"Poison?"
This single word shattered the fragile calm in the room.
Even those who had already suspected foul play could not help but feel a chill run down their spines. Until now, most had quietly assumed that Lysa Arryn and Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger—had conspired to poison Jon Arryn. The idea had seemed plausible, even likely.
But young Robert Arryn?
That possibility was far more unsettling.
A murmur spread among the gathered lords and knights. Unease, disbelief, and dread intertwined, thickening the air.
Ser Donnel stood slightly apart from the central group, too distant to hear every word clearly. Yet even from afar, he could sense the tension tightening like a drawn bowstring.
The theory itself was horrifying—but it was also disturbingly convincing.
After all, nearly every noble present had heard whispers of the complicated history between Lysa Tully and Littlefinger.
For years, Lysa's affection had never wavered.
Her numerous suitors in the Eyrie? Nothing more than a façade. A distraction. A carefully maintained illusion.
The truth was simple.
She had only ever loved one man.
Littlefinger.
Jon Arryn, aged and politically powerful, had been a necessary marriage. Littlefinger, on the other hand, was cunning, charming, and dangerously persuasive.
If Jon Arryn were removed…
If the Bloody Gate were secured…
If young Robert were controlled…
And if Littlefinger rose higher within the Iron Throne's court, gaining influence and titles…
Then marrying Lysa and seizing control of the Vale would not only be possible—
It would be inevitable.
In times of chaos, ambition often flourished.
Yet even so, the Lords of the Vale had overlooked two critical truths.
First, they had underestimated the sheer scale of Littlefinger's ambition.
He was born into a minor house on the Fingers Peninsula—a man of modest origin. For someone like him, becoming Master of Coin was already a staggering achievement.
And yet…
He aspired to rule the Vale.
Second, they had failed to recognize the depth of his character.
Petyr Baelish was not merely ambitious—he was vindictive, petty, and utterly without moral restraint.
And Lysa…
She was a woman consumed by obsession.
"There is nothing more dangerous than a heart twisted by love," Ser Barristan Selmy said quietly.
His voice carried the weight of experience.
"How many have committed terrible acts for the sake of affection? And when that affection is unreturned… it becomes even more dangerous."
Not everyone valued honor.
Not everyone upheld their vows.
Not even knights in white cloaks.
Anguy shivered slightly.
The thought of sharing a bed with someone capable of such treachery was deeply unsettling.
"You know," Bronze Yohn Royce said with a sigh, "when Jon Arryn married Lysa, some knights suggested that Littlefinger's presence in the Vale was… inappropriate."
"They even hinted that he could be removed quietly."
A few listeners exchanged glances.
But Yohn continued.
"Jon Arryn rebuked them. He said Littlefinger was just a boy. Killing him would be dishonorable."
He paused, his expression darkening.
"And yet, it was that very 'boy' who rose through the ranks—fueled by Lysa's whispers—and became the instrument of his downfall."
"A snake nurtured at one's own breast," he added grimly.
Ser Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—let out a long, weary sigh.
"The marriages of my nieces were both arranged for political reasons," he said.
"But their fates could not have been more different."
"Lysa… brought this upon herself."
His voice softened.
"But my brother… Hoster…"
He shook his head.
"Had he not been so eager to secure alliances, things might have turned out differently."
Jon Arryn had sought soldiers.
Hoster Tully had sought status for his disgraced daughter.
A transaction, nothing more.
Catelyn had been fortunate.
Eddard Stark, though not as striking as his elder brother Brandon, was honorable, capable, and still in his prime.
Jon Arryn, by contrast…
Was already old.
Lysa's life in the Vale had been filled with tragedy.
Two stillborn children.
Four miscarriages.
Only one child survived.
And even he was frail.
"Enough of the past," Gendry said firmly.
"What matters now is securing Lysa—and protecting young Robert."
He crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful.
"Anyone familiar with poisons understands how subtle they can be."
"A child can be made quieter. More obedient. Even healthier in appearance—for a time."
"But in truth, the poison is simply accumulating."
He glanced toward the horizon.
"Seagull Town lies close to the Narrow Sea. Obtaining such substances wouldn't be difficult."
The Blackfish frowned deeply.
"I've heard that Robert suffers seizures from even the slightest stimulation," he said.
