Chapter 39: This Is the Last Time (Second Update – Votes Requested)

This Is the Last Time

Earlier, while waiting outside the outer gate, Grinn had taken the time to analyze Petyr Baelish's trajectory of power.

Jon Arryn, Duke of the Eyrie, was the Warden of the East. Through his marriage alliance with House Tully, he exerted influence over the Riverlands, and his foster son ruled in Winterfell.

With a single hand, Jon Arryn had been able to directly or indirectly control the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North.

In the original tale, Petyr's first move was to orchestrate the marriage between King Joffrey and Margaery Tyrell, successfully forging the Lannister–Tyrell alliance.

As reward, he was granted the title of Lord of Harrenhal and appointed Governor of the Riverlands.

Next, Petyr exposed the Tyrells' secret plan to take Sansa Stark to Highgarden to marry Willas Tyrell. He informed Lord Tywin Lannister in time for Tywin to have her wed to Tyrion instead.

In doing so, he won Tywin's favor—and as Lord of Harrenhal, Petyr wed Lysa Tully, bringing the Vale under his control without a single sword drawn.

His third step was to move north, to help Sansa Stark claim power in Winterfell.

Petyr's ambition was clear: to grasp the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North.

It mirrored the legacy of Jon Arryn. So was Petyr his imitator—or perhaps, his admirer?

…

Grinn's voice was calm, but it chilled the air.

"Lord Petyr, do you enjoy gambling? Personally, I don't."

Petyr shook his head, a strained smile on his lips.

Grinn continued, "If someone were to die in this room tonight, I'd wager nothing would happen to me. I'd return safely to Whispering Keep, still bathed in noble glory."

In that moment, Petyr finally understood why House Clebb was often whispered of as half-wild.

Too savage—they cared nothing for the rules of the game.

And that thought did not fill him with mere anxiety. It filled him with fear.

Seven save me… I might actually die tonight.

How had this boy seen through his ploys? He was too young to possess such insight.

No—Tyrion. It had to be Tyrion, that damnable Lannister imp.

Petyr recalled that the servant he'd sent to summon Grinn had reported seeing the two of them together.

And the details about my residence tonight… Damn that loose-tongued dwarf. Another player who scorns the rules of the game.

…

Petyr's pale green eyes shifted slightly. "Baron Grinn, I believe we've fallen victim to the poison of petty men's whispers. I've always held you in esteem. Together, you and I could form a most powerful alliance."

He leaned back in his chair for effect. "You and I—we're more alike than you think. We were never meant to live small lives. We deserve greater power."

Grinn remained utterly unmoved.

Instead, he spoke a line that could well have passed for a family motto: "My ancestors taught me—'A thousand schemes are worth less than a single sword thrust.'"

Petyr's heart sank. He's not even listening.

Grinn leaned back in his own chair, one leg draped casually over the other. "You and I are nothing alike, Lord Petyr. My family bled for centuries to forge House Clebb into a noble house of warriors. I inherited every drop of that blood."

Petyr offered a brittle smile, unable to summon more.

Then Grinn spoke again. "Anguy—on that table. A jug of Arbor gold. Pour us both a glass."

The weight in the room seemed to lift. Petyr nearly sighed with relief.

But that, too, unsettled him. A man who could wield threat and charm with equal ease was no one to take lightly.

With innocent calm, Anguy poured the wine with polite grace.

Grinn raised his cup and nodded slightly to Petyr, then sipped.

The smooth, rich Arbor gold flowed warmly down his throat. Petyr took a sip himself and felt his nerves settle.

"Well then," he said. "My esteemed Baron Grinn—might I ask what brings you here tonight?"

Grinn waved a hand lightly. "You're a man of stature. I'm barely worth mention."

He cut off Petyr's coming flattery and absently ran a finger along the rim of his goblet.

"My ambitions are small. I have no wish to be entangled in the games of the mighty. And there's no need for conflict between us. Do you understand?"

At the end of that sentence, something in Grinn's gaze changed.

Petyr felt it down to his bones.

He nodded stiffly, his face like wax.

Grinn rose from his chair, his smile warm, almost kindly. "Forgive the late visit. I'm to see the Hand of the King tomorrow. Whispering Keep values peace. If you would… help Lord Jon see it that way."

Petyr felt the killing intent ebb from the room and quietly exhaled.

"To be clear," he said carefully, "we're already friends. And I always help my friends. You have my word."

Grinn nodded. "If you don't mind, I'll use the front door."

Petyr returned to his usual poise and picked up the bell by the bedside, giving it a delicate shake.

A moment later, a soft knock came at the door.

Grinn had taken a few steps when he suddenly turned back.

He approached Petyr in silence and, without warning, pulled open his robe.

Petyr's pupils contracted. But he remained still. Flight would only make it worse.

Grinn's dagger flashed—just once. A shallow, palm-length line was drawn across Petyr's upper chest.

It didn't even hurt.

But warm blood quickly welled from the cut, flowing fast and dyeing the fabric red.

"This is the last time," Grinn said quietly.

Then he opened the door and calmly instructed the servant to show him out.

Petyr disliked curious servants. This one, seeing no protest from his master, asked no questions and led Grinn and his men away in respectful silence.

Only after a long moment did Petyr move. Still standing, he looked down at his robe.

The bleeding had already stopped. The cut was shallow—expertly done.

Greem's blade had made a statement.

Once alone, Petyr finally allowed a strange smile to twist his lips.

…

The next morning, near Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep.

Tyrion let out an exaggerated yawn, utterly unbothered by decorum.

Jaime glanced at the faint morning light and sighed.

Cersei had been… overzealous the night before, and he'd spent more strength than he cared to admit. Tyrion had dragged him out of bed before dawn—and now he was running on sheer will.

"Where were you off to last night?" Jaime asked.

Tyrion, eyes half-lidded, replied wearily, "Drank myself stupid at Greem's place, then paid a visit to Chataya's. Jeyne, Alayaya, Dancy… they were very welcoming. I've slept maybe two hours."

Jaime laughed. "After a night like that, you should still be buried in silk sheets. So what was so urgent you had to drag me out here at this hour?"

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