High in the Vale of Arryn stands the ancient seat of House Arryn: The Eyrie. It is a castle of seven slender white towers bunched together like a bundle of arrows, perched atop the Giant's Spear. Below, thousands of feet down, lies the valley floor.
The Eyrie is a small castle, barely able to house five hundred souls, built of fine white stone. Where a Great House would normally have a Godswood, the Eyrie has a garden; the soil is too thin for a Weirwood Heart Tree to take root. It is a lovely, fragile place of grass, shrubs, and statues, where the roar of the Alyssa's Tears waterfall is a constant, ghostly companion.
But as the first snows of winter began to dust the Riverlands, the Eyrie became a death trap. Lord Petyr Baelish's natural daughter, Alayne, and his stepson, the frail young Lord Robert Arryn, began the treacherous descent. They passed through the way-castles—Sky, Snow, and Stone—descending the narrow, winding track before the heavy drifts could cut off their supplies and turn the mountain into a frozen tomb.
By the time they reached the Gates of the Moon at the mountain's base, it was hours before dawn.
Alayne entered Petyr's solar to find him sitting before a crackling hearth, sharing mulled wine with three men she did not recognize.
"Come, Alayne," Petyr said with a warm, feline smile. "Give your father a kiss."
Alayne obeyed, pressing a dutiful kiss to his cheek. "I am sorry to intrude, Father. I didn't know you had guests."
"Nonsense, dearest. I was just telling these good knights of your devotion."
"Devoted and beautiful," noted a young man with a waterfall of golden hair—Ser Byron.
"Indeed," added a brawny man with a red, bulbous nose and hands like hams—Ser Morgarth.
The third, a small, fox-faced man with a sharp nose and messy orange hair, offered a crooked grin. "Beauty is often overlooked when introducing us rough sorts," said Ser Shadrich.
Petyr dismissed the three, though the golden-haired Byron lingered to kiss Alayne's hand. Once the door clicked shut, Petyr's eyes gleamed.
"Hungry knights, Alayne. I've bought us three more swords. The times are getting interesting, and one can never have too many blades. Old Oswell has returned to Gulltown with news from the capital."
Petyr pulled her close, his hands framing her face. He kissed her deeply on the lips—a kiss that lingered far too long for a father. "That is a welcome-home kiss. Try to do better next time."
"Yes, Father," Alayne whispered, her face flushing crimson.
"You cannot imagine the mess Cersei is making in King's Landing," Petyr mused, leaning back. "She is surrounding herself with the deaf, the blind, and the foolish. I expected her to ruin the realm, but even I didn't expect it to happen this quickly. I had hoped for four or five years of peace to let my seeds grow, but chaos is a thirsty soil. I fear the peace we won after the Five Kings won't survive the rule of three women."
"Three women?" Alayne asked, confused.
Petyr smiled and changed the subject. "I have a gift for you. I have arranged a betrothal."
Alayne felt her throat tighten. "I... I cannot marry, Father. I am already wed."
Petyr pressed a finger to her lips. "The Imp married the daughter of Eddard Stark, not mine. This is a promise for the future, to be fulfilled when Cersei falls and Sansa is safely a widow. But first, you must win the boy's heart. Lady Anya Waynwood is insistent that he must choose you for himself."
"Lady Waynwood?" Alayne blinked. "She would let her ward marry a bastard?"
"A bastard of the Lord Protector," Petyr corrected. "House Waynwood is ancient and proud, but very poor. I bought their debt. But Harry is just a cousin. My dowry is ten times what I gave to Lyn Corbray. You are to marry Harrold Hardyng."
"Harry the Heir?" Alayne recalled the gossip from the descent. "The one who just became a knight? The one with the bastards?"
"He has a daughter by a village girl and another on the way," Petyr chuckled. "But he is a fine lad. Sandy hair, blue eyes, dimples. Very gallant, they say. And more importantly, Alayne... he is Robert's heir. If Robert were to have a... 'mishap,' Harry becomes the Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale."
He stroked her hair. "The Vale lords hate me, but they will follow Harry. And when they come for the wedding, and you let down your auburn hair and wear the bride's cloak of gray and white with a direwolf brooch... the Knights of the Vale will swear their swords to win back your North. That is my gift to you, Sansa. Harry, the Vale, and Winterfell."
Sansa Stark—now Sansa Lannister, known as Alayne—leaned in to kiss his cheek, but Petyr turned his head so their lips met again. He watched her leave with a satisfied smirk.
The smile vanished the moment the door closed. He turned to Oswell Kettleblack, his long-standing agent.
"The bad news, Oswell. Speak it."
"There is a new power in the Riverlands, My Lord. They call themselves the Alliance of the Gods Eye."
Oswell detailed the rise of a foreigner known as the Lightbringer. He spoke of the Order of the Golden Dawn, a military wing officially chartered by the new High Septon. Most troubling of all, the Alliance had effectively seized all the lands belonging to Harrenhal—lands that officially belonged to Petyr Baelish.
Petyr had never heard of a "Lightbringer." At first, he assumed it was another Red Priest like Stannis's shadow-binder. But then he listened to Ser Shadrich's report.
The "Mad Mouse" had traveled through the Riverlands and seen the impossible: peasants replanting crops in the dead of winter, disciplined patrols that helped commoners instead of robbing them, and a monastery at St. Maur's that had become a hub of trade and healing.
"The monks said I could join," Shadrich reported, his fox-like face twisting. "They said I would find 'something more precious than gold' if my heart was pure. But I told them I prefer the gold."
Petyr tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. A mercenary who had turned a ruin into a thriving religious state. A "saint" who was stealing his lands while he was stuck in the mountains.
"This 'Lightbringer'..." Petyr whispered to the empty room. "Where did he come from, and why is he playing my game better than I am?"
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