[Vale]
It took Hugh many days to finally reach the Vale. The narrow mountain paths were hard, and the Gates of the Moon were heavily guarded. But Hugh had nowhere else to go. The only place he could find safety from the Crown—if the Queen decided to go after him—was the Vale. He needed to meet Lady Lysa Arryn, and he would not leave until he did.
It took another few days of waiting before he was allowed an audience. The nobles of the Vale never thought much of Hugh, even after Jon Arryn had taken him as his squire. To them, he was still just a lowborn boy who once served their late Lord Jon Arryn.
When he was finally brought before Lady Lysa, Hugh was surprised. She sat on her high chair in the great hall, her young son Robert on her lap. To Hugh's discomfort, she was still nursing the boy, though he looked far too old for it.
Lady Lysa looked down at Hugh with a frown. "What do you want, boy?" she said coldly. "You were Jon's squire, nothing more. You have no place here."
Her mood hadn't been good ever since her love had stopped sending her letters. After learning that the King had died—through spies placed outside the capital—she had received no word or message from King's Landing. Not from her love, Petyr Baelish, nor from her spies, nor from any other source.
Her son had been pestering her to meet his "Littlefinger" ever since, and she was furious. The madness that Baelish once kept contained was now breaking free.
Hugh bowed low but kept his voice steady. "I come with tidings, my lady. Tidings of Petyr Baelish."
The moment Hugh spoke Baelish's name, Lysa froze. Her lips tightened, her arms clutched her son closer.
"Speak," she snapped. "Is Petyr all right? What did he say?" Her tone dripped with fanatic zeal.
Hugh swallowed, then reached into his satchel and carefully pulled out a small bundle. Inside were a few ornaments—a ring, a brooch—items Hugh had taken from Baelish's chambers after Thor's plan was set in motion.
He laid them on the floor before her.
Lady Lysa stared at them, her face slowly crumbling. She knew these pieces. She had given some of them to Petyr herself, long ago.
"No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "What… what happened…"
"Assassination, my lady."
Tears welled up in her eyes. She clutched Robert to her chest and began to weep openly, not caring who saw. No one else knew the truth, but deep in her heart, she did. Petyr Baelish was not just the man she once loved—he was the true father of her son.
Hugh waited until her sobs slowed before speaking again. His voice was low, careful. "It was the Lannisters, my lady," he said. "I don't know why they did it, but they had some vendetta against him. They spoke of a debt… though I couldn't understand what it meant."
Lysa lifted her tear-stained face, her eyes burning with fury. "The Lannisters," she hissed.
She knew Baelish had been plotting against them. He even had her send that letter to her sister in Winterfell. But how did they find out?
Hugh felt a pang of guilt for lying. But Thor had saved his life and trusted him to carry out this plan. He would see it done—if not for honor, then for survival. The Vale had to turn against the Crown if he wished to live.
Otherwise, that mad queen would hunt him down. She would not stop at anyone who knew her secret.
Lysa wiped her eyes and stood, her body trembling with rage. "The Lannisters will pay for what they have done."
…
[Beyond the Wall]
The wind cut through their cloaks like blades of ice. Snowflakes drifted in heavy swirls, clinging to their faces and lashes as they trudged through knee-deep snow.
It had been days since Jon, Sam, Eddison, and Grenn had left the Wall, and still there was no sign of Bran. The North was endless—nothing but snow, white, icy winds, and death at every corner.
Most men of the Night's Watch wished to become Rangers, since that was the highest rank outside the Lord Commander. It allowed them to go beyond the Wall—and south of it, to places like Mole's Town.
For entertainment, of course. It didn't matter that such rank also meant venturing into the deadly North, as long as by the end they could feel the pleasure of a real woman.
A luxury not all brothers of the Watch had access to.
However, only after venturing into the freezing unknown did some realize that perhaps satisfying their lust wasn't as important as staying alive. Just as Jon and his friends were learning.
"I swear," Eddison muttered from under his hood, his voice dry as the wind, "if this cold gets any worse, I'll freeze my tongue before I finish complaining."
"That'd be a blessing," Grenn said, grinning despite his chattering teeth. "The rest of us might finally get some peace."
Edd shot him a look. "If peace means freezing to death in silence, then aye, you'll get plenty. And very soon."
Jon almost smiled but kept his eyes ahead. His focus was fixed on the trees. "Stay close," he said. "And keep it low. We don't know who's listening."
Sam groaned. "I can't feel my fingers anymore… or my toes. Or anything, really."
"That's because they're frozen," Edd replied dryly. "Soon you'll be one with the snow. We'll just leave a little marker—'Here lies Samwell Tarly, eaten by frost and fear. He was fat, and a coward. But a true friend.'"
Grenn laughed, slapping Sam's shoulder. "Just make sure you leave enough space for this bastard as well. I'd rather not dig another faster, making one big enough for both of you."
"I'd rather live, thank you," Sam mumbled, clutching his cloak tighter.
The laughter helped. For a few moments, the endless march didn't seem so heavy. But the cold always found its way back. Their food was running low, their water frozen solid. They'd been chasing rumors—tracks that led nowhere, fires long gone cold, and whispers of a crippled boy heading north. But nothing solid.
As dusk fell, the grey sky dimmed to blue, and a shape appeared through the curtain of snow. Smoke—a faint, twisting line rising into the sky.
"Smoke," Jon said, halting his horse. "Someone's nearby."
"Wildlings?" Grenn asked, hand on his sword.
"Or worse," Edd muttered. "At this point, I'd rather it be ghosts than wildlings."
Jon looked carefully, then nodded. "No. It's too small. Could be Craster's Keep. We're close."
Sam's eyes widened. "Craster? The one the Old Bear warned us about?"
"Aye," Jon said. "Half a friend, half a monster. But he's got a roof and food—and we need both."
The place was a crude cluster of huts surrounded by sharpened stakes, with animal bones hanging from ropes like trophies. Smoke rose from the main hall, carrying the scent of burnt wood and cooked meat—though not much of it.
"Smells better than the last five days," Edd said, wrinkling his nose. "Warmer too."
Jon dismounted. "We'll be cautious. Craster's not kind to crows, but he might talk if it benefits him. Keep your hands off your weapons—and your eyes off his daughters."
Jon had clearly learned the rules before leaving the Wall to find Bran. He knew what it meant to deal with Craster, as the Lord Commander had warned him well.
Sam nodded nervously. "And if he doesn't let us stay?"
"Then we move on," Jon said. "But no fighting."
As they pushed open the rough gate, the stench of smoke, sweat, and animals filled their lungs. Women moved quietly between huts, their faces weary and frightened. Craster himself stood before the hall, his thick beard matted with frost, a cruel grin on his face.
"Well, look at this," he rasped. "Crows come flapping back north again. Thought you all froze at your Wall."
Jon stepped forward, his breath steady despite the chill. "We seek shelter and news. That's all."
Craster laughed, a sound like gravel grinding. "Shelter costs, boy. And news costs more."
Edd leaned toward Sam, whispering, "Be ready, Sam. I've heard men up here have strange habits. For some, women aren't enough. I heard they like them thicc."
Sam's hairs stood on end, his body stiffening as he instinctively tightened his rear, already planning to run if it came down to it.
Jon ignored them, keeping his eyes on Craster. "We'll pay what we can. Just a night's rest—and anything you've heard about travelers. One, a crippled boy, riding with a big simpleton."
Craster scratched his beard, eyeing them with sly interest. "Aye," he said after a moment. "I might've heard something like that… but it'll cost you."
...
A/N : Just tieing up the lose end here in Westeros before departure.
xxx
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