Chapter 25:
Petyr Baelish never really liked writing very much. He found it tedious, useless and the black ink almost always stained the tips of his fingers, leaving his immaculate hands black and dirtied.
Despite his hatred for such an art, he found this particular letter enjoyable to write.
As his pen scratched its inked tip onto the parchment that laid on his desk, he could not help but form the triumphant smirk on his face. Before he knew it, he had begun humming a little tune that he knew from his childhood in Riverrun.
The very song Catelyn Stark used to sing to him when they were innocent children who frolicked in the fields of Riverrun.
"My lord seems happy today," Ros flirtatiously remarked, as she proceeded to cover her naked figure in her red silk robes.
She briefly battered her eyelashes to the customer that was exiting her room, to which the male proceeded to fondle her breasts with affection and hunger as a final act of farewell before departing the premises.
Petyr smirked at the male's indiscretion and mentally noted that hiring Ros was one of his better investments. She was a whore from Winterfell, but she was still quite a beauty even amongst all the Southerners and exotics from the East. She knew how to keep her customers happy at whatever cost, which made Petyr Baelish happy indeed.
"My moods are better lately," he remarked as he wrote his last sentence before signing with his own sigil.
He stood up and exited his room but made an effort to lightly pinch Ros on the cheeks, a sign of good gesture and continued encouragement that she was doing well in his establishment. He tightly held the letter to his chest, concealing its contents and proceeded his way to the Red Keep and Maester Pycelle to send his letter to the Eyrie.
Lysa Arryn had managed to send another letter to him, pleading for his help against Isabel. She was still confined to her chambers, and her supporters were without a plan nor leadership.
She was a helpless little thing, and Petyr Baelish relished on this fact.
He had already written his letters to her known supporters, and sought out those who still lingered near King's Landing. Some were sceptical, while others were intrigued at the gold coins which had mysteriously appeared in their pockets.
He smirked to himself again. The characters of men were all the same to him – they were always motivated by greed and power; and money was almost always the answer.
He reached the tower in record time, surprised at the speed he was walking. He found the Grand Maester who looked frail and broken hunch over one of his ravens, tenderly stroking its black feathers.
"Just the person I was looking for," Petyr delightfully said, still basking in his own content.
The Grand Maester looked up and gave a nod of acknowledgment as he set the raven back into its cage and locked it with a key that was attached to the metal chain of locks around his neck.
"Lord Baelish, what can I do for you?" he gently asked.
"A raven, if you will…one for the Eyrie," Petyr replied.
As the Grand Maester slowly waddled to the appropriate raven, he offhandedly asked, "Another letter to Lady Lysa Arryn?"
"In a sense. ..she is after all, a very dear friend of mine," Petyr replied.
"I trust her son is doing well? Is he still having any more of those seizures? Poor boy…the Seven are cruel to him to bestow such a sickness onto an innocent child."
"Lysa writes to me that her son is doing much better. He's know begun his private lessons with Maester Coleman, so I'm told. He grows more intelligent every day. Soon enough, he will grow into a strong young boy and will marry suitable and continue the Arryn line," Petyr mused, lost in his own thoughts.
"Not anytime soon, I would think. Lysa is very attached to her son…it would be years until she would be willing to let her son go."
He tied the letter to the Raven's leg and whispered a phrase to the bird to which Petyr could not understand. It was not of the common tongue, and Petyr wondered if it was some sort of ancient magic that the Grand Maester had acquired during his years in the Citadel. Within a blink of an eye, the raven disappeared into the sky until it was a little black speck and out of Petyr's sight.
Let the chaos unfold.
"It's always hard for mothers letting their children grow up. Sooner or later, they fly from their nest never to look back. The Queen herself will one day have to let her children go," Petyr remarked, resuming their conversation.
"A doting mother, our Queen is," the Grand Maester praised. "Leaving Mrycella will be difficult for her."
Petyr Baelish raised an eyebrow, "You know?"
"It was Lord Tyrion's suggestion…the Queen is not very happy about it. But if this is the way to get the Martells to side with us again, then it must be done."
"Mrycella is going to Dorne?" Petyr asked suspiciously.
Unaware of the Master of Coin's confusion, the Grand Maester just nodded and was unable to finish his sentence before he found himself alone amongst the ravens.
Petyr Baelish had never walked as fast as he did. Whatever happiness that he had felt before was now washed away with humiliation and anger.
I will not be outsmarted by a dwarf, he angrily declared.
He found the newly appointed Hand of the King sitting on the bench in a courtyard, and the very sight of him made his blood boil.
