My king, in the Game of Thrones, no one leaves halfway."
Gendry nodded to show he had heard. Petyr opened his eyes coldly and said no more. He heard the sound of the hourglass again, sand flowing quietly.
The sword whistled in Gendry's hand, like a streak of light and shadow. The bright scent of fresh blood rushed into the air.
Littlefinger seemed to see again the tall, powerful wild wolf in Riverrun years ago, swinging his sword in a furious assault, blows falling like rain, impossible to dodge. Petyr had fought stubbornly, yet kept retreating, until Brandon's slash had almost killed him back then.
"This strike is for your betrayal of the late king, my father King Robert Baratheon, and my brothers and sisters."
Gendry swung the sword, and Petyr's left arm fell away, leaving a spreading sea of blood.
"This strike is for your betrayal of your benefactor, Great Lord Jon Arryn, the late king's foster father, and for poisoning Great Lord Jon's son, Great Lord Robert Arryn."
Petyr's right arm was cut off cleanly as well. More blood poured out, and steam began to rise from the icy floor.
"This strike is for your betrayal of Great Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King."
Gendry cut into Petyr's left leg, and the longsword severed the thigh outright. Bone, flesh, and tendons all parted at once, as if the blade were cutting through silk.
The Knights of the Vale saw it clearly. The Falcon Sword was ornate, but it was only a fine steel blade, not Valyrian steel. This was purely Gendry's own terrifying strength and ferocity.
"This..." Harry the Arse's eyes went wide.
This was raw strength, without any fancy technique, yet nothing could withstand it.
"This strike is for your betrayal of House Tully, for coveting the wife of your benefactor Lord Jon, and for deceiving her."
Petyr's right leg was also cut off cleanly. A thick burst of blood mist exploded into the air, then quickly faded like smoke.
"This strike is for your betrayal of the people, and for starting war."
Gendry swung the sword, and Petyr's suffering finally ended. His head flew up into the air.
The Bluecoats, trembling all over and fighting the urge to vomit, then threw Petyr's remaining torso through the Moon Door. Littlefinger's remains and severed head flew high into the sky.