Lady Stark cannot leave soon enough, but Gabrielle's father sees it fit that Lady Catelyn stay with them for the sake of security and subterfuge. All she can pray for is the avoidance of the woman's constant warpath, taking a rather sideways route to her father's office in avoidance of the possible paths of the Lady. It's surely one of the few times Gabrielle's been grateful to live in the whorehouse: Lady Stark will seldom leave her room, and if she does, they'll likely not meet up.
Knocking softly on her father's door, Gabrielle does not hesitate before entering Littlefinger's office, the night sky shining in through the sheer drapes and candles strewn about. She is not surprised to see a lack of whores in the office, as that is surprisingly not her father's style of satisfaction. And she is even less surprised to find him behind his desk instead, the man standing as she closes the one door behind her lean form.
"Father, you called?"
Petyr Baelish grins at his only daughter with nothing uncharacteristic in his expression. Indeed, the grin is true to its intention, revealing his pleasure at her presence and humour at her innocent act. His shorter steps echo about the room as he comes to stand in front of her, his grey eyes beaming into her green as his words slither forth, "I'm curious, young one...what have you done to acquire Lady Catelyn's hate?"
"Nothing was done by myself, Father," Gabrielle responds, ensuring her eyes drop to the floor before rising again to meet his: a false pretense of shame and embarrassment. If anything, his smirk grows. "It seems she's come to hate me because I took a liking to the bastard of Ned Stark."
"Jon Snow?"
Gabrielle nods at him, her shoulders rolling back slightly to reaffirm the confidence of an innocent woman, "He's gone to join the Night's Watch, and those of Stark-blood often rise to the position of Lord Commander. I thought it a logical relationship to be made, though Lady Stark's hatred I could never ask for."
"Yes, my daughter, that was reasonable of you." Petyr Baelish's smarmy grin shines through, perhaps the most real she's seen him in days. And though it should not hinder their game, Gabrielle reveals her true mischief for a moment--a spark of intelligence shining into her eyes before dimming again into a new character. Her father brushes her bare arm, "Do not worry your little heart, I will see to it that the Starks keep our favor. Now, I think the Hound is waiting for you."
Littlefinger waves her off in a casual matter, but she does not fall for the trap, curtsying like the proper lady she could have been if not for her whore mother. Striding off, Petyr looks after her until the door closes behind her back, proud at how far she's come and how well he's trained her.
/////////////////////////
Tyrion Lannister does not hide his humoured smirk as he looks upon the fully shamed Jon Snow and the cause of the boy's humiliation, Alliser Thorne. Remarking rightly in his sarcastic manner, the dwarf adds, "A charming man."
"I don't need him to be charming," Jeor Mormont, ever predictable from his heritage, replies, "I need him to turn this bunch of thieves and runaways into men of the Night's Watch."
"And how's that going, Commander Mormont?"
The Mormont shuffles slightly between his two feet, his uncertainty evident in his body language, "Slowly. A raven came for Ned Stark's son."
"Good news or bad?" Tyrion curiously asks.
"Both."
At that moment, as if hailed by the news of other mail, a loud screech sounds about the courtyard, likely not aided by the ice block that echoes it back. Tyrion watches as most of the men--including himself--jump back in surprise, the silent threat sending their heads around like owls. And Tyrion just about loses his mind, looking and searching, when a parcel drops to his feet, head rising quickly to see a falcon--Valyrion--bullet past his head to grip onto Jon Snow's shoulders across the courtyard. Stunned and literally struck, the Stark bastard stumbles back but catches himself as the bird drops a parcel into his opened hands.
Laughter pounding from his chest, Tyrion leans over to pick up the letter from the ground before pocketing it in his thick cloak. Eyes resounding upward, Jeor Mormont sends him a look of suspicion, but Tyrion shakes it off, certainly humoured as he remarks, "Looks like our friend finally found time to write."
//////////////////////////////////
Gabrielle Baelish's skirts brush the dirty stones of King's Landing, swaying with her evident hips in the brown cloth, much the color of the city. But it's not a sight focused on--or even thought of--by Ned Stark as he walks with Petyr Baelish--the smirking Master of Coin--further into the bowels of the capital. Of course, the man notices the strange looks being sent their way and attention the female is receiving, but his mind still focuses intently on where they are going. When he'd agreed to follow Lord Baelish and his daughter on a quest for his wife, he'd somewhat assumed she would not be in this squalor. And yet, here they are.
