Sorry for the delay, exams and other stuff got in my way.

Enjoy the new chapter!

Robert

Atop the Giant's Lance, the Eyrie stood in all its glory before him. Guards in Arryn-blue cloaks barred their path for a moment, before letting them in with suspicious stares.

Winter had come for the Eyrie, and a shrill whistle sometimes rang out over the walls when the wind grew particularly chill. Other than that, the castle was probably the quietest it has ever been. Not even the murmurs of Alyssa's Tears could be heard - the waterfall was frozen by the cold.

The Crescent Chamber was just how Robert remembered. The room was warm, and lines of tables offered refreshments to all those who made the climb, alongside bread and salt. On top of the staircase there was a door that led directly to the High Hall - sealed shut.

Robert was uneasy under his hood, even disguised as he was. Baelish needs to be taken by surprise or he'll slip away, like the snake he is. The Lords Declarant had a sizable army inside the Gates of the Moon, and Nestor's garrison numbers no more than three-hundred men.

We may have a chance to fall back if things get messy, and if we take them unaware.

He recognised some of the men in the room. Gerold Grafton was savouring a cup of wine, while Jon Lynderly spoke to him in hushed tones. Alyn Moonfell was armoured in half-plate and tabard - reasonably tall, and sported long, platinum hair. The man looks a fop, but his eyes are a killer's eyes, Robert realized.

Then there was Lyn Corbray. Robert had met him after the Trident, and had gotten his measure; young and reckless, but incredibly skilful with his House's Valyrian steel, Lady Forlorn. He'd hated the man on sight.

A servant finally appeared to open the doors, and Robert took a deep breath. Here we go.

The corridor leading to the High Hall was lined with marble busts - Kings of the Vale, one and all, Robert remembered from what old Jon had said.

He'd been star-struck by Artys Arryn, the Falcon Knight. In the Battle of the Seven Stars, he'd famously flanked the weakened First Men host with a retinue of five hundred knights, and slain Robar Royce - and acclaimed King of the Andals for it. Now, Robert wondered if he ever came to regret it.

The High Hall itself was long, its walls made of white blue-veined marble. Lines of pillars decorated its length, and at the end sat two thrones carved of Weirwood.

Courtiers and lords chattered and laughed; Robert felt as if half of his court's ninnies had wound up here like so many dry leaves. The lot of them gradually fell silent as Bronze Yohn's steel boots stomped through the blue carpet. Perfect - eyes on him, and none on me.

Barristan had swapped his white armour for some sellsword's mail, but a warrior's grace belied him to the sharp-eyed onlookers.

The whoremonger, Baelish, was as unctuous as ever, though it seemed he'd left his whoremongering days behind. He seemed at ease, lounging on the throne - a petty Lord of the Fingers squatting on the Falcon's perch.

Lysa Tully seemed as mad as ever, from what Robert recalled. She was holding his namesake between her embrace - but the resemblance stopped there. Despite being eight, the sickly child was pale as a corpse - and worse, still drank from his mother's teats in front of the people he one day might rule. Not likely, that - sorry, Jon.

The Mockingbird smirked, and slowly descended from his perch. "Lord Yohn, well met!" he said. "My lady wife would much prefer a private audience for this - let us to the solar, if it pleases you."

Yohn exchanged words with some of the other lords, and nodded firmly, and they were off - Sweetrobin still clutching at his mother's teats. Somehow, Lysa was gotten as fat as a breeding sow - Hells, Baelish could throw her down the stairs, and she'd roll down to the Gates of the Moon!

Robert wanted to laugh at the image, but then remembered that the courtiers were, no doubt, making similar japes about him, not so long ago.

Ser Lothor Brune was at what Robert had known as Jon's solar, all those years ago. He opened the door and followed them inside.

Baelish seated himself by Jon's oak desk and ordered victuals brought out - which none of the Lords were in the mood for. Yohn was certainly more a man of action than talk - which Littlefinger should know well. What's he playing at?

Both Brune and Lyn were in the solar - the former at Baelish's shoulder, and the latter by the hearth, warming his fingers. Lysa had taken over the entirety of some Lyseni couch, shushing her son - who was, at least, quiescent at the teat.

Baelish began, as was his nature. "My Lords, ardent supporter of Lord Robert that you are." he gestured to Sweetrobin, still cowering beside his mother, "I yet worry of the threats that you made. You speak of false friends and traitors… then by all means, aid me in rooting them out."

"Not while you rub hands with those very traitors," Yohn said through gritted teeth, "We're here to rectify the situation… diplomatically, if the Gods deem it so. Step down as Regent, my Lord. If you do so no one shall come to harm, and you may depart the Vale unmolested for your seat at Harrenhal."

"I named him Regent, Royce," Lysa spat venomously, "and he's my husband too. Or are you suggesting treason?"

