She wants her son alive, or the men who killed him dead. She wants to feed the crows, like they did at the Red Wedding. Freys and Boltons, aye. We’ll give her those, as many as she likes.
“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”
He does not love me, will never love me, but he will make use of me. Well and good.
▧ A Scene You Want to See On the Show: ASOS Ch. 80
Littlefinger let Lysa sob against his chest for a moment, then put his hands on her arms and kissed her lightly.
“My sweet silly jealous wife,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve only loved one woman, I promise you.”
Lysa Arryn smiled tremulously. “Only one? Oh, Petyr, do you swear it? Only one?”
“Only Cat.” He gave her a short, sharp shove.
“Or should I call you the King Who Lost the North, Your Grace?”
[Braavos] At the top she found a set of carved wooden doors twelve feet high. The left-hand door was made of weirwood pale as bone, the right of gleaming ebony. In their center was a carved moon face; ebony on the weirwood side, weirwood on the ebony. The look of it reminded her somehow of the heart tree in the godswood at Winterfell.
A trestle table had been set up across the cave, in a cleft in the rock. Behind it sat a woman all in grey, cloaked and hooded. In her hands was a crown, a bronze circlet ringed by iron swords. She was studying it, her fingers stroking the blades as if to test their sharpness. Her eyes glimmered under her hood.