And it gets worse when Ned Stark finally realizes the destination--Baelish's whorehouse--the man shoving Littlefinger into the front wall and locking his hand about the man's neck. Gabrielle is first struck by the man's sudden--and unexpected--violence, Ned Stark not appearing to be a man of great anger like this, but she soon recovers and is shouting in horror, "Lord Stark!"
"I thought that she'd be safest in here. One of several such establishments I own," Petyr Baelish coughs his reasoning out, but ever the stubborn man, Ned Stark does not seem inclined to listen--only trust.
"You're a funny man. A very funny man."
Suddenly, a head appears from the window above, shouting "Ned!"
Gazing up to see his wife, Ned Stark quickly drops Petyr Baelish, the man stumbling back into the wall as the Hand of the King rushes into the house without his previous anger. Gabrielle moves towards her father, laying a hand on his arm as he finally locks eyes onto her, huffing in irritation, "The Starks...Quick tempers, slow minds."
Gabrielle giggles at him, perhaps restoring the grin to her father's face, before following after him and into the house of sin.
/////////////////////////
As Jon Snow watches his 'brothers' leave the 'armory' of Castle Black, he cannot quite find himself as hesitant to leave this place after their quick attempt at bullying him. And yet, the boy is not stupid enough to say as much to the Lannister dwarf who now watches him carefully, eyes intelligent and cunning to great extent. Jon sighs wearily, as if the weight of the world is upon his shoulders, "Everybody knew what this place was and no one told me. No one but you. My father knew and left me to rot here at the Wall all the same."
"Grenn's father left him too...outside a farmhouse when he was three. Pyp was caught stealing a wheel of cheese. His little sister hadn't eaten in three days. He was given a choice: his right hand or the Wall," Tyrion remarks as an aside, though it's more to reiterate the point of Jon's great fortune to be born in the position he was. He continues, "I've been asking the Lord Commander about them. Fascinating stories."
"They hate me because I'm better than they are." It is obvious to Tyrion Lannister that Jon Snow is still immature in his worldly inexperience, having been locked away from the real people and not privileged to the lessons of his brothers.
"It's a lucky thing none of them were trained by a master-at-arms like your Ser Rodrik," Tyrion is more obvious in his criticism this time, the boy obviously needing it, "I don't imagine any of them have ever held a real sword before they came here." He lets the silence span between them for a mere moment--a beat--before handing Jon another letter, "Your brother Bran. He's woken up. And that letter from Gabrielle Baelish...might be important."
/////////////////////////////////////
Such a normal sight, the whores and the customers do not spare a glance at Petyr Baelish and his daughter as they hurry off after Ned Stark and into the depths of the whorehouse. Gabrielle wonders how the man knows where he is going, but does not think too far into it, sending one of the few leering men a look of utter hatred as she marches onward. Holding her father back as they near the Lady's chamber, Gabrielle ensures slyly that Ned and Catelyn Stark have broken from their embrace before letting her father in behind her, not as subtle as she hoped.
"The mere suggestion that the Queen's brother tried to kill your boy would be considered treason," Petyr Baelish immediately addresses the two, his smirk missing for the moment as Catelyn turns to him and Ned glares from behind her shoulder.
"We have proof. We have the blade," the woman is quick to return, seemingly forgetting whom she is speaking to: the most mischievous and troubling man in the Seven Kingdoms. But Gabrielle doubts she knows that.
But the man responds with reason nonetheless, "Which Lord Tyrion will say was stolen from him. The only man who could say otherwise has no throat, thanks to your boy's wolf."
"Proof can always be eliminated, Lady Stark," Gabrielle adds in, not missing the way Lady Stark seems to glare at her while her husband looks slightly less hostile. Interesting. "It's a following that you need."
Ignoring the daughter, the Lady of Winterfell turns back to her husband with a pleading look in her eye and hope on her tongue, "Petyr has promised to help us find the truth. He's like a little brother to me. He would never betray my trust."
"I'll try to keep you alive, for her sake. A fool's task, admittedly, but I've never been able to refuse your wife anything," Petyr Baelish almost honestly replies, the tension between the glaring Ned Stark and fierce Littlefinger almost acting whiplash on Gabrielle Baelish, who finds this greatly entertaining. Her father had never been one to revel in testosterone, but if there was a woman to cause it, surely that was Catelyn Stark.
