Littlefinger watched the eunuch's bulky figure disappear into the darkness before finally letting out a slow breath. Only in the hidden corners of a brothel, only on his own ground, did he feel even the faintest sense of safety.
Varys had been entrenched in King's Landing for far too long. Who knew where the Spider's little birds were hiding? The constant sense of being watched was unbearable. Still, there was one reassuring fact: Varys, too, hungered for chaos.
The "children" born of the lion's adultery were no true stags. The secret Old Jon had only uncovered at the very end could never have escaped Varys's notice. Yet the sly fat man had never spoken of it, pretending to see nothing, hear nothing.
Varys would toss the king and the Hand a careful mix of truths and falsehoods, proof of his loyalty and usefulness. But the true powder keg of King's Landing? Not a word.
"Varys cannot be trusted," Littlefinger thought. In a way, they occupied the same niche.
Both he and the Spider were amiable, ever-smiling, seeming capable of befriending anyone. Both were born without pedigree or powerful houses behind them. No vassal lords, no ancient castles, no ancestral lands to shield them. They survived on royal favor alone. Littlefinger's strength lay in his dazzling financial tricks; Varys's lay in intelligence.
And precisely because they were so alike, Littlefinger trusted him least of all. He had no idea what Varys ultimately wanted, just as Varys could not fully see through him. But that hardly mattered. When it came to sowing trouble across the Seven Kingdoms, Varys would still play his part.
"Eddard is coming as well."
The name conjured that long, careworn face, shadowed by a perpetual melancholy.
"Poor Eddard. You are more Arryn than Stark. As High as Honor. As High as Honor~," Littlefinger murmured. "But in this game, you are either a player or a piece."
It was a fine motto. It was Old Jon's rigid devotion to honor, and his patronage, that had given Littlefinger the courage to grow bolder with each step. Had he faced a true Stark like Cregan, the Wolf of Winterfell, he might have gone to meet the Stranger long ago.
Littlefinger lifted his green velvet garment slightly, revealing the ugly scar that ran across his chest and abdomen. The healed flesh twisted like a crawling centipede. A "gift" from the "Wild Wolf" Brandon, one that had never left him.
Years ago, Petyr had challenged the much older Brandon to a duel for Catelyn. Brandon won with ease, and only at Catelyn's plea spared Baelish's life. From that day on, Catelyn never spoke to him again. After Brandon's death, every letter Petyr sent her was burned unread.
Littlefinger would never forget the look in Brandon's eyes: contempt, naked and undisguised. Brandon had not killed him, but he had left him trapped in that moment forever.
"The North remembers. And so do I."
Whenever his gaze fell on that scar, he felt his path forward sharpen. Those who had humiliated him. Those who had scorned him.
"The Starks did not kill me. Then I will spend the rest of my life taking my revenge on this ugly world. I will climb. I will climb to the very top."
Ambition burned through him like fire. He could not let it go. And now, there was no turning back.
The Four Keepers of the Keys were all his men. The King's Counter, the King's Scales, even the Officers in Charge of Mints had all been appointed at his recommendation. Beyond them, the Harbormasters, Tax Farmers, Customs Sergeants, Toll Collectors, Pursers, and Wine Factors—nine out of ten answered to him. Most came from backgrounds much like his own: sons of merchants, minor nobles, and foreigners.
Yet he was still not satisfied. The position of Master of Coin seemed, for the moment, to be his limit. Only a new opportunity, new chaos, could open the way to something higher.
"Tywin, Renly, Stannis, Eddard, and that half-dead Kraken. They believe themselves the true rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, great men of consequence. Yet they fail to see who sets wars in motion. It is small men like me who push them forward."
Littlefinger had always watched the realm with care. The Baratheon dynasty itself was unstable, and the king was a bastard who cared for nothing but hunting, tourneys, and fine wine and feasts.
The direwolves and the lions were at odds. The brothers of House Baratheon were at odds. The sun was dissatisfied, the rose was dissatisfied, and the Kraken was dissatisfied. And once Old Jon was removed, the situation in King's Landing would spiral completely out of control. The thought left Littlefinger quietly pleased.
"Right. I must not forget the new opponent who has appeared on the board."
His eyes lit up as he recalled the king across the Narrow Sea. Once chaos erupted, they would surely be eager to join in.
He thought of the enormous, towering catapults across the Narrow Sea. The king's bastard had once threatened him with them. The boy was wild and strong, and at times he reminded Littlefinger of the long-dead Brandon, that same warrior's menace.
But what of it? In Littlefinger's eyes, the boy could never master this game. His show of strength and cold resolve only proved how young he still was. Once Volantis and Lys made their move, the lad would be too busy saving himself.
Just then, there came another knock at the door.
"May I come in, my lord?"
"Come in."
Littlefinger recognized the voice. It was the free knight he had recently taken into his service. Lothor Brune looked utterly ordinary: gray hair, a flattened nose, a square jaw. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, but otherwise unremarkable.
Littlefinger knew lineage and martial strength were his weaknesses. Even so, he never hesitated to use gold to draw capable men to his side.
Lothor wore patched brown riding breeches and a weather-beaten leather jerkin. Only his boots looked as though they were worth a few coins.
"How is the gold?" Littlefinger asked with a teasing smile.
He was short and of average build, though his features were pleasing enough. His eyes were gray-green, a small tuft of beard clung to his chin, and streaks of gray ran through his dark hair.
He knew he was no radiant youth like Rhaegar, Robert, or Brandon had once been. So he relied instead on a gentle smile and an unassuming manner to make others lower their guard.
"Very good," Lothor Brune replied in a dull voice.
"Then why not buy yourself better clothes?" Littlefinger asked.
"I am used to these," Lothor answered, expression unchanged.
"So long as you are loyal to me, there will be better and more gold." Littlefinger's smile widened. He liked men like this. Middle-aged, plain-faced, calm and silent, loyal enough, and skilled with a blade.
"As you command, my lord. I only want gold," Lothor said coolly.
"I heard you were once a distant kinsman of House Brune?"
"Not after they threw dung on me. My faith is gold. And everyone knows you are one of the wealthiest men in King's Landing."
"Good. I appreciate such loyalty."
Varys's power came from intelligence. His own came from gold. A fallen sellsword who believed in nothing but coin suited him perfectly.
"You will attend me directly. Soon there will be a grand tournament in King's Landing. Enter as you normally would. If you win, the prize money is yours."
"Yes, my lord."
Each reply grew shorter than the last.
Littlefinger was satisfied with his new subordinate, though he did not fully trust him. He had other men as well, and he would set them to watching one another.
...
Across the Narrow Sea, in the courtyard of the Wolf's Den, rows of archers were drilling.
Gray-white wolf banners snapped in the wind like outstretched wings.
"Nock! Draw!"
"Loose!" Black Billy shouted.
The fletcher watched the soldiers with keen interest. Longbowmen were indispensable on any land battlefield.
The soldiers loosed arrow after arrow at the targets, the sharp whistle of shafts cutting through the air without pause.
...