Littlefinger strolled into the Hand's study with effortless ease, as though nothing of consequence had occurred earlier that morning. His steps were light, unhurried, almost mocking in their calm, as if the Red Keep itself bent willingly around him.
He wore a cream-and-silver velvet doublet, exquisitely tailored to his slim frame, and a grey silk cloak trimmed with black fox fur draped loosely over his shoulders. The garment was costly, tasteful, and carefully chosen—just like everything else about Petyr Baelish. The familiar, infuriating smile curved his lips, that half-amused, half-insulting expression that suggested he knew secrets no one else did.
Eddard Stark did not rise to greet him.
"Lord Baelish," he said coolly, his voice flat and restrained, "to what do I owe this visit?"
Littlefinger clasped his hands behind his back and glanced around the study as if admiring the room. "Must every visit have a purpose, Lord Stark? Sometimes I simply wish to enjoy your charming company."
Eddard's mouth tightened. Their conversation unfolded exactly as he had expected—empty pleasantries, thin civility stretched over something rotten, and insinuations that slithered beneath the surface. He had no desire to humor this man, especially not today.
Littlefinger soon steered the discussion where Eddard least wanted it to go: the Small Council.
"The king was… lively after you left," Littlefinger said lightly. "Quite red in the face. I believe three goblets were harmed in the process."
Eddard said nothing.
"In the end," Littlefinger continued, strolling closer, "we reconsidered the matter of hiring the Faceless Men. Far too expensive. Far too final."
Eddard's jaw clenched.
"Instead," Littlefinger went on cheerfully, "we've opted for a more economical solution. Varys will quietly spread word across the Free Cities. Whoever kills the Targaryen girl will be granted lands—and a noble title."
The words struck Eddard like a slap.
"So," he said coldly, "we intend to turn assassins into nobles."
Littlefinger shrugged. "A title costs nothing. Faceless Men cost kingdoms. And honestly, compared to your lofty morality, didn't I help the girl? Some drunken sellsword with delusions of grandeur is far more likely to fail. She'll gain better protection afterward. If we'd sent Faceless Men, they'd already be collecting her corpse."
Eddard rose slowly from his chair.
"I haven't forgotten," he said, "that you supported her assassination in the council chamber. And now you claim to be her protector. Do you take me for a fool?"
Littlefinger chuckled, soft and amused.
"Well," he replied pleasantly, "you are a fool."
For a long moment, Eddard simply stared at him. He tried to understand the purpose behind this visit. Littlefinger had not come merely to provoke him. He was probing—testing boundaries, stealing reactions, gauging how far Eddard might bend before breaking.
"I've had enough," Eddard said at last. King's Landing had never felt so isolating.
Littlefinger cocked his head. "When do you plan to return to Winterfell, Lord Stark?"
"That is none of your concern."
"Perhaps not," Littlefinger said smoothly. "But if you happen to still be in the city tomorrow evening, I could show you a certain brothel your men failed to find."
His smile widened. "I won't even tell Catelyn."
Eddard's restraint snapped.
"Do not speak my wife's name," he said, rising to his full height, his voice hard as ice. "I have no interest in your games. Guards!"
Before the word had fully left his mouth, the door burst open with a thunderous bang.
A young man stormed into the room, his face flushed with fury.
The mocking smile slid from Littlefinger's lips.
The intruder was lean and sharp-featured, with brown hair, grey eyes, and a long face unmistakably marked by House Stark. A thin knife scar ran along his cheek. He was not handsome in any conventional sense, but his resemblance to Eddard was undeniable—grim, severe, unmistakably northern.
"Are you mad, Lord Stark?!" Littlefinger exclaimed. "Control your household!"
"Jon," Eddard said sharply, "I did not summon you."
Jon Snow ignored him.
He stepped forward, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
"Apologize for your past insults," Jon said, his voice trembling with barely restrained rage. "Lord Baelish, I challenge you for the honor of Winterfell."
He did not draw his sword.
Instead, Jon swung his scabbard with brutal force.
Littlefinger had no time to react.
