The Red Dragon
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32. Trial of Petyr Baelish
🕑 Added 2025-05-27 17:55:17 +0000 UTC[The Twins, Third-person POV]
Lord Yohn Royce was striding furiously toward the Vale encampment, and whether they were Northmen or Valemen, men stepped aside at the sight of him. The grim set of his jaw and the rage in his eyes warned all that he might strike anyone who dared speak a word to him. Soon enough, word spread through the camp like wildfire: Lord Royce had summoned all the Vale lords—except one, Petyr Baelish—to gather before the Northmen’s tent, where King Daeron had called for an audience.
This news reached Petyr long before it echoed through the ranks. Even now, he was gathering loyal men—those who didn’t follow old Yohn like blind sheep. With his wealth and control over young Lord Robert Arryn, many still flocked to his side. Petyr was with Lord Brune, assuring him of lands and rewards for his continued support, when Galbert Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte, entered his tent alone.
He didn’t speak much—only told Petyr to make his way to where all the Vale lords were heading.
Littlefinger, ever the schemer, suspected the king intended to strip him of influence and name Lord Royce regent over the Vale until Robert came of age. Petyr had been expecting this since he doubted that Sansa would keep quiet to his cousin about what Petyr had done to her and how he sold her to the Boltons. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this... but now that it had, he moved swiftly.
He sent urgent word to his loyal lords, spreading a dangerous lie—that the king intended to replace Lord Royce and usurp House Arryn. The message sowed chaos in the camp, just as Petyr had planned. He hoped the confusion would delay the king, giving him time to escape.
Two score of his men wore cloaks and garments identical to his own, and they scattered in different directions. Amid the disorder, Petyr aimed to slip away to the stables unnoticed. But before he could mount a horse, his party was surrounded by a hundred Northmen and Valemen, led by Galbert Glover and Ser Marwyn Belmore.
“Ser Marwyn. Master Glover,” Petyr greeted with an icy smile. “Though I would gladly indulge you both in why you block my path, I’m afraid time is short. Maester Colemon has sent a raven—Lord Arryn’s health has worsened. The stubborn little lord is asking for me. So, if you’d be so kind as to let us pass, I must reach the Eyrie immediately. Tell His Grace I beg forgiveness for missing his summons.”
Petyr’s eyes scanned the ring of steel, searching desperately for a gap, an opening—anything. This size of escort could mean only one thing: the king intended punishment, or worse, execution for his crimes against Sansa.
“It is grave news indeed, Lord Baelish,” Ser Marwyn said, his voice laced with irony. “If young Lord Arryn is calling for you, then I know a way faster than any horse. Come—let us go to His Grace and request that he take you to the Eyrie on his dragon. Dragons, after all, are much faster.”
He stepped forward with mock solemnity. Steel flashed as Petyr’s men drew their swords—but they were no match. The ferocity of the Northmen and the honor-bound resolve of the Vale crushed them in moments. Ser Marwyn, his blade slick with blood, leveled it at Petyr’s shoulder and motioned him forward.
Galbert Glover led them to the king’s gathering, where Daeron stood at the center, flanked by Northern and Vale lords. The Northern lords wore impassive masks, but the Vale lords were another matter: half glared at Baelish with open hatred, while the others looked furious to see him in chains.
“Aha! Lord Baelish,” said Daeron with mock warmth. “How generous of you to grace us with your presence.”
“I am your most loyal servant, Your Grace,” Petyr replied smoothly. “Whenever you call, I am but a command away. But may I ask why I was brought here in such a fashion?”
“Of course, you may,” Daeron said. “You were politely summoned, yet you fled. I wonder why. As if disobeying your king’s command wasn't enough, your men raised steel against those sent to escort you peacefully. So tell me, Lord Baelish—why commit treason upon treason?”
A ripple of confusion, then anger, passed through the assembled lords. Whispers turned to mutters, eyes turned to glares. None liked a traitor, and Petyr’s flight marked him plainly as one.
“You misunderstand my intentions, Your Grace. I—”
He was cut off by Lord Yohn Royce, who stepped forward and growled, “Forgive me, Your Grace, but can we dispense with this farce and begin the trial?”
The old lord’s words silenced any remaining doubt. The tension among the lords broke, replaced by fury. Some cursed Petyr’s name; a few spat in his direction.
Daeron sighed. “Very well, Lord Royce.”
He turned back to Baelish, his voice sharp with judgment.
