Petyr Baelish had expected to be received in the marble palaces of Myr, but the customs officers at the port had redirected him. The "Regent," they said, awaited him at the Wolf's Den, the newly built heart of the Disputed Lands.
As Littlefinger's litter moved toward the fortress, he felt a flicker of ancient unease. The name "Wolf" still tasted like blood and failure in his mouth, a reminder of the day Brandon Stark had nearly cut him in two for the love of Catelyn Tully.
At the gates of the Den, he was met by a man who looked like he was carved from Northern granite. Ser Jorah Mormont wore grey-and-white boiled leather, the black bear of his house embroidered over his heart.
"Lord Baelish," Jorah said, his voice a low rumble. "The Regent is expecting you. It seems the Iron Throne has sent its finest storyteller."
"Ser Jorah! I remember your heroics at Pyke," Littlefinger replied with a practiced, oily smile. "It's a pity to see such a knight reduced to a harbor master."
Jorah's eyes narrowed. He knew Baelish's history—the duel with Brandon, the ascent through Lysa Arryn's bed. He saw the "Mockingbird" for what he was: a parasite in silk. "I am the Marshal of the Port, Petyr. And I serve a man who values steel over silver."
The Regent's tent was a temple to discipline. There were no silken divans or golden carafes. Instead, there was an iron warhammer leaning against the center pole and a massive steel shield etched with the likeness of a jagged iron mask.
Gendry stood in the center of the pavilion. Littlefinger's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. The resemblance to Renly was uncanny—the same raven hair and sharp features—but the build was different. Gendry was broader, his arms corded with the muscle of a smith, his presence radiating the explosive power of a young Robert Baratheon.
"I am Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin and humble messenger of the Iron Throne," Littlefinger said, bowing low. He wore a heavy wool cloak fastened with a silver mockingbird pin. "I bring gold, fine wine, and a father's affection for a lost son."
"I have my own gold, Petyr," Gendry said, his voice cold. "And Myr produces better wine than the King's cellars. Tell me what Robert really wants."
"The King is generous," Littlefinger purred. "He offers you a lordship on the Blackwater, near the capital. He will grant you a name and a seat in the court. All he asks in return is the custody of the Targaryen exiles. You needn't give up both; give us one, and your path to legitimacy is cleared."
A roar of laughter erupted from the officers in the tent. To a man who ruled three cities and commanded a fleet of three hundred ships, a minor lordship on the Blackwater was not a reward; it was an insult.
"The Iron Throne offers me a cage and calls it a castle," Gendry said, his laughter dying into a dangerous silence. "I think I prefer the open air of the Disputed Lands."
"Perhaps you require a more... persuasive demonstration of my hospitality," Gendry said.
Before Littlefinger could protest, Jorah Mormont's heavy hand closed around his collar. Baelish's guards—men of the Gold Cloaks—were instantly disarmed by the silent Unsullied standing outside.
Littlefinger was dragged to the edge of the camp, where the three massive Myrish trebuchets loomed like skeletal giants. The soldiers were already winching back the arm of the machine they called The Lady of Myr.
"Wait! I am an envoy! This is a violation of the laws of hospitality!" Littlefinger shrieked as they bound him to a wooden frame near the counterweight.
"Here, we follow the laws of the Hammer," Jorah said, his face a mask of cold satisfaction.
The trebuchet groaned, the tension in the ropes sounding like the snapping of bone. Littlefinger felt his stomach drop. He was a man of words and shadow; the prospect of being reduced to a spray of red mist against the walls of Myr was a terror he had never planned for.
"Stop! I have news!" Baelish screamed, his voice breaking. "News that is worth more than any bribe!"
Gendry raised a hand, and the winches went silent. He walked over to the bound Littlefinger, his blue eyes cold as ice.
"Jon Arryn is dying," Littlefinger gasped, tears and sweat streaming down his face. "He has been poisoned, or his age has finally caught up with him. Either way, the Hand is falling, and the Red Keep will be a den of lions and wolves before the moon turns. That is my gift to you, Regent. Now, for the love of the gods, let me down!"
Gendry looked at the shivering man. The death of Jon Arryn meant the death of the only stability Westeros had left. The "Great Game" was beginning in earnest.
"You're a loyal subject, Petyr," Gendry whispered, a ghost of a smile appearing beneath his mask. "Loyal to the highest bidder. Go back to your King. Tell him the Wolf is watching. And tell him that when I cross the Narrow Sea, I won't be coming for a lordship. I'll be coming for the forge."
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