Every eye in the chamber turned toward Littlefinger.
Petyr Baelish—the man who had once commanded the Crown's treasury and counted kings among his debtors.
In truth, he possessed nothing more than a minor house with scarce reputation, descended from sellswords who had crossed the Narrow Sea in search of fortune. His meteoric rise through the ranks of court had surprised and rankled many who considered themselves his betters.
Through his peculiar relationship with Lady Lysa, the upstart Littlefinger had somehow deceived Lord Jon Arryn himself, winning the Hand's trust and favor. By constantly flattering King Robert and displaying his gift for clever schemes and financial trickery, he had clawed his way to the very pinnacle of power—Master of Coin to the Iron Throne.
Him? What virtue or ability had Littlefinger ever possessed beyond a serpent's tongue and a gift for counting coppers?
Fortunately, his true nature had been exposed at last.
Wielding the authority of his high office, Littlefinger had manipulated trade, profiting from the rise and fall of commodity prices, issuing loans at ruinous interest while common merchants and smallfolk suffered. How could such a greedy creature resist the lure of the royal treasury itself?
Under Littlefinger's stewardship, none could fathom the true state of the Crown's finances. The only certainty was that King Robert's every extravagance had been satisfied—and the king had even contemplated granting his Master of Coin still greater authority over the realm's wealth.
How many gold dragons remained in the royal vaults? Only Littlefinger had known the true answer.
Some lords suspected he was not the miser he appeared, hoarding every coin like a dragon guards its hoard. In truth, most of Littlefinger's gold had likely gone toward purchasing loyalty and information.
Throughout the Red Keep, King's Landing, and all the Seven Kingdoms, the eyes that Littlefinger's gold had bought proved as troublesome as Varys's little birds—a network of whispers and secrets that made honest men uneasy.
Yet King Robert and Lord Jon Arryn had remained blind to his machinations, continuing to trust him year after year.
For so long had this farce continued.
Littlefinger and the Spider had worked in concert, filling the court with base flatterers and corrupt schemers until the very air reeked of dishonor. Righteous men had watched in despair as the realm's governance rotted from within.
At last, the treacherous spider had received his due punishment.
King Robert had signed a secret decree during his final journey, ordering the arrest of both Littlefinger and Varys. The two villains had fallen together like rotten fruit from a poisoned tree.
Countless lords and honest men had celebrated their downfall.
Though the terrible punishment that followed—reducing proud men to helpless stumps—had proven frightening in its brutality, people had optimistically believed the court's atmosphere might finally improve.
Yet fate had other plans.
Before King Robert could even glimpse King's Landing's towers again, he had been slain by a lizard-lion that emerged from the Neck's treacherous waters. Men whispered that Bloodraven himself had worked this sorcery from beyond the Wall, using dark magic to poison the realm's rightful king.
Bloodraven? Brynden Rivers still drew breath? Could witchcraft truly reach across such distances?
Prince Joffrey had ascended the Iron Throne and confirmed Bloodraven's continued existence during the great trial in the throne room. Suddenly Littlefinger and Varys's crimes seemed less black-and-white, their lives spared by royal mercy.
Was such the truth of it?
The return of the Children of the Forest had provided the strongest evidence, leaving none room to doubt the reality of magic in the world.
After that revelation, the realm had grown stranger still.
King Joffrey had displayed miracles during his coronation, bestowing divine power upon his servants and creating communication networks that defied all understanding. Through these magical screens, Littlefinger had been reborn—not in flesh, but in light and crystal.
Many had heard his voice and seen his name appear once more.
Yet this time, Littlefinger bore no grand title of Master of Coin, serving instead as a mere clerk—temporary and unremarkable.
Most had found satisfaction in this reduction of his station. Seeing the proud Littlefinger brought so low had pleased many who remembered his arrogance.
But now...
Here stood Littlefinger in the flesh, whole and hale, every limb restored as though his mutilation had been nothing more than a bad dream.
Lord Corentin Vance of Wayfarer's Rest spoke with faint disdain. "Petyr, now that even your ancestral seat has been stripped away for your crimes, what should we call you?"
Every face turned toward the man who had once commanded kingdoms through whispers and gold.