“Lord Baelish, your crimes are too many to count—though I won’t pretend to know them all. But let us begin with what we do know. You stand accused of murdering your liege lord, Jon Arryn. As if killing one Lord Paramount was not enough, you and your scheming contributed to the death of my uncle, Lord Eddard Stark, as much as that bastard Joffrey Waters. You murdered Lady Lysa Arryn, pushing her from the Moon Door. And you sold Sansa Stark to the Boltons—knowing full well that her presence would give those monsters a claim to rule the North.”
Daeron’s voice rose. “Your crimes against House Stark alone are reason enough for your execution. And I have all the proof I need.”
The crowd erupted. Lords of both the North and the Mountains of the Moon clamored for blood. Some surged forward to strike Petyr themselves. By the time Daeron called for silence, Littlefinger’s cheek was red, and one of his eyes had begun to swell.
“And they call us ‘Wildlings’? Look at them now,” one of the Freefolk leaders guffawed, as another laughed beside him. Some lords looked embarrassed, but not all—several glared at the man who spoke.
“Need I call Caraxes to calm you all down?” Daeron asked, his tone grim and serious. Silence reigned, broken only by a glob of blood spat out by Petyr, who sat glaring at everyone in rage.
“Here is the letter from my cousin, Sansa Stark, detailing Petyr’s crimes against her and her aunt, Lysa Arryn.” With that, Daeron handed the letter bearing the seal of House Stark to Lady Mormont, who was standing beside him.
The parchment was passed among only a select few Northern and Vale lords—those trusted by their peers. Petyr glared at the letter and said,
“Would I even get a chance to prove my innocence? Wouldn’t be much of a trial if I were already found guilty and you all decide what should be done with me, would it?”
Daeron laughed at that. When his laughter faded, he asked,
“How would you prove your innocence? By claiming that my cousin, Sansa Stark, is falsely accusing you? What does she have to gain by lying about you, Lord Baelish?”
“Your Grace, though Lady Sansa may be your cousin, I’m not sure we can trust her word,” said Lord Brune, shaking his head and looking to the Vale lords for support. “It was she who once claimed her aunt committed suicide and called her a madwoman. Now she claims it was Lord Baelish who murdered her. That contradiction casts doubt, does it not?”
Only two lords nodded in agreement with Brune. The rest, remembering Baelish’s recent schemes, were not so easily swayed.
“Aye, I know it was she who supported Baelish’s lie about Lady Arryn’s death,” Daeron said, his voice rising with passion. “But she did not lie because it was true—she lied because the man who rescued her from the hell that was King’s Landing asked her to. A city where her father was declared a traitor and executed for standing with honor. Where she was tormented by Joffrey Waters, forced to marry a dwarf, then accused of a crime she did not commit.
“She believed all her family were dead, save a half-brother at the Wall. In her desperation, only one man helped her escape—Petyr Baelish. When that man killed her aunt and told her to lie, she obeyed. Not because she lacked honor, but because she had seen what honor had done to her father. And when honor would have meant death once more, she did what she had to.”
Daeron’s voice thundered in the end, and Lord Brune shrank beneath the fury of his king’s glare. Brune gave Baelish one last glance that seemed to say: I have done all I can.
The Northern and Vale lords turned now to King Daeron, awaiting the judgment he would pass on Petyr Baelish.
“Now, Lord Baelish, for all the crimes you have committed, I, King Daeron—”
“I demand trial by combat! Let the gods decide the fate of my life!” Baelish interrupted loudly.
“Very well, if that is your wish,” Daeron replied, already undoing the belt at his waist. He unsheathed Dark Sister from its scabbard, the Valyrian steel glinting in the light. “Who will be your champion, or will you fight yourself, Littlefinger?”
All the lords and lady now realized the truth: whoever Baelish named as champion, their opponent would be King Daeron himself. For them, the outcome was all but decided.
No one in the camp could match King Daeron in single combat—save perhaps the Sword of the Morning. When those two sparred, crowds gathered in awe to witness the deadly grace with which they danced. Arthur Dayne with his dual blades, Daeron with his peerless agility—it was a duel that sang in steel and storm, a sight worth remembering.
Baelish realized this as well. He turned to his fellow Vale knights, begging for a champion. None stepped forward. Instead, they cursed him for the murder of their liege, Lord Jon Arryn.
Seeing no help would come, and knowing he could not fight, Petyr Baelish dropped to his knees and begged for mercy.
He received none.
“Fetch me a block,” King Daeron commanded.