The woman turns to her friend as her eyes glimmer in sweet feelings of friendship, "I won't forget this. You're a true friend."
"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain." And that reputation was not given without reason.
/////////////////////////////////
Jon Snow is grinning at the end of the short missive from Winterfell, Bran being alive and well--though paralyzed in his legs. But he's still alive. Turning his attention then to the falcon-sent message, Jon Snow analyzes the seal of House Baelish--a mockingbird if he can remember correctly. Almost instinctively, a shiver rakes down Jon's back, as if reading this letter will be reason enough for her to mock him. And if he writes back...
Nonetheless, Jon Snow fervently tears the letter open to reveal a clean and elegant script, not revealing the gender of its writer, but Jon knows.
Jon—
I do hope that this letter finds you in the same spirits as you held at your departure, but the Wall is a tough place and I doubt you'll find yourself happy at the moment. So, I instead hope that Valyrion didn't scare you too bad. He has a mean grip around the shoulders, but take faith that while he waits for your letter back, he is as good protection as your Ghost.
Your father and sisters are settling in at the capital, and none too quickly with chaos taking hold of the royals. Nymeria attacked Joffrey (righteously, may I add) on the King's Road before fleeing into the wilderness. The Queen wanted blood, and Lady's at that, but I was successful in setting her free without their knowledge. Your father knows this, and I do believe I've made some headway in gaining his trust.
Lady Catelyn shall be arriving at King's Landing in a few days' time—apparently she suspicions the Lannisters for twice-attempting to kill your brother. Not that I blame her, but there are far more dangerous people in King's Landing.
Stay strong, Jon Snow, and though the men may talk you down via your parentage—remember that you are treasured by your father, the first-born son of Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King. Do not threaten them, just live by the strength that flows through your veins.
Do write back,
Gabrielle Baelish
And perhaps it's the loneliness that drives him, but Jon Snow immediately picks up the quill and does just that.
////////////////////////////
Tyrion Lannister watches Jon Snow as he plows through his miniscule competition, incapable of saying that Tyrion is not impressed with the skill of the Bastard of Winterfell. He plays with the gloves between his fingers, remembering his sudden lack of training in these callings by the hand of his father. Not that he regrets it. No, Tyrion Lannister is much more of a bookish sort, intelligent and wise and much like the Lady Baelish in male form.
Speaking of the woman, Tyrion had been surprised--yet prepared--when Jon had visited late the night before, wanting to send off the falcon with his missive immediately. And the imp cannot necessarily blame the boy, knowing just how lonely he must be without family for the first time...and forever. And to have the attention of the Most Beautiful Woman in Westeros--that was something to be bragged about, even if the attention is false. Tyrion Lannister truly feels for the boy and his gullibility, only hoping it passes for the sake of Jon's sanity.
Turning on his heel, the son of Tywin Lannister returns to the hall of Castle Black, grabbing a cup of ale before sitting with Maester Aemon and Lord Commander Mormont.
"Lord Tyrion, you and Jon Snow received letters from King's Landing via falcon yesterday?" the old Targaryen asks, regarding the passing reference on the night prior when Tyrion was a little too intoxicated. Not that it matters, but when else would Tyrion have bragged about such a thing? Tyrion only hopes it won't get Jon into too much trouble.
"Yes, from Lady Gabrielle Baelish," Tyrion answers, taking a long drink of the ale, incapable of keeping his bones warm.
The old man--if even possible--takes on a look of whimsy as he practically sings, "The Most Beautiful Woman in Westeros?" But then he laughs with intensity, the age and cold not having taken his fire, "I can see a letter for you, Lord Tyrion, but Jon Snow?"
"Not only is Jon Snow the bastard of Winterfell, but he seems to have acquired a great ally in the Mock Queen. He is a powerful bastard, perhaps more so than the highborn sons of Lord Stark." Tyrion Lannister knows this is likely not the truth--as do the other two--but no words are verbally exchanged in agreement of the manner. Because, after all, even if Gabrielle Baelish is not genuine with her attention to Jon Snow, that communication provides power and prestige to the young bastard, something almost all lack entirely.
/////////////////////////////////
The leaves on the bramblebush had turned a dusty yellow in her absence from King's Landing, one of the very few to take notice. No, to anyone other than an medicine expert, the bush was nothing other than a simple shrub adorning the unsurprisingly red walls of the Red Keep. But to her--and a select few out there--this bush's quick seasoning was a far cry from passive aging--she needed the leaves when they sat under the ripened fruit, and from the looks of it, that was two weeks prior. Gabrielle stifles a sigh for no other reason than to keep her sane reputation, yanking a few of the musty leaves and shoving them into her bag.