The King had spared his life—that much was clear. But what purpose had brought him here? More importantly, having lost both his title of Master of Coin and his lordship, by what right did he participate in these war councils? What authority granted him the privilege to question his betters?
Littlefinger sighed softly, the sound carrying echoes of old sorrows.
"Lord Vance, as in the days of Riverrun, you may simply call me 'Little Petyr.'"
"After your foolish pursuit of Lady Catelyn? After your duel with Brandon?" Lord Vance's grunt carried decades of disdain. "Perhaps it's best to forget the past and begin anew."
"No," Littlefinger replied, genuine sadness flickering across his restored features. "I cannot forget, nor do I wish to."
Lord Clement Piper of Pinkmaiden Castle laughed coldly. "Such sincere expressions, so very touching. Spare us your theatrics, Littlefinger. We all know what manner of man lurks beneath that mask."
Littlefinger blinked once, his eyes regaining their customary calm. "Lord Piper, in this matter at least, I speak no falsehoods."
Another lord opened his mouth to continue the attack, but the Blackfish finally broke his silence.
"I hold a different view."
All eyes turned immediately toward Ser Brynden Tully.
The Knight of the Bloody Gate glanced briefly at Littlefinger—a look unnoticed by all save its target, who understood that the Blackfish remembered their shared history.
"We possess overwhelming advantage in this engagement."
Brynden Tully's voice carried the authority of decades spent in warfare. "Mercy and victory need not stand opposed. Rather than deploying our cannons, we should launch a night raid—strike directly at the enemy encampment, subdue these rebels with minimal cost in blood, and claim them for our own purposes."
The Blackfish fixed his gaze upon Ser Jaime Lannister. "I believe you have made the necessary preparations?"
"The gods smile upon our cause," Jaime replied.
Lord Ryger Rivers of Duskendale raised a tentative objection. "Should we not first send envoys demanding surrender? Would success not prove preferable to battle?"
The suggestion sparked immediate anger among the assembled lords, who cast dark glances in his direction.
Had they not come to Stone Hedge precisely to win glory through combat? To accept surrender without drawing sword would rob them of the very prize they sought.
Fortunately, the Blackfish remained unmoved by such appeals. "We must not alert the rebels to our presence, allowing them time to prepare proper defenses. Rather than risk failure through negotiation, direct action serves us better. If fortune favors us, this matter could be concluded before tomorrow's dawn."
Ser Jaime Lannister surveyed the assembled commanders. "Does any man present hold different counsel?"
Silence answered him.
Jaime turned toward his uncle. "Lord Kevan, what think you?"
Ser Kevan Lannister had maintained his silence throughout the debate, but now he offered a firm nod—granting his nephew both trust and support without reservation.
Clearly, the two generals appointed by His Grace had already distinguished their respective roles in this campaign.
"Then so be it."
Jaime clenched his fist with decision. "We adopt the second plan. The night raid proceeds."
Every commander knew the general outline of this strategy.
"Grant me the honor of leading the vanguard!" Ser Addam Marbrand volunteered first, his voice ringing with passion and barely contained eagerness.
Littlefinger observed in silence.
Addam Marbrand, with his distinctive copper-dark hair, continued pressing his case, guaranteeing to complete any mission with distinction and honor.
Littlefinger knew him well—heir to Ashemark in the Westerlands, one of Lord Tywin's most valued cavalry commanders. More importantly, Addam had served as a page in Casterly Rock during his youth and remained among Jaime Lannister's closest friends.
Seeing that Jaime appeared ready to grant this request, the younger lords could contain themselves no longer.
"Ser Jaime, I beg you—send me into battle!"
Ser Corentin Vance, heir to Wayfarer's Rest, spoke with desperate urgency.
"If I lead the vanguard, I swear to capture Ser Jon Fossoway alive!" Ser Marq Piper, heir to Pinkmaiden Castle, pressed his own claim with bold promises, setting his sights directly upon the enemy commander.
"My lord, I—"
Jaime laughed heartily, though inwardly he sighed at their enthusiasm. These men of the Vale and Riverlands had been blinded by visions of glory and triumph.
This time, the Blackfish would not be able to escape the role fate had prepared for him.