The Young Lord of the Eyrie lay on a soft bed, his expression calm, as if merely asleep.
Those gathered around him watched in silence. Sansa covered her eyes, peeking through her fingers. The strange, sickly, pitiful boy had been unpleasant in life, yet his sudden death made the Seven feel unjust.
Maester Colemon had just finished examining the Young Lord's body. "Sweetsleep, Great Lord Robert Arryn. He died from an overdose of Sweetsleep."
A terrible silence followed.
Then Bronze Yohn roared, "Damn you, you bastard maester!" The Lord of Runestone seized Colemon by the collar with one massive hand. "You killed him? You gave him Sweetsleep! You killed Lord Arryn, and now you've killed his son!"
"My lord," Tyrion stepped in quickly to restrain Yohn Royce. "Let the maester speak." He pried the bronze fingers apart and freed the maester.
"Maester Colemon, tell me—was this caused by the sweet milk you gave the Young Lord?"
Colemon's face was flushed red, his hands trembling. "The toxin in sweet milk accumulates over time. Even small doses, if taken regularly, can become dangerous. But I was always careful…"
"This is the result of your carefulness?" Lord Royce's face had gone scarlet—more red copper than bronze.
The door opened, and Petyr Baelish entered. "My wife has nearly cried herself dry. I gave her wine before she finally slept." His eyes drifted between Tyrion and Royce. "My lords, have you reached a conclusion?"
Bronze Yohn's gray eyes fixed on him. "Littlefinger, did you have anything to do with this?"
"My lord, of course not." Petyr walked to the window and looked down at Lord Robert Arryn. "Poor Robin… I loved him like my own son…"
"Spare us your crocodile tears, Littlefinger," Bronze growled. "Everyone knows you opposed the Great Lord marrying Arya Stark, only because Lady Lysa disapproved of your bastard daughter!"
"A terrible accusation, my lord." Littlefinger frowned. "Are you implying I poisoned Sweetrobin?"
"Exactly. You brought out that tray of pastries. You laced it with Sweetsleep."
"Maester Colemon," Littlefinger said sharply, turning to the Eyrie's maester, who poked his head forward like a startled hen.
"My lord."
"That ring cake," Littlefinger asked, "did you examine it?"
"I did, my lord," Colemon whispered, shaking like a reed in the Vale's mountain winds. "Nothing was wrong, my lord. No trace of Sweetsleep." He sank onto the bedside, trembling, tears seeming to fall. "It was me… it must be me. I miscalculated the dose…"
"Enough." Tyrion patted his shoulder. "Go rest, maester. Relax. This isn't your fault." He glanced at Sansa. "See him out, then get some rest."
Sansa nodded and supported the weakened maester out of the room.
"You did this, didn't you?" Tyrion said to Littlefinger, reaching for the iron tongs beside the hearth. "Lord Royce, how about we kill him right now?"
"No." Royce grabbed Tyrion's arm. "That would be dishonorable!"
Honor my ass, you fossil, Tyrion thought.
"My lord Lannister," Littlefinger said with a thin smile, "you accuse me of poisoning? Maester Colemon clearly found no poison in the cake. In my opinion, the maester is simply old and miscalculated the dosage."
"No. You only poisoned the piece the Young Lord ate."
Littlefinger laughed. "My lord, do you think I can see the future? How would I know which slice Sweetrobin would choose? He picked it himself."
Tyrion remembered—when Sansa ate the cake, every slice had been the same size.
How had he done it?
"Lord Tyrion." Littlefinger smiled, his gold tooth gleaming in the firelight. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's tournament may well become Lord Harrold Hardyng's inheritance ceremony. If you'd be so kind, perhaps write to King's Landing and ask the Queen or the Dowager Queen to name my son-in-law Keeper of the Vale. Both Lord Hardyng and I would remember your kindness. And of course, there's the matter of trying Maester Colemon."
"Enough." Bronze Yohn pulled Tyrion back. "Lord Petyr, what happened tonight is a tragedy for us all. We need rest to deal with the mess tomorrow. Please take care of Lady Lysa." He guided Tyrion toward the door.
"No need to see you out, my lords."
…
"Lord Tyrion Lannister." Once they had walked a distance down the corridor, Bronze Yohn seized his hand, his expression grim. "You must leave at once."
Tyrion stopped.
"Littlefinger sweet-talked you into staying," Bronze Yohn said, "but he'll accuse you soon—possibly by tomorrow morning. He'll claim you murdered Lord Robert Arryn, just as Lady Lysa Tully claimed the Lannisters killed Lord Jon Arryn."
"You know I didn't."
"I do. Others won't." Royce shook him. "They'll be eager to accuse you, imprison you, torment you, and put you on trial."
Just as I tortured Littlefinger, Tyrion thought.
"But there's still you. The Lords Declarant haven't dissolved," Tyrion said. "Knight, you're the strongest lord in the Vale. I have men, you have men, the Lord of the Redfort has men. I can call forces from the Riverlands, the Westerlands, King's Landing. We can shut the Bloody Gate, take Gulltown, advance or retreat as needed…"
"The moment word of Robert Arryn's death spreads, Harrold Hardyng becomes heir to the Vale. Littlefinger, as his father-in-law, will take control," Bronze said. "And I must obey the lawful heir. Tyrion, we've lost our chance to marry into House Arryn. We've lost."
"We haven't," Tyrion said sharply, pulling away. "Littlefinger did this—you and I both know it. Don't you want justice?"
"We have no proof," Bronze answered, looking suddenly ancient in the wavering torchlight. "We have no Great Lord of the Eyrie."
"We have men. We have supplies," Tyrion said. "I sent Blackfish to the Bloody Gate the moment it happened. Lord Royce, the Vale doesn't belong to Littlefinger or that fool Hardyng."
"Nor to you or me. Even if I, Lord Horton Redfort, and the lesser lords stay neutral, the rest of the Vale can muster more than ten thousand men."
"Just wait," Tyrion said, walking off without looking back. "I'll uncover how Littlefinger did it. I'll bring back the rightful heir of the Vale. I'll destroy these men who preach honor while rotting inside."
...
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