"By the Seven, what is going on now?"
King Robert Baratheon's usually drooping eyes snapped open with the force of thunder. He had been lounging on the Iron Throne, half-asleep, nursing the remnants of a late-night feast and the lingering haze of wine, when the news hit him like a hammer to the skull.
He glared at the young commander of the City Watch, a man who had only just been appointed yesterday, and whose nervous energy did little to reassure the already suspicious king.
"Commander Arthas," Robert barked, waving the parchment twice in the air, "explain to me exactly what is going on here!"
"Oh, dear Your Majesty," Arthas began, his voice calm and precise, betraying none of the tension that gripped him. "As you know, your Master of Coin has long engaged in… various betting schemes. Pools and wagers, designed to turn every opportunity into gold. Over the years, these methods have generated considerable wealth."
Robert squinted, his curiosity piqued despite the remnants of sleep. "And?" he prompted, leaning forward, bloodshot eyes narrowing.
"However, Your Majesty," Arthas continued, a faint frown creasing his youthful features, "there is no gamble that guarantees a win. Unfortunately…" He paused, letting the words hang in the air, "…this morning, Tyrion and I went to Lord Baelish's residence to collect the Gold Dragons owed to the Crown. We found only this letter. Not a single coin has been recovered."
Robert's large hand twitched. His mind raced, piecing together the implications. Baelish had disappeared overnight without so much as a farewell. Worse, he had left instructions suggesting a successor of Robert's own choosing—an audacious move that smelled strongly of conspiracy.
For a moment, Robert's face darkened with irritation, the lecherous king momentarily replaced by a calculating mind. Then, just as quickly, he feigned a yawn and a stretch, masking his cunning beneath a veil of laziness.
"Forget it," he muttered. "The kingdom cannot go a single day without a Master of Coin. Perhaps there is wisdom in Baelish's recommendation. After all, the Lannisters do know money… Let Tyrion take the post, for now."
"But, Your Majesty—" Varys interjected, stepping forward, his bald head gleaming in the torchlight. The Master of Whisperers' voice was measured, almost gentle, but carried the weight of warning.
"Lord Baelish's sudden disappearance is suspicious, and the position of Master of Coin is far too critical to be handed over lightly. You must reconsider carefully."
Robert waved the comment away with a dismissive flick of his hand, feigning exasperation. "For the Seven's sake, Varys, enough! I'm tired of politics. Let the King sleep, and we leave for Winterfell tomorrow. Tyrion will act in the post until we return."
Varys' sharp eyes narrowed. Something in Robert's behavior didn't sit right. That the king, who despised Lannisters openly, would so readily cede the treasury to The Imp was… abnormal. His instincts screamed caution.
"His Majesty may be a king on the battlefield," Varys continued, trying to impress the severity of the situation upon Arthas, "but he has no real understanding of money. Over the years, he has spent faster than the treasury could ever support. Even the wealth left by the Targaryens was insufficient to cover his indulgences. At present, the royal debt exceeds six million Gold Dragons."
Arthas let out a sharp breath. Six million. Even for someone raised in Casterly Rock, a sum so massive was almost incomprehensible—a fortune capable of funding a war.
"Three million from House Lannister," Varys continued, "and another three from the Iron Bank. In addition, the Crown owes The Faith nine hundred thousand Gold Dragons. In total… six million nine hundred thousand. Should Tyrion take office, Lannister may not recover a single coin."
Arthas' eyes glimmered, unreadable, as he absorbed the information. Even without speaking, he understood the delicate balance of power being tipped here: the kingdom in debt, a cunning small imp placed at the center of its financial web, and the king's apparent naivety threatening to destabilize everything.
"Thank you for the warning, Lord Varys," Arthas said, his voice calm yet unyielding. "But I must caution you as well: do not meddle in Lannister affairs."
Varys' mouth twitched, sensing the familiar, chilling aura that accompanied the young commander. Without another word, Arthas turned, stepping from the council chamber into the cold air of the city, leaving the Master of Whisperers with an icy reminder of his authority:
"Lannister does not care about money."
Back at his private residence, Arthas entered an empty chamber, his mind still weighing the tangled affairs of the realm.
"Is the matter settled?" he asked softly, as if speaking into the void.
"Of course, Master," came the rasping reply, and from the shadows emerged the slight figure of Pyke, kneeling in deference.
"Our Master of Coin has been… guided to meet the Seven very peacefully," Pyke said, his voice carrying the eerie calm of one who had long since surrendered himself to the will of the Undead.
Arthas studied him, a faint smile curving his lips. Pyke was unlike any other: a mortal who had sold his soul to serve the Lich King, transformed into a being who could shift freely between shadow and form. An assassin beyond measure, capable of killing unseen, leaving no trace of his existence behind.
"Well done, Pyke," Arthas said, approval soft in his tone. "Your diligence honors me."
Pyke reached into his chest and withdrew a grisly token: Baelish's flayed face, still faintly red with dried blood. He presented it to Arthas like a precious offering.
"Keep it," Arthas said, nodding. "Your first trophy."
The shadowed acolyte bowed deeply, treasuring the morbid prize.
Arthas moved to the window, gazing out at the salt-scented air of the sea, then asked casually, "Do you wish to return home, Pyke?"
"Home?" Pyke shook his head firmly, a trace of sorrow in his tone. "Since Janie died, I have no home. Wherever you are is my home."
Arthas chuckled softly, placing a hand on Pyke's shoulder. "I was not speaking of this home."
A moment of realization passed across Pyke's face. "Master, you mean…"
"Yes," Arthas confirmed, spreading his hands in a graceful motion. From his palm, a ghostly blue energy began to coalesce, swirling with a gentle glow. The spectral force slowly took shape, forming the outline of a small island, suspended in the air, an extension of Arthas' will.
Pyke's eyes widened, nostalgia and awe reflecting in their depths. He had followed countless commands, yet never witnessed such power, such effortless manipulation of the elements themselves.
"This," Arthas murmured, "will be our haven. A place beyond the reach of men and kingdoms, a home for those who serve me faithfully."
The island shimmered with ethereal light, hovering above the waves, a symbol of Arthas' growing dominion—an omen that the tides of Westeros were about to shift, inexorably, under the shadow of the Death Knight of House Lannister.
And below, in King's Landing, the wheels of politics continued to turn, oblivious to the forces now orchestrating from the shadows, debts mounting, allegiances tested, and destinies reshaped.