"I will not be taken for as a fool, dwarf!" he angrily yelled as he stormed down the corridor.
Feigning complete innocence, Tyrion Lannister put down his book and placed it calmly on his lap. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Our princess can't really go marrying Robert Arryn if she's already promised to a Dornish Prince, now can she? Did you forget to mention this fact before you had me singing songs to Lysa Arryn? Do not take me for some idiotic lord, imp! I am not to be meddled with!"
The Hand of the King cocked his head on one side, though his eyes gave away his deception.
"Whoops."
"And Harranhal? Regent of the Vale? Were those all lies too?" he angrily asked.
Tyrion hummed, neither admitting nor denying Petyr's accusations.
"I like you, Lord Baelish…I admire your ambition and I admire your wit," Tyrion began, "I think…you think you aren't appreciated enough in this court, am I right?"
Petyr Baelish narrowed his eyes at his smaller counterpart, immediately suspicious of the words the dripped from the Lannister's mouth.
"Stannis Baratheon's fleet will attack us any day now…and we have no ships to defend our coast lines. I still need you to broker an alliance with Lysa Arryn, except...this time without a marriage proposal," Tyrion demanded.
"Why should I trust you?"
"Because you were planning to ruin Isabel Arryn regardless," Tyrion slyly suggested. "I'm not stupid…I know what goes on in that scheming head of yours. And I've met Jon Arryn's daughter…feisty little blue bird…no wonder Lysa hates her so much."
Petyr let himself relax his tensed muscle, still suspicious of Tyrion Lannister, but now curious at his next proposition.
Tyrion Lannister now paced back and forth, with his hands behind his back. "I want the Vale's ships. I want them on our side when Stannis attacks... I could care less who sits in High Hall, as long as they pledge loyalty to us."
"Then seek this alliance yourself," Petyr challenged.
"Lysa…is not fond of me," Tyrion knowingly replied. "You are the key to this puzzle...and you will be its mastermind."
"And let's say I humour you….what exactly am I supposed to do?"
"Do whatever you do best. Bribe, fuck, fuck some more, bribe some more," Tyrion coolly suggested who was now inspecting his fingernails. "So long as I get their ships, I don't care what state you leave the Vale. You can ruin their lands, and I will turn a blind eye."
"That's it?"
"Oh!" Tyrion added, "Maybe...just maybe you'll get Regent of the Vale."
"Now you tease me, Lannister," Petyr spat, "I don't like being toyed with."
Picking up his book, Tyrion held it firmly in his hands and proceeded to walk away from Petyr Baelish, but not before yelling so loud that his voice echoed between the stone walls on the castle.
"Then bring me those ships!"
His hands were around her throat again, squeezing the very breathe out of her lungs. Her eyes bulged out and her hands wailed at her attacker as death once again had begun to take her. He seethed and hissed at her, with his blood and sweat dripping over her face.
The dagger felt comfortable around her fingers and she wasted no time. The blade embedded itself into the attacker's neck by full surprise. His eyes widened and his body froze in shock, unable to comprehend the tremendous pain that erupted through him. He opened his mouth to speak, but only blood flowed out and onto her face below.
She looked at the dagger that she stilled grasped onto tightly, blood spilling out from the wound and seeping in between her fingers and down her arms.
The attacker tried to utter a word, his hands now around his own throat in a feeble attempt to save his own life.
With the dagger still tightly clenched in her hand, she pulled it out and retreated back from the dying man, mesmerized in shock and awe as death overcame him.
Her body convulsed suddenly, and her eyes opened immediately. Her mind panicked for a quick moment, thinking her life was in danger once again.
Isabel looked around the dimly lit tent and noted the emptiness around her. The cold winds made her body shiver under the fur blankets, and the single candle that was placed on the wooden desk flickered with the wind. She noted the sweat that formed on her brow and her hands slightly shaking from her dream.
She took a deep sigh, trying to calm herself – although her heart could not stop pounding in her chest.
"It was only a dream," she murmured to herself.
Hesitantly, she laid back on her pillow and stared up at the dark ceiling above her. She sighed again and closed her eyes to rest once more.
But the moment she entered into the dream world, all she could see was the blood and the dagger. All she could see was the man's body on the dirt ground, his life slowly slipping away.
She opened her eyes again, and this time rose out from her bed and exited her tent.
The army was quiet tonight, with many of the men sleeping around the dying fire embers. Huddled in their own cloaks, some men snored, while other grunted in their sleep. The few men on night patrol made curious stares at her, silently wondering why such a lady would be up on a cold and dark night. But instead of speaking up, the knights merely bowed at her presence and continued on.
