A raven burst from the top of the maester's tower and shrank to a black speck against the northern sky.
Joffrey had already lost count of how many he had sent.
The first one flew out. No answer.
The second. Still nothing.
Third. Fourth.
This one would probably be the same.
"She'll come," Sansa said behind him, her voice thin, like she was trying to convince herself. "She'll let my mother go. She's my aunt. She's just scared."
"She just… needs time."
Joffrey didn't turn around.
Outside the window, King's Landing kept up its usual roar. The tourney crowds had long since gone home. People were back to their daily grind, spooning brown broth into their bellies while the sea wind whipped across the city.
Only those inside the Red Keep knew what kind of mess had been left behind after the party.
"She won't come," Joffrey said quietly.
Day after day, raven after raven.
"She coming or not?" Robert demanded.
Eddard only nodded, face tight with pain.
"She will, Your Grace."
The small council chamber grew heavier with every meeting.
Lord Tywin had stopped showing up. Instead he sent the same message every single day.
"The Westerlands host stands ready at Golden Tooth. Awaiting Your Grace's command."
Robert had stopped bellowing. He just sat at the head of the table now, face like a thundercloud, knuckles drumming faster and faster on the wood.
He had attended more council meetings in the last few weeks than in the past several years combined.
"Ned, is that woman coming or not?"
"I'm out of patience!"
She won't come.
Eddard already carried the worst suspicion in his gut.
Lysa wasn't just holding Tyrion—she had refused to release her own sister.
He had written to his father-in-law, Hoster Tully, begging him to intervene.
But the old man was bedridden. Riverrun was now run by Edmure Tully, and the boy's word carried no weight.
So Eddard had pinned his last hope on Brynden Tully—Hoster's brother, the Blackfish.
The man was past fifty, still unmarried, and had left Riverrun years ago after one too many arguments with his brother. He had followed his niece Lysa to the Vale and become a Knight of the Gate.
Blackfish had always been close to both nieces and was on good terms with Eddard, but even he could not get inside the Eyrie.
After repeated pleas, he was finally handed a single letter slipped through a crack in the door.
It was not written in Lysa's own hand. The tone was polite, icy, and final.
"The Lady Regent is overcome with grief and in poor health. She is not fit for travel. Lord Tyrion and Lady Catelyn came of their own free will. They are guests of honor in the Eyrie. Once the Lady is well, they will be escorted south."
Robert slammed the letter onto the table.
"Insolence! She thinks I'm a child?"
"I'll have her head on a spike!"
Then he glanced at Eddard. "I'm just saying it. I won't actually do it."
Compared to everyone else, Joffrey was living easy these days.
Cersei was secretly delighted. With all eyes fixed on Lysa, no one was watching her son too closely.
She granted his requests almost without question and never asked what he was doing.
So Joffrey used the breathing room to quietly yank out every one of Littlefinger's nails in King's Landing and replace them with his own people.
As for Commander Janos Slynt, the man's health had taken a sharp turn for the worse. He would probably be asking to resign any day now.
Nothing at all to do with the special wines Joffrey had been sharing with him, of course.
Joffrey still attended every council meeting, sitting beside Robert with the perfect expression of a prince worried for the realm.
After months of careful saving, his Heaven's Will Points finally filled again.
This time the draw gave him another defensive skill.
Dream Killer
Sleep is sleep: While pretending to sleep, the body automatically counters any assassination attempt and forces the attacker into a deeper sleep depending on their strength.
Joffrey stared at the description for a long time.
Why did every skill description have to drag in something weird?
And it only worked if he was pretending to sleep. If he was actually out cold, the skill did nothing.
The next role had already refreshed as well.
Cunning Schemer
The system had also unlocked a new function: spend a draw to upgrade any leveled skill.
As for Lysa, Joffrey had checked twice with Stargaze.
Catelyn and Tyrion were being kept in separate rooms under house arrest. Lysa had no intention of releasing them or coming to King's Landing.
Coming south would be walking into a trap.
She had clearly decided to hide behind the Eyrie's natural defenses and drag this out forever—until the moment Littlefinger had promised her.
"When the realm falls into chaos, we will wed."
Lysa also had solid reasons for defying a royal command.
From the Andal conquest to the Targaryen invasion, no army had ever taken the Eyrie by force.
The Bloody Gate sealed the only road into the Vale.
Moon Gate guarded the foot of the mountain.
Then came the three successive strongholds—Stone, Snow, and Sky—each locking the single treacherous path up the Giant's Lance.
The Eyrie itself was a small palace perched on the peak, with seven slender white towers.
Stables and forges were built on the slopes outside.
As a pure fortress, it could hold at most five hundred people, yet its granaries were the size of Winterfell's and could feed everyone inside for a full year.
The only ways in or out were the winch elevator for supplies or a narrow, winding mountain path hundreds of feet long that could be climbed in an hour by a lightly burdened man.
The Eyrie had surrendered only once in its history—hundreds of years ago—when Visenya Targaryen rode Balerion straight to the top and forced the lord to yield under dragonflame.
But that was then.
There were no dragons anymore, and no one could build another Eyrie.
They probably couldn't even haul a decent siege engine up the mountain these days.
Westeros really was going downhill year after year.
In yet another small council meeting, Lord Tywin suddenly appeared.
He did not sit. He simply stood at the far end of the table and spoke calmly.
"Tyrion has been 'voluntarily' detained for more than a month. Lady Catelyn has sent no word."
He put heavy emphasis on "voluntarily," but his tone stayed flat.
"The Westerlands host has marched to Golden Tooth. If Lady Lysa still refuses to release them, I will have to go collect them myself."
Eddard shot to his feet.
"That road runs straight through the Riverlands! How do you expect House Tully to react when an army marches across their lands?"
Tywin gave him a single cold glance.
"That is why I am asking His Grace first."
Joffrey could not read Robert's expression.
"Wait a little longer," the king said.
Tywin gave a short nod and left.
Something was off.
Joffrey frowned.
Since when did Tywin Lannister show this much patience? That wasn't his style at all.
Robert's reaction was even stranger. He hadn't blocked the troop movement, hadn't questioned it, hadn't even pretended to be angry.
Joffrey's gaze slid to Eddard's grim face.
A suspicion formed.
Robert had been itching for a fight for months.
What if he and Tywin had already come to an understanding—behind the Hand's back?