In the Eyrie, within a hall that towered into the clouds.
Wind surged wildly through the open Moon Door.
It sent the tapestries on the walls snapping and chilled every heart in the room.
Lysa Arryn, the former Lady of the Vale, vanished from everyone's sight just like that, plunging into the fathomless blue below.
"Mother!!!"
Robert Arryn's shrill, distorted cries finally shattered the frozen silence.
He broke free of "Petyr's" embrace and scrambled toward the Moon Door, only for Bronze Yohn Royce to react and catch him around the waist.
"Let me go! I want Mother! I want Mother!"
The boy struggled frantically in the old knight's arms, sobbing and screaming.
His small body unleashed astonishing strength.
Yohn Royce said nothing. He merely held the boy tight with arms like iron clamps, keeping him away from the Moon Door and the death beyond it.
His weathered face bore an expression of utter complexity.
Hatred, sorrow, and a trace of indefinable relief mingled together.
Every vassal of the Vale turned their gaze toward the black-robed man who still stood where he was.
"Petyr Baelish."
Lysa's final words still rang in their ears.
"Hasn't the real Petyr Baelish been dead for some time?"
The feigned anxiety and grief on "Petyr's" face had long since vanished, replaced by complete indifference.
"My lords, it is time to depart."
"Lord Lynn is still waiting for you at Riverrun."
Petyr bowed slightly.
Half a month later, at Riverrun.
The castle had only just endured a baptism of blood and fire, yet now it possessed an unprecedented solemnity and grandeur.
House Tully's silver trout banner and the North's Direwolf Banner hung side by side atop the walls, fluttering in the wind.
Within the castle's great hall, some of the foremost lords in Westeros had gathered.