"And Lysa… she feeds him constant medication to keep him calm."
His voice hardened.
"She never lets him out of her sight. Doesn't allow him companions."
"Can a child raised like that… ever grow up properly?"
No one answered.
The silence spoke volumes.
"Every Maester's chambers contain both medicines and poisons," Gendry continued.
"Those who study healing inevitably learn how to kill."
Medicine and poison were two sides of the same coin.
At the Citadel, Maesters studied both extensively.
But in the Free Cities, poison was an art.
An invisible weapon.
One that rendered strength, skill, and status meaningless.
"Even kings can fall to it," someone muttered.
"And that," Barristan said quietly, "is why it is so despised."
"In Westeros, poison is considered the weapon of cowards."
"Fitting," Bronze Yohn added coldly, "for a man like Littlefinger."
Attention soon turned to another key figure.
"Maester Colemon," Gendry said.
"The Eyrie's Maester."
"He would have overseen Jon Arryn's treatment—and now young Robert's."
"He may not be the mastermind, but he knows enough to matter."
That gave them three crucial targets:
Lysa Arryn.
Maester Colemon.
And the boy—Robert Arryn.
"If we go directly to the Eyrie," someone said, "we'll also need to control Nestor Royce."
"The steward of the Gates of the Moon."
"And deal with the suitors."
Gendry turned to the Blackfish.
"What is the current situation?"
Brynden nodded.
"For fourteen years, Jon Arryn served in King's Landing," he explained.
"During that time, Nestor Royce governed in his stead."
"Many believe he should serve as regent."
"Others think Lysa should remarry—quickly."
A faint, humorless smile crossed his face.
"The Eyrie is likely filled with suitors. As numerous as crows on a battlefield."
"Lord Hunter and Ser Lyn Corbray are the most persistent."
"Though truthfully…"
He sighed.
"They're little more than opportunists."
"Lysa has no real intention of marrying them."
"Her heart remains elsewhere."
"In King's Landing."
Bronze Yohn's expression darkened.
"Those men are shameless," he said.
"They circle like vultures."
Gendry nodded.
"Then their presence may actually help us."
"If handled correctly, they can be persuaded."
"Or controlled."
His gaze sharpened.
"Our first step is Nestor Royce."
The Blackfish hesitated.
"He may not cooperate easily."
"He has served loyally for years. He will expect recognition… reward."
Bronze Yohn straightened.
"Then we begin with diplomacy," he said.
"For the honor of House Royce."
"And House Tully," Brynden added with a faint, weary smile.
Honor.
Duty.
Reputation.
These were not just words—they were burdens.
The road gradually leveled beneath their horses' hooves.
The sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the land.
As they descended into the Vale, the air grew warmer.
The terrain softened.
Wildflowers dotted the roadside.
Green grass swayed gently in the breeze.
They rode swiftly, wasting no time.
Through forests.
Past quiet villages.
Across golden fields and flowing streams.
Ser Donnel sent his standard-bearer ahead.
Two banners flew high:
The falcon and crescent moon of House Arryn.
And beneath it—
The broken wheel of House Waynwood.
Travelers parted for them without hesitation.
Farmers.
Merchants.
Minor nobles.
This land had not yet been touched by war.
There was no panic.
No fear.
Only the steady rhythm of daily life.
By the time they reached the Gates of the Moon—
Night had fallen.
Torches burned along the battlements.
The moat reflected the flickering light like molten gold.
The drawbridge was raised.
The portcullis lowered.
Within the gatehouse, firelight glowed warmly.
Above—
The mountain loomed.
Gendry looked up.
At first, he saw only darkness.
Then—
Lights.
High above.
Faint.
Distant.
Like stars.
The Eyrie.
Not a single castle—but a chain of fortresses, ascending into the sky.
Each higher than the last.
Each more unreachable.
At the very peak—
A pale white glow shimmered beneath the moonlight.
And beyond it—
The red comet burned in the heavens.
A symbol of change.
Of chaos.
Of fate.
Gendry felt a quiet awe settle over him.
House Arryn truly lived like eagles.
High above the world.
Proud.
Untouchable.
But also—
Alone.
Below, in the darkness, the cavalry moved silently.
Hidden.
Patient.
Like a forest waiting to awaken.
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