It's going to Pycelle anyway--and it's not like she's ever given him real poisons for storage.
Her adorned feet wade through the thick layer of gravel, neck bending under a low-hanging tree as Gabrielle comes to stand back on the pathway leading back to her quarters, bag of ingredients slung over her shoulder. Nearby, some of the lords' children play under a willow, the ball of their entertainment bouncing between them before being hit abroad, and closer to the path in which she treads. Again, Gabrielle tries to avoid sighing aloud at the doldrum atmosphere of the palace, and expectations on her part to play the perfect lady. She does not want to bend over and help them, but Gabrielle nonetheless tosses the toy back to the glittering children, an equally stunning smile on their face. As she walks away, Gabrielle reminds herself she was never that annoyingly privileged, no matter how young she once was.
A squawk and then multiple squeals sound from behind her, that glum mood all but disappearing as she gathers joy at Valyrion's return and the children's fear. Not turning about, she feels the bird latch onto her shoulder, unwavering in her confident stride like a well-practiced dance between pet and keeper...which she supposes is the actual case. Levying out a hand, the bird is quick to drop two rolled letters, one bearing the sigil of the Lannister lion, and the other a raven. Still walking, she reads over the letter of Tyrion Lannister first--always going to be more entertained by his response than that of a Stark bastard, no matter his attractiveness.
But reading that letter first makes her want to scream--the stupid dwarf! Why ever would she warn him of the dagger if he was not in immediate danger? Oh, Gabrielle wants to scream at the walls and pound her feet against the ground like a worthless child. And it's all very understandable really--how men think her ideas to hold less merit simply because she is a woman. She'd show them--the darkness of her mind resounds vengefully--and even the lighter side cannot help but agree. She has promise.
But Gabrielle supposes, taking a deeper breath with longer thought, that she should have expected this response, if not for Tyrion's character then for her father's plots. Indeed, it works right into them. Gabrielle wants to laugh at how stupid they all are--for having done exactly as he wished and knowing they will never realize his subterfuge.
Idiots, all of them.
Unwrapping the second paper of thicker and lower-quality parchment, Gabrielle prepares herself for the likely berating of Jon Snow as well as his plea for pity. Rolling her eyes, she reads on:
Gabrielle—
I must admit to being quite stunned and slightly fearful when I was latched onto by your bird, but only because I never expected a letter from you. I do not know your intentions in writing a bastard, but I do hope you understand how wrong this would appear to many people.
But I could not find the courage to avoid writing back, as it seems only you and Tyrion truly understood my position. The Wall is as massive as the tales say, and the men are as horrible as you foretold. I regret coming here, more than ever, but I cannot find it in my heart to go elsewhere. I am a bastard of a Lord and can own no land—I shall not be legitimized by my father as that would disinherit Robb. He is my brother, and I could never dream of doing that to him.
And yet, I wish I had a choice, as bastards so little have. Perhaps I will find more appreciation here in the days to come, or at least I can hope as much.
As for your bird, I do not think him as strong as Ghost, but I will give him a chance to prove himself, as only proper for such a fear-inducing messenger.
—Jon
And, despite playing exactly into her expectations, Gabrielle laughs loudly at his latter lines, the boy truly surprising her in his sheer amount of sarcasm. Some may call it the lowest form of wit, but Gabrielle Baelish is thoroughly convinced sarcasm is the greatest attribute humans can have.
/////////////////////////////////
Ned Stark--like the days prior--is worn by his work as Hand of the King, the small council dissolving through the doors at his words of dismissal. He can practically feel his wrinkles deepening with each meeting, and more grey hairs sprout with each ignorant command of the king. And--not for the first time even today--Eddard Stark wonders what is he doing here, and why he was not smart enough to deny the King this wish.
But the biggest worry of all--perhaps a little more than self-serving--is the question that's been weighing on his mind for the past few day. Holding out an arm to halt the Grand Maester, Pycelle's eyes rise to meet his with a faulty sense of loyalty--not that Ned can see it.
"Jon's death..."
The older man drops his eyes at that--a sign of guilt?--and shakes his head a bit in a form of great sorrow and pity, "Such a tragedy."
