The Lonely Mountain holdings.
At the docks of the Last River, several merchant ships were moored, loading and unloading cargo.
On the mast of one of them flew a black banner—House Baratheon's crowned stag, proud and charging across its field.
There was no doubt about it: this ship had come from King's Landing.
"Boss! There's a noble lord outside looking for you!" a dock porter shouted.
Francis, the dock foreman, stumbled out of his room reeking of drink and bellowed impatiently, "Which lord?"
"No idea. He didn't say."
"If he didn't say, you couldn't just look for yourself, you damn idiot?"
"But I've never seen the sigil on him—how would I know?" the porter protested.
Francis frowned, muttered a few curses under his breath, yet did not dare delay. He swayed his way outside.
And then he saw the "lord" the porter meant—
A lean, middle-aged man. Handsome, composed, refined.
He had dark hair threaded with a touch of gray-white. His gray-green eyes looked as though they could see straight through a man's heart. A small, carefully groomed goatee on his chin only emphasized the scholar's elegance of his bearing.
A dark gray silk cloak was fastened with a mockingbird-shaped clasp.
Anyone versed in heraldry would know it at once: the personal sigil of the realm's Master of Coin—"Littlefinger," Petyr Baelish.
…
"My lord, what can I do for you?" Francis stepped forward, already wearing a wide smile.
He could not tell which great house the man belonged to, but nobility radiated from him in waves.
And Francis, who had traveled far and wide for years, would wager everything he owned on one thing: this man came from a powerful family.
That aura of a major figure could not be faked.
Petyr flicked a silver stag into the air. Before Francis could even thank him, Petyr asked, "You're in charge of these docks?"
"Yes, my lord. What do you command?" Francis answered cautiously.
Petyr's lips curved slightly. "Simple. Tell me what's been happening here…"
…
From Francis, Petyr learned this:
Three years ago, these highlands had been entirely forest, with only a scattering of fishermen settled along the riverbank where the current ran hard and deep into the sea.
Then the heir of House Bolton, Domeric Bolton, arrived—and discovered rich mineral deposits.
After that, he brought masons, carpenters, miners, and smiths from the Dreadfort… and on the highest hilltops he raised factory after factory. From afar you could see a dozen thick chimneys stabbing into the sky, belching rolling smoke and flame.
Now, everything within Petyr's sight had become a thriving living district—houses, pavilions, granaries, brick warehouses, timber inns, market stalls, taverns and brothels, one after another…
Even from this distance, Littlefinger could hear the clamor of the market.
A dozen docks lined the water's edge. Countless cargo ships filled the harbor, coming and going along the Last River without pause.
They came from all across the Seven Kingdoms—from the Wall in the far north to Dorne's red mountains in the far south—and even from across the Narrow Sea: Braavos, Pentos, and Lys…
Lookouts atop the ships shouted down from the rigging. Sailors ran back and forth across the decks. Every vessel was caught in a fever of activity.
Those merchantmen carried away fine iron goods in an endless stream, and in exchange unloaded all manner of living supplies.
At the center of the docks stood a massive, cold keep-tower—sealed bridges, heavy walls bristling with arrow slits, and watchtowers set every few dozen feet.
Fully armed soldiers patrolled along the ramparts, watching all approaches.
…
"My lord, I've already sent word for the lord of this place to come receive us," said a young man in the crown's uniform as he stepped up behind Petyr.
He was a tax officer from King's Landing—Bryen Baelish, Petyr's distant kin.
Petyr raised a hand and pointed toward the distance, then asked abruptly, "Bryen—what do you make of this holding?"
"It doesn't even have a proper castle, and the docks are nowhere near King's Landing," Bryen said with a contemptuous sneer.
"A holding's prosperity is not measured by the size of its castle. And as for comparing it to King's Landing—try using your brain when you speak, will you?"
Petyr was disappointed in his kinsman. He regretted promoting him into the tax office.
Unfortunately, House Baelish was thin-blooded and small; Littlefinger had very few capable men to use.
"Did you notice what is truly special about this place?" Petyr asked.
"Uh… not really." The young taxman looked blank.
"Did you see it?" Petyr said softly. "Every man here has light in his eyes."
Petyr sounded almost moved. "Do you know what that means?"
"I… don't?" Bryen replied, still lost.
"It means hope—hope for the future.
Three years ago, this place was bare and barren, without even a respectable pier…
And now, the iron trade here accounts for half the iron trade of all Westeros.
To be frank, even I find myself admiring Ser Domeric.
If I were lord here, I might not achieve as much."
Petyr's voice was thick, low, slightly hoarse—carrying a peculiar magnetism that made men believe him without realizing it.
Bryen looked surprised. "Ser Domeric may be impressive, but how could he compare to you?"
Petyr shook his head, unhurried. "I begged Lord Arryn for the post of Gulltown's tax officer, and within three years, increased that town's revenues tenfold.
And Ser Domeric—he took a handful of ignored veins of ore and carved out a domain here in the depths of the Lonely Mountain, drawing in more than a hundred thousand people.
So yes—he hasn't even finished building his castle yet. But I believe the future of this holding will be beyond imagining."
…
Just then, a sudden commotion rose from the docks.
Following the noise, Petyr saw a plume of dust rising in the distance.
A tall banner was raised, its sigil the red flayed man on a pale field.
Dozens of riders thundered in. They wore black iron armor, tall and broad-shouldered, faces set and expressionless—like statues carved from stone.
At their center rode a handsome, towering knight, black hair streaming in the wind.
"Which of you is the king's minister from King's Landing?" Domeric called out.
"I am."
Petyr stepped forward, lacking the haughty airs of most highborn men. "Ser Domeric, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am the Master of Coin from King's Landing—Petyr Baelish."
Petyr Baelish?!
Domeric made no effort to hide the shock in his eyes. Of course he knew the infamous "Littlefinger."
Petyr had been born to a tiny house with no influence, and he had spent his entire life clawing upward from his low station—hungering for power and rank, determined to become someone great.
He possessed an inborn talent for money and trade, and in plots and schemes he was a master without equal.
And greater still than his brilliance was his ambition.
A top-tier player in the game of thrones—an ambitious man, a strategist who believed that chaos was a ladder.
And now he had come to Domeric's lands.
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