The blow struck him across the ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. Jon followed with savage precision—fists, elbows, and the heavy scabbard crashing down like a winter storm unleashed. Littlefinger's martial ability was mediocre at best; against Jon's raw fury, it was nothing.
Eddard moved to intervene, but before he could reach them, his guards rushed forward, wrenching the two men apart.
Littlefinger staggered backward, gasping.
Though he bore no serious wounds, his fine velvet clothing was smeared with dust, and sharp pain burned along his back and ribs.
"Is this your idea of hospitality, Lord Stark?!" he shouted, his composure finally cracking.
"I—" Eddard began, then stopped.
Rosso Brenn and several of Littlefinger's guards burst into the room moments later.
"My lord, are you injured?" Rosso asked urgently.
"It seems," Littlefinger said darkly, straightening his cloak with shaking hands, "that we are not welcome."
"You are not leaving," Eddard said.
He gestured sharply.
"Watch them."
The Winterfell guards stepped forward, direwolf sigils gleaming as they drew their swords. They outnumbered Littlefinger's men two to one. Rosso reached for his weapon, but Littlefinger stopped him with a raised hand.
"The Red Keep guards will arrive soon," Littlefinger said, his voice measured once more.
"Then we will wait," Eddard replied. "Lord Baelish, I intend to accuse you before the king."
For the first time, true panic flickered in Littlefinger's eyes.
This was madness. This was not the cautious, honorable Eddard Stark he knew—but the fire of Brandon Stark's blood burning hot beneath the surface.
"You…" Littlefinger said slowly. "Very well. So this is how you treat your friends."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"Shataya's brothel, Lord Stark," he whispered. "You want the truth. I'm still offering you a choice."
Eddard's face darkened. The man knew him far too well.
Moments later, three Kingsguard arrived—Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Meryn Trant, and Ser Boros Blount—along with Red Keep guards.
They took in the scene at once: the furious young man, the battered Master of Coin, and the grim Hand of the King.
"Enough," Eddard said. "I will speak."
"This man has ruined my honor," Eddard declared. "In the king's name, I demand justice."
"Honor?" Ser Barristan asked, startled.
Before further questions could be asked, King Robert arrived—drunk, irritated, and already weary of conflict—with Renly Baratheon at his side.
"What in the Seven Hells is all this noise?" Robert demanded.
Littlefinger bowed deeply. "Your Grace, I was assaulted without cause."
Jon snarled. "Cut out his tongue!"
"Enough!" Robert roared. "Explain yourselves!"
The Vale of Arryn
Beyond the Bloody Gate, the mountains opened like a dream.
Catelyn Stark rode onward, breath caught in her throat as the Vale of Arryn spread before her—green fields rolling endlessly, silver rivers winding through fertile land, and snow-capped peaks glowing beneath the morning sun.
The Vale was sheltered by the Mountains of the Moon, a natural fortress both rich and beautiful. Barley and wheat swayed gently in the breeze, lakes shimmered like mirrors, and the air itself felt cleaner, lighter.
"I need Lysa's help," Catelyn said softly. "And the Vale cavalry."
They rode deeper into the valley, the Giant's Lance towering above all else, its peak lost in mist. Alyssa's Tears cascaded down its dark stone face like a ribbon of silver.
"There," Ser Brynden said. "The Eyrie."
"How long?" Catelyn asked.
"By evening, we'll reach the mountain," Brynden replied. "Another day to climb."
Time felt like an enemy.
When privacy allowed, Brynden finally asked, "Tell me what happened."
Catelyn told him everything—Lysa's letter, Bran's fall, the dagger, Littlefinger, Tyrion's capture.
Brynden listened in silence.
"You abducted the Imp," he said slowly.
"Yes."
"And you understand who his father is?"
"I do."
Brynden sighed. "Then you've brought the lion to your sister's door."
Catelyn shifted uneasily.
"She warned us," she insisted. "She feared the Lannisters."
Brynden's voice softened. "Child… I hope you are right."
But his doubt was unmistakable.
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