Lord Baelish had spent the evening indulging in pleasures of Silk Street with a delight only he could fully appreciate. The women's performances, their artful dances and seductive motions, had captured his attention completely, and for a few hours, all the troubles of King's Landing seemed distant, insignificant.
Yet, in the early hours of the night, a sharp, cold sensation against his throat tore him from the comfort of sleep.
A dagger pressed firmly against his skin, the chill biting deep enough to make him inhale sharply. For a moment, Lord Baelish froze, calculating every possibility. Then, as if on instinct, he composed himself. The man who had clawed his way from obscurity to the heights of power knew better than to panic, even in the face of death.
"Relax, my friend," came a low, harsh voice.
Baelish's mind raced as he considered who could have infiltrated his private chambers. Yet outwardly, he smiled politely, hiding the thrum of terror in his chest. "If it's money you seek…" he began, his tone calm, "there is a chest in the wall compartment, containing no less than five thousand Gold Dragons. That sum would be enough for you to live comfortably for several lifetimes, anywhere."
The reply came, cold and rasping, chilling him to the bone:
"Money is useless to me, Lord Baelish. Come with me. My master requests your presence."
The pressure of the dagger eased slightly, allowing Baelish a tentative movement of his stiff neck. He squinted through the dim moonlight to glimpse the figure before him, but the hood concealed the face entirely. "Don't waste your effort," the voice warned. "If I do not wish it, you will never see my face clearly."
Fear rooted Baelish to the spot, and he obediently dressed, slipping on his shoes in silence. Outside, the streets of King's Landing lay empty under the veil of night, shadows stretching long and dark along narrow alleys. Guided by the unseen captor, Baelish walked swiftly, each step measured, his mind working frantically to discern the intentions behind this midnight summons. The cold steel at his side reminded him to stay silent. One word wrong, one misstep, and the sharp edge would make his life end abruptly.
After what felt like hours but could have been minutes, the sound of waves became audible. A lantern glimmered faintly in the distance. A figure stood waiting by the sea, calm and unhurried.
"I have brought the man as you commanded, Master," the hooded captor announced.
Baelish froze, his pulse racing. As they approached the figure, the sensation of the dagger vanished—an odd reprieve that did little to ease his tension. He realized, to his horror, that escape was impossible.
"Well done, Pyke."
The voice was unmistakable. Baelish stepped forward, the lantern's glow revealing a sight that made him tremble with disbelief. Golden hair, now streaked with white, caught the light as he finally recognized the figure before him.
"Arthas… it's… you!" Baelish's voice faltered in awe and fear.
A finger pressed gently to lips. "Shh," Arthas whispered, the smile playing across his features almost cruel in its serenity. "Keep your voice down. Or the sea might decide your fate before I do."
The sudden transformation of the young Lannister, once gentle and noble, now sinister and cold, sent a shiver through Baelish. This was no longer the kind-hearted prince he remembered; this was something far more dangerous.
"I'll raise the money in a few days! There's no need to bring me here in the dead of night," Baelish stammered, his teeth chattering despite his efforts to sound composed. He clutched at the familiar threads of logic: perhaps Arthas was here for gold, nothing more.
But Arthas's next act shattered that hope.
With a sudden motion, a human-shaped object was thrown at Baelish's feet. Hesitant, he approached—and his heart froze. The face of Yarn Snow, lifeless, lay at his feet.
"This fellow betrayed you, Lord Baelish," Arthas's voice cut through the night like ice. "He tried to bribe my brother with thirty thousand Gold Dragons, hoping to expose your corruption to the King. But he forgot: the Lannisters are not short of money. Foolish, indeed."
Baelish's mind reeled. The implications were immediate and terrifying. "Thank you, Lord Arthas," he murmured, voice shaking. "Traitors deserve punishment… and thanks to your intervention, I would have remained blind to this treachery. I assure you, I have already sent letters to the Vale and will repay all debts owed to Lord Tyrion!"
Arthas's cold hand rested on his shoulder, a touch that burned as though fire ran through it. "The Lannisters are not short of money. Your memory seems… weak."
Baelish felt his spine stiffen, as if frozen in ice. Tears pricked his eyes, though he forced them back. He could feel his soul bending under Arthas's gaze, every nerve taut with fear. "Take whatever you wish, Lord Arthas… only spare my life…"
Arthas's voice was steady, final, like the tolling of a bell over a battlefield:
"You said it yourself: traitors should be punished. Then… what punishment does one who betrays the kingdom deserve?"
Baelish attempted to evade, feigning ignorance, but the devil's whisper carried directly to his mind. "Tears of Lys," Arthas murmured softly, and the shiver that ran through Baelish was unlike any he had known, touching the deepest corners of his soul.
With trembling hands, Baelish confessed. "Yes… that damned Yarn… I knew he could not be trusted. Yes, the death of Jon Arryn… it was caused by me. But Lord Arthas… the Lannisters are also involved."
Arthas's eyes gleamed with certainty. "Do not think your clumsy methods can threaten me. Your time here is brief, Baelish. I can guarantee that before Robert discovers Joffrey's lineage, your body—and soul—will vanish from Westeros forever."
A parchment was tossed at Baelish's feet. He bent to read, eyes scanning with desperate haste:
"Gambling at the tourney was a grievous mistake.
After losing one million, one hundred sixty thousand Gold Dragons to Lord Tyrion, I am bankrupt.
A bankrupt person cannot remain Master of Coin.
Lord Tyrion, of House Lannister, shall manage the kingdom's wealth more wisely.
Leave King's Landing immediately. Your life is spared tonight."
The small boat waiting at the dock came into view, gently rocking on the tide. The enormity of the ultimatum sank in, and Baelish, trembling with a mixture of relief and fury, snatched a pen and signed, muttering under his breath, "So… this is your goal: the position of Master of Coin."
Arthas's patience had limits. "Pyke, see that Lord Baelish leaves."
A dagger sliced through the air behind Baelish, reminding him that even a second's hesitation could be fatal. He ducked, broke into a cold sweat, and hurried to comply.
The small boat departed silently into the night, carrying the Master of Coin away from King's Landing and the throne he had served, leaving only a legend behind—the first whisperings of the Bloodharbor Ghost, a shadow moving silently in the dead of night, punishing traitors and shaping the fates of kings and merchants alike.
"Follow him, Pyke," Arthas commanded, his voice carrying the authority of the grave. The aura of death surrounding his loyal companion drifted toward the small boat, a warning that life, even when spared, would always remain fragile under the shadow of the Death Knight.
And so began the legend of the Bloodharbor Ghost. In the streets and alleys of King's Landing, in the whispers of merchants and sailors, and in the quiet, fearful hearts of the city's elite, his name would echo—silent, unseen, and unstoppable.