Isabel looked around her, unsure of where her feet were taking her. She arrived in front of Robb's tent, wanting to seek his comfort but thought better than disturbing the King of the North from his slumber.
After all, in the eyes of his men, Isabel Arryn was nothing more than a distraction.
She looked at the Stark sigil, flying above his tent and gave a deep sigh. The direwolf was a striking image that dominated the horizon and a sad realization that everything had changed.
Isabel continued on her walk past the sleeping men and lords, unsure of what the future held for her anymore.
"My lady?" a voice interrupted.
She looked up from the ground startled by the sudden noise that pierced through the silence. Talisa was huddled around a small burning fire and a small cauldron, brewing what Isabel could only assume was an herbal tea, meant for the wounded soldiers.
"Lady Talisa," Isabel greeted quietly and walked towards the female healer. "You should be sleeping."
"I could say the same for you, my lady," Talisa remarked. "You're still not fully recovered…you'll catch a fever like this."
She beckoned Isabel to come closer to the fire and motioned for her to sit while Talisa brought over a rough and dirtied, but warm thick cloak and put it around her shoulders.
"What about you?" Isabel asked, noting that the healer from Volantis only had on a thin cloak and apron on top of her dress.
Talisa smiled and looked down into the cauldron, stirring its contents, "You needn't worry about me."
A comfortable silence followed between the two women, both lost in their own thoughts and doings. Isabel huddled under the cloak and welcomed the warmth the flames emitted, while Talisa continued to tend to the brewing pot.
The flames of the fire hypnotized Isabel and she could not bring herself to stare at anything else but the flames. They danced around her, as they always did and if she stared long enough, Isabel could have sworn she was able to make out the dark shadows within them.
They begged her and called out to her in that sinister voice, taking her deeper and deeper into the darkness.
Within the flames, she could see her desires and the great temptations that burdened her. She saw the dead bodies of her most hated enemies, and she could almost hear the screams that followed.
It seemed so easy, she thought in that very moment staring into the red fiery flames.
To win the game of thrones, you must sacrifice everything, the voice whispered.
Give into your fear and everything shall be yours.
A sudden clang shook her out of the deep trance she had caught herself in and her eyes tore away from the flames. Talisa hissed in pain and cradled her hand in another as some of the boiling liquid had spilled on her skin.
"Here, let me," said Isabel.
She grabbed a clean cloth from the healer's box and took Talisa's hand into her own, inspecting if there were any serious burns.
"It's nothing," declared Talisa, but nonetheless accepted Isabel's help as she neatly wrapped the white fabric around the other woman's hand.
"How does a lady from Volantis end up in the middle of a war?" Isabel suddenly wondered out loud.
"How does any lady end up in the middle of a war?" Talisa asked back with a light smile on her face, secretly wondering about Isabel herself.
The two women broke up in a quiet chuckle. "A strange predicament, I suppose," Isabel admitted. "Though I'm sure my reasons are greatly different than yours."
"You are fighting for his Grace as well?"
"I too...am at war," Isabel replied quietly, "though sometimes I wonder if this is still my war to fight."
"I find war unnecessary…all these deaths, the screams, the anguish and pain. All for what? Power? Money? Land? A thousand men risk their lives for one great lord they'll most likely never meet. These men that die…in the end, death won't care whether you're a Lannister or a Stark…we're all just...flesh and bone."
"We fight for hope," Isabel argued. "Hope that…our lands, our kingdoms will be ruled by a better man that can look after its people. We fight to right the wrongs of those who commit injustice. Robb is at war for a good reason…and all these men had gladly given their lives to fight his cause."
"But at what cost?" Talisa wondered.
Isabel remained silent, unable to answer the very question that would so often persist in her mind.
"If we stopped…then it wouldn't be worth anything," she mumbled.
Isabel Arryn smiled at her counterpart and hugged her body tighter to keep herself warm. She closed her eyes, feeling a wave of tiredness overcoming her. And although the images of the dying man appeared before her eyes, she willed herself to sleep and embrace the darkness that she knew would inevitably overcome her.
She tapped her fingers on the wooden desk rather impatiently. Each time her finger collided against the grains of the wood, it sent a shot of adrenaline through Lysa Arryn's body as she waited for the latest news from the one visitor she was now allowed to see once a day. Her eyes suspiciously shifted to the young maiden who was watching over her son by the bay window. She knew the girl was a spy for Lord Nestor Royce, assigned to listen and watch over every movement she had made.