Some tense seconds passed, until Lyn Corbray drew his sword. "Treason? Don't make me laugh!"

He stomped up to Littlefinger - who looked remarkably calm at being threatened by a sword as keen as Lady Forlorn, and shouted. "Let us settle this with steel, Baelish! Your champion against mine, and Lady Lysa's hand the prize!"

What is the fool doing!? Robert wondered. The fat trout had flopped behind the Mockingbird, clutching at the rich silks like a drowning rat. Baelish raised his hands in exaggerated pantomime, and it seemed Yohn Royce had finally had enough.

The Lord of Runestone rose from his chair and roared thunderously, "Corbray, sheathe your bloody sword! You threaten guest right!"

"You talk like an old woman, Royce." Ser Lyn laughed at him. "A gift of blood to my fair lady, and this whoremonger," he gestured with his sword at said whoremonger, who was still remarkably calm, "shall be no more!"

Lysa gaped and shrilled, "Treason! Kill this rebel, Ser Lothor, bring me his head!"

"ENOUGH!"

Everyone froze. "Out of here, all of you!" Robert ordered.

To the absolute astonishment of Baelish's supporters, the Lords Declarant left the room. Baelish looked at him smugly, and the fat trout was off, too, with the whoremonger's dog in tow.

Ser Lyn was not so wise. Hand on his sword, he barked, "And who are you, to order me around?"

Baelish chided in, "Lyn, leave."

After some unconvincing faffing, the man sheathed his blade at last and stormed off, deliberately knocking shoulders with Barristan, who resolutely stood by the door.

Robert then turned and stared down Baelish, who seemed somewhat amused. "Lyn was your creature all along."

Baelish shrugged, "It's hard to maintain order while your fellow lords plot against you, he served merely as a shield against them. But enough of Corbray, I'm more interested in you, Storm." His smug smile widened.

Robert's fist itched with the desire to smack it off his face, as the slimy rat continued. "Our King Robert had many bastards, but none highborn save Edric Storm - and you are not he. How do you command the Lords Declarant -"

Robert removed his hood. "By being bloody King, Littlefinger."

Now it was him that had the satisfaction of seeing Littlefinger off-balance - the man was almost stuttering! "King… Robert?"

He grinned savagely. "Aye, and you'll know to bow before your king, you shit."

Say what you wanted of Littlefinger, the man knew which way the wind blew - he sank to his knees in a mockery of knightly fervour. "I've ever been your servant, Your Grace; the Lions kept me as master of coin, and I've plotted their downfall even as I pillaged their coin!"

Still kneeling, he made to pour himself some wine - and then halted, remembering to proffer one to Robert. "My union with Lysa brought much-needed stability to the Vale, in a time of war. And through me, you have the finest knights in the Kingdoms for your war, your Grace."

Robert stared at him, and Littlefinger's eyes narrowed, He took back the carafe of wine and gulped some down. "As ever, I am your loyal servant, ready to do your bidding."

He chuckled. "You have a knack for sailing with the wind, do you?"

The Mockingbird shrugged. "I live when others die. The dead cannot serve, your Grace." Robert grunted.

"I need more than smooth words, Baelish." He eyed his mockingbird pin.

The man smirked, "Your Grace, while Varys will titter about his little birds, my whores can bring you word of even the darkest of secrets. Be they Lannister or Baratheon, all men find solace in women of the night."

Baelish leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Perhaps, a public declaration of my loyalty to you would serve to… dispel any lingering doubts."

Robert's eyes narrowed. "Any treachery, Baelish, and you'll find your way out through the Moon Door."

Baelish unctuously bowed his head. "Then I shall serve with the utmost diligence, my King."

Littlefinger had brushed up Robert's old chambers in the Eyrie as a child, and now, the man was overcome with nostalgia. There were memories in every corner.

Sometimes, Robert yearned for those simpler days, when he only thought of melees and jousts and feasts. What I would give to have them back. And Ned… Gods, Ned…

A knock at the door shattered his mullings, pulling Robert back to the present. "Your Grace?"

It was Lancel, alongside old Barristan. The boy seemed at once relieved and troubled, to find his King. He had in his hands a steaming carafe of foaming ale.

"I heard the news," Lancel began, "Your Grace, is Baelish to be trusted? He discarded the Lannisters all too easily."

"Aye, he's a shit, but we have no proof -" Robert groaned, "and worse, he knows our need for allies. The old alliance that won us the Iron Throne is in tatters, and we need new alliances."

Barristan sighed. "My King, the man cannot be trusted - even now, he must plot to betray you." Robert held his gaze and nodded.

Silence descended on the three men - pierced by a sudden, small squeak.

Robert leapt from his chair, his heart racing for a moment - only to find a rat scurrying across the floor. They sighed, and put their heads back together to plot.