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In the cave, the fire crackled.
Firelight threw their shadows against the rough stone wall.
Stretched. Distorted.
Like tangled ghosts.
Lysa Arryn slept deeply.
Like a baby finally returned to its mother's arms.
The fear, the betrayal, the killing , these past days had wrung her dry. Now, pillowed on Petyr's arm, breathing in the faint, familiar scent of spice on his robes, she had found a moment of peace.
But even dreams couldn't keep out that bone-deep terror.
The bloody hall at Riverrun.
Walder Frey's head rolling across the floor.
Lynn's face — the mask torn away, that wrong smile underneath.
Scene after scene, spinning like a lantern, flashing wild behind her closed eyes.
"No!"
Lysa jolted awake.
She tore free from the nightmare, her whole body drenched in cold sweat. Instinct made her grab the man beside her. The solid weight of him was the only thing that steadied her racing mind.
He was still here.
Petyr was still here.
By the faint firelight, she looked at his sleeping profile. Hungry for it.
That gaunt outline. That meticulously groomed goatee.
Exactly as she remembered.
But...
A thought crept out from the darkest corner of her heart, quiet as a knife.
Lynn had disguised himself as Ned Stark without effort. That face, that voice , seamless. Perfect.
So what about Petyr? Could he...
Once the thought surfaced, she couldn't push it back down.
Lysa's heart slammed against her ribs, almost clawing up her throat.
She looked at Petyr , the man she had loved her entire life , and for one terrible moment, he looked like something wearing human skin.
No. It couldn't be.
Petyr was sent by the gods to save her. He said so himself.
But... what if?
What if this was Lynn's trap? What if he'd lured her here just to drag it out , to torture her slowly until there was nothing left?
The more she thought, the worse it got. Her body started to shake, beyond her control.
She had to know.
She had to find out herself.
Lysa slowly loosened her grip. She evened out her breathing, feigning sleep. Listening. Petyr's breath was steady and long , deep under.
Now.
Her heart climbed into her throat.
Trembling, she reached out.
The same hand that had once pressed poison into her husband's cup, shaking now, badly.
Her fingertips moved with the care of someone handling the most precious, most fragile thing in the world. They settled on Petyr's cheek.
Warm. Real.
Her heart eased, just slightly.
But it wasn't enough.
Her fingers traced along his jawline, slow and careful, working upward. Chin. Behind the ear. The hairline.
These were the places a flesh mask would betray itself. The seams. The edges. The faint tackiness of glue.
She felt for every one of them.
Nothing.
There was nothing.
The skin felt exactly right for a man his age. She could even feel the subtle rise and fall of muscle beneath it, moving with each breath.
This was not a mask.
This was absolutely not a mask.
No matter how skilled Lynn was, he couldn't fake this.
What she didn't know was that Lynn's masks had long since surpassed simple likeness. Height, weight, every last detail , reproduced perfectly, like a living copy. If he wanted, he could walk around wearing Cersei's face.
But Lysa didn't know that.
She let out a long, slow breath.
She'd been scaring herself. That devil Lynn had gotten into her head and broken her.
Guilt crashed over her in a wave.
How could she doubt Petyr? This man who had crawled back from hell for her sake?
She deserved to die a thousand deaths.
She was already pulling her hand back, already beginning to repent, when —
In the darkness, a pair of eyes opened.
No warning. No sound.
Those gray-green eyes looked up at her from the firelight, still and quiet as two deep pools.
Lysa's body locked up. Her blood went cold.
He was awake.
When had he woken up?
Had he seen?
What did he think?
Her mind went blank. A hundred thoughts tore through her at once and left nothing behind but pure, helpless panic.
"I... I..."
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Petyr didn't speak. He only looked at her with those deep, unreadable eyes.
No anger. No accusation.
Just a faint, knowing amusement , the look of a man who understood everything and found it quietly entertaining.
That look made it worse. So much worse.
She couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't admit she'd been checking whether he was real. That would shatter him. It would ruin everything between them.
Desperate, she seized the only excuse available , absurd, she knew it even as it left her mouth, but the only one that could possibly work.
"I... want you..."
Barely a whisper. Her face went scarlet.
The moment it was out, she wanted to sink through the floor.
But the silence she'd braced for never came.
Littlefinger smiled.
The same smile she remembered. A little wicked, a little knowing , and underneath it, something soft that had always been hers alone.
He didn't call her out. Didn't ask a single question.
He simply reached out, drew her in, and bent down to kiss her cold, trembling lips.
"My little Lysa."
His voice was low and rough, right at her ear.
"We haven't done this in a very long time."
"The last time was when Lord Arryn was asleep, and we slipped into the next room..."
It was like a key turning in a lock.
If he were an imposter, how could he know that? How could anyone know that?
Petyr was real. He was undeniably, completely real.
The familiar scent. The familiar weight. The familiar touch.
Everything — exactly as it had been on those stolen nights, years ago.
The last tension in Lysa's chest finally let go.
Yes.
This was him.
This was her Petyr.
That devil Lynn could copy his face. He could copy his voice. But he could never copy what existed only between the two of them , that wordless understanding, that particular tenderness.
The last trace of doubt shattered.
Lysa stopped holding back. Stopped feeling ashamed.
She responded like a drowning woman reaching for air, pouring everything she had into him , this man she had lost and found again.
The firelight in the cave slowly dimmed, until only scattered embers remained, glowing and fading in the dark.
Clothes fell away. Skin found skin.
Lysa felt herself dissolve , melting into something warm and liquid, like still water in spring.
She let go completely. She cried out. Every year of longing, every grievance, every buried want , she poured it all out, holding nothing back.
She felt herself lifted again and again.
Every collision was proof: he was real.
Every breath was a declaration: this love was eternal.
...
Time passed. The storm settled.
Lysa lay curled against Petyr like a drowsy cat, her face still flushed, a deep satisfaction settled in her bones.
She felt newborn.
The pleasure had scoured away every last trace of exhaustion and fear.
She was certain now. Two hundred percent certain. He was her Petyr.
"Petyr..."
She nuzzled against his chest, her voice low and rough with contentment.
"When we get Robert back, we'll never be apart again. Alright?"
"Alright."
He stroked her back slowly, his touch gentle enough to ache.
"We leave at first light."
"To the Eyrie. To bring our son home."
His voice was the softest thing she had ever heard.
Lysa closed her eyes, full of a future she could finally believe in, and drifted down into sleep.
This time, there were no nightmares.
➤ Next: Where the Interests Lie