"Did he say anything to you during his final hours?" the Hand of the King pushes, "Lady Baelish gave a chilling recount."
Grand Maester Pycelle's nose crinkles at that name, his head shaking more heavily in what appears to be utter dislike, "I wouldn't trust that girl—she has a way with words that make men do stupid things and an arsenal of weaponry that only women yield. Smart but cunning beyond recognition." A pause resounds as Pycelle remembers the actual question, "And he said nothing of import, my Lord. There was one phrase he kept repeating...'The seed is strong,' I think it was."
"'The seed is strong?' What does that mean?" Ned Stark questions, eyebrows furrowed downward and further playing on his look of exhaustion and aging.
"The dying mind is a demented mind, Lord Stark. For all the weight they're given, last words are usually as significant as first words."
"And you're quite certain he died of a natural illness?"
The Grand Maester pauses at that--well practiced--before looking inquiringly at the head of House Stark, "What else could it be?"
"Poison," Eddard responds with nothing less than sincere worry in his voice, "That's what Lady Baelish suggested."
"A disturbing thought..." Pycelle returns, brewing the thought over before concluding, " I don't think it likely. The Hand was loved by all. What sort of man would dare..."
"I've heard it said that poison is a woman's weapon."
"Yes. Women, cravens... and eunuchs," the Grand Maester adds in, as if thoughtlessly, "Did you know that Lord Varys is a eunuch?"
"Everybody knows that."
"Yes, yes, of course. How that sort of person found himself on the King's Council, I will never know." The older man shakes his head again, seemingly disliking everyone except for the royal family--almost opposite than most. "And how a woman with an arsenal of poison was ever let into this Keep, I cannot tell."
Eddard Stark's gentle swaying--exhaustion taking its toll--suddenly halters at the newly revealed fact, his eyes narrowing with interrogation, "Who?"
"Lady Baelish, of course, my Lord. Did you not know?" He is enjoying this far too much. "The Maesters of Oldtown praise her for the mixtures she's made—enough to kill 100 men, each in a different fashion—but I will not look favorably upon anyone who threatens Westeros. And she does. Trust me, my Lord."
That gives him a lot to think about. Not being trained in the same way as our protagonist, Eddard Stark does not contain his exhausted and weakened sigh, letting a small smile play across his face as he concludes the conversation, "I've taken enough of your time."
"No trouble at all, my Lord," the Grand Maester bows shakily at the doorstep, "It's a great honor..."
"Thank you," Ned Stark shuts the door to the old man, not quite realizing the swiftness of his action nor the fall of the Maester outside the door. And perhaps if he had heard those things, then he would have heard the slight laughing down the hall at the fallen enemy and game unfolding in perfect fashion.
///////////////////////////////////
As a child, Gabrielle Baelish had been one for nights--sitting out for hours on top of the brothel to watch the stars and listen to the whores tell their lovers stories. And though there still was a charming appeal to the endeavor, Gabrielle Baelish had grown to hate the nights given what was expected of her. Indeed, age had a way of shaping her into the early morning mockingbird that she was now renown to be--pretty, compliant, and innocent.
What a lie.
So, there she sat within her father's chambers upon the midnight hour, watching her father from her seat upon his desk as he writes out the newest line of the King's debt. And though he looks to be utterly focused on this task, Gabrielle knows he does this far too often to be entirely focused. He is likely plotting his next move, listening to business below, and playing stakes all at the same time--without moving a muscle outside his hand.
"Pycelle was speaking bad of you to Ned Stark today," her father says, breaking the silence of some minutes with news that was not so new.
Petyr's head does not rise in an attempt to look at her, but all the same, he knows she shrugs from the slight jostling of her hands in his field of vision, as she offhandedly says, "Would not be the first person to do as much. I am sure Lady Catelyn had many bad words to say about me while they were together."
Beneath his moustache, Gabrielle see her father's grin grow into something of humour--a look she loves to win off him, and one of the only people being capable of doing so. It is that look that shows he values her wit and intelligence--that she is not just another chess piece in his wild game of thrones. And she better not be, given what she has done for him.
"Worry not, my child, I will keep their favor," her father responds in the kindest tone reserved only for his own offspring, prompting Gabrielle to send him a look of utter gratefulness at the promise.
A beat passes between them, only marked by the scratching of numbers across parchment and screaming of women below, before she asks, "Shall I remove the salt from the kitchens, Father?"