And it made Lysa grow more impatient, fearful and angry as each day passed on.
A knock at her door alerted her attention and she immediately straightened her posture as her lady-in-waiting went to go fetch her visitor. Her hands not entangled with one another, she nervously squeezed her hands until she could hear the bones cracking between her knuckles.
A young man, proudly adorning the green and black sigil of House Waynwood bowed before her, his head humble staring at the ground and his hand gallantly placed at the hilt of the sword.
Ser Morton Waynwood was the eldest son and heir apparent to the old House of Lady Anya Waynwood – an old ally to Lysa who had once showed her kindness when the young Tully bride first arrived at the Eyrie.
"My Lady," he called out to her.
Lysa, careful to maintain her composure gave a slow nod, before glancing at the young girl at the back of her room.
"You may go," she instructed her, "take my son with you and you are to read to him in the drawing room. I wish to speak with Ser Morton in private."
The young girl, who could not have been more than seventeen summers old, took a small step forward and quietly answered, "My lady..I – "
"You are my lady-in-waiting, are you not?" Lysa interrupted impatiently.
The young girl bowed down her head, "Yes, my lady."
"Then do as your lady says and leave us."
Without a second to spare, the young girl quickly whisked young Robert Arryn away to the other room and shut the door behind her, leaving Lysa Arryn in peace.
She quickly got up from her chair and invited the heir of House Waynwood to sit with her, as an equal and a careful gesture of friendship.
"Do you have any news?" she asked.
"Much has happened since we've last spoken to one another," Ser Morton began.
"Does Petyr write to you? Has he forgotten about me?" she continued to press on.
"Rest assure my lady, Lord Baelish is with you in thought," Ser Morton replied.
"And Isabel..is she…" Lysa began, but could not bring herself to finish her question.
The knight stood up and walked to the window and contemplated the beautiful view of the Vale mountains in the distance. Ser Morton had grown up in the Vale his whole life, with his sole dream to become a knight of the revered Valemen and to serve his Lord proudly as his father did before him.
In his eyes, Isabel Arryn was the usurper and Robert Arryn was the true heir.
"The assassin let her loose apparently," he quietly replied. "I don't know what happened…Lord Baelish was supposed to arrange for her escape...and from there we were to arrange her death…it was supposed to look like an accident. But the gods were good to her. Isabel Arryn...is safe with Robb Stark's army, along with the eight thousand men she now has at her grasp."
Lysa's eyes widened and her jaw tightened at the news, furious that Isabel had escaped death yet again.
"She's just a girl," Lysa hissed, "How hard is it to kill a girl?"
"Apparently, paying double what Lord Baelish paid wasn't enough," Ser Morton remarked.
"Where is the assassin now?"
"Only the Seven knows…you know what these men from the East are like. He hasn't even come to collect the remaining money that is owed to him. Perhaps he sees no honour in his failed task."
"Or perhaps he has gone to finish what he started," Lysa hoped.
"What is our next plan of action, my lady?" Ser Morton asked.
"What does Petyr say in his letters?" Lysa foolishly asked.
"You need to rid yourself from the influences of old Nestor Royce," Ser Morton instructed, "You need to reach out to the people and gain their support. Isabel has an advantage over you because she knows every lord of all the houses in the Vale…she knows how to manipulate them, charm them and woo them with her words. But you, my lady…you have the common people's love. Do you think they want her to rule? They want your son as Lord of the Vale...they know that your son is the rightful heir."
"The pe-people?" she hesitantly repeated.
"You cannot buy love," Ser Morton suggested, "It is gained and nursed like a mother breasting a child. Win their love…and win the throne."
"I..don't..k..know.." Lysa trailed off, unsure of what her beloved Petyr wished her to do.
"Leave that to us…and soon my lady, Lord Baelish will come to the Vale and set you free," he promised.
Ser Morton retrieved a crumble piece of folded parchment and handed it to Lysa Arryn, with the unmistakable handwriting of the Master of Coin.
"Our friend Lord Baelish," Lysa said adoringly as she took the letter from the young knight and opened it to read the contents.
"Play the game wisely, my Lady…and we will win the seat back for your son," Ser Morton said.
Lysa Arryn however did not hear the words of the knight from House Waynwood. Instead, she became lost in her own dream world – a world where she and Lord Petyr Baelish were united together forever.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! Sorry for the late updates. As Talisa is purely a character created for the TV series, I plan to purely speculate her character and so it will begin stray away what has already happened during Season 2. Lysa Arryn has her gears running - will Isabel be able to see what dangers are coming? Until next time! -xoxo