"Why would you?" His head finally rises in a full approach to listening to her, his hand hindered in its previous activity as suspicion only slightly touches upon his tone, "You said it'd only affect its target, and he's gone now."
"The target or those of familial lineage." The last thing she wants to deal with is another suspicious incident so soon after the first.
Her father sighs--as if disappointed with her wariness, which she cannot blame him for--as his head turns back towards his paper with the previous charge recovered, "Robin has returned home, and soon enough, that salt will be consumed and no proof will remain."
She can tell from his tone that this is a dismissal--something she is not stupid enough to ignore. So, standing to her bare feet, Gabrielle's lean body bends a bit over the desk to kiss her father on the head, before turning on her heel and leaving the room. Her ghost of a voice wishes to force him backward and to his knees--but Petyr Baelish is not just any man, only softly whispering a reply to her forgotten, "Yes father."
////////////////////////////
Jon Snow shakes his head, snow falling around him from the midnight tresses and from the heavens above, heaving a sigh at the utter disbelief boring upon his heart...due to Sam, "You can't fight. You can't see. You're afraid of heights and almost everything else probably. What are you doing here, Sam?"
A pause, but Sam responds, "On the morning of my 18th nameday, my father came to me. 'You're almost a man now,' he said, 'but you're not worthy of my land and title. Tomorrow, you're going to take the black, forsake all claim to your inheritance and start north. If you do not,' he said, 'then we'll have a hunt and somewhere in these woods your horse will stumble and you'll be thrown from your saddle to die. Or so I'll tell your mother. Nothing would please me more.' Ser Alliser's going to make me fight again tomorrow, isn't he?"
Jon Snow--having believed he found someone more 'privileged' than himself--wholly trusts Sam in this story, the pain evident in the other man's face, even as it points downward in the dark of the northern night. Consoling has never been anything near Jon's strength, but--from past experience with emotional trauma--perhaps simply moving on does help the heart feel less pain. So he responds affirmatively, "Yes, he is."
"I'm not going to get any better, you know?"
"Well...You can't get any worse." Sam is shocked--even after knowing him for such a short time--to see the bastard smile with utter charm and humour. And perhaps given this revelation of Jon's innate kindness, Sam smiles in response, listening with open ears as Jon continues, "The Tarlys are strong people. Your father may have taken your position and wealth, but he cannot remove the strength of your blood. A wise woman once told me that."
Jon's eyes visibly glass over with a mess of emotions Sam cannot quite differentiate. Confusion? Faith? Happiness? So Sam asks, "Your mother?"
"No." Jon never knew his mother--and he is glad that his false memory of her does not take the picture of Gabrielle Baelish. As strong and determined as the other bastard is, Jon does not consider her the picture of motherly kindness and care--no matter how friendly she seemed.
///////////////////////////////
Petyr Baelish, that image of utter and mischievous sincerity, leans closer to Ned Stark, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper that could key the Stark into the man's true motives: "Is there someone in your service whom you trust completely?"
"Yes," says the Hand of the King without question. And it's almost too easy--to deceive this man in a room full of pointless pawns where Stark is the knight--and Petyr Baelish wants to believe he is playing against another side. But at this stage, none other than Varys poses a problem, and that is a small problem to begin with.
"The wiser answer was no, my Lord," Littlefinger reminds Ned--something he luckily can't seem to get through his thick head, "Get a message to this paragon of yours...Discreetly. Send him to question Ser Hugh. After that, you might want him to visit a certain armorer in the city. He lives in a large house at the top of the street of Steel."
Ned Stark turns to a stop, looking at the mischievous worm of a man--strangely absent from his daughter. But that is little cause to worry, his face playing across his suspicions in a state of sudden intelligence, "Why?"
"I have my observers, as I said, and it's possible that they saw Lord Arryn visit this armorer several times in the weeks before his death."
The Hand of the King surveys Littlefinger, seeing nothing different than before--short, slightly aged, and agile--but perhaps understanding a greater extension of their alliance. His mouth quirks minutely, muttering, "Lord Baelish, perhaps I was wrong to distrust you."
"Distrusting me was the wisest thing you've done since you climbed off your horse," Petyr Baelish responds almost off-handedly but with honesty that Ned Stark had best learn to differentiate from lies.
"And your daughter?"
This time, the man's mouth turns into something of more of a smirk than a noncommittal smile, twisting his body a bit as he moves to walk away: "Women have always been more dangerous than men."