The Master of Coin was the king's chief economic adviser.
His duties included recording the crown's revenues and expenditures, receiving and compiling reports from subordinate officials, overseeing the collection of taxes and tariffs, arranging loans, managing the royal treasury, and supervising the crown's three mints.
The Lonely Mountain holdings had developed well over these past years—but surely that did not warrant the realm's Master of Coin traveling all the way from King's Landing in person.
Unless he had come with an ulterior motive…
Domeric's guard rose instinctively, though his face remained calm.
He gathered himself and offered a warm, courteous smile. "It's an honor to meet you, Lord Petyr."
…
Petyr Baelish's father had been the smallest of Westeros's petty lords—his holdings little more than some bare rock on the tiniest island off the Fingers.
During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, his father had formed a friendship with Hoster Tully of Riverrun.
So Petyr was sent to Riverrun as a ward.
It was Edmure Tully—later famed as the "Trident's Archer"—who first gave Petyr the nickname "Littlefinger."
The name came from the narrowness of his family's lands, and from the fact that Petyr himself had been especially small and thin among boys his age.
When they grew older, Petyr fell in love with House Tully's eldest daughter—Catelyn Tully. But Catelyn treated him only like a younger brother, with no other feelings.
When Catelyn was betrothed to Brandon Stark, Petyr challenged Brandon—much older than he was—to a duel for her sake.
Brandon won with ease, yet spared Petyr's life at Catelyn's plea.
Unlike her sister, Lysa Tully had loved Petyr since childhood. Ignoring his fixation on Catelyn, she slipped into his bedchamber when Petyr was drunk—shattered by Catelyn's rejection…
Not long after, Lysa was with child.
When Lord Hoster discovered it, he forced Lysa to drink moon tea and rid herself of the child—and he drove Petyr out of Riverrun.
House Baelish was too weak, too small, utterly unworthy of marrying into House Tully.
That was the deepest wound in Petyr Baelish's heart.
How the wheel turns—never mock a man for being poor when he is young.
If there was ever a man that line fit, it was Petyr.
Only Petyr did not rage blindly—and there was no hidden mentor in a ring to lift him up.
Night fell.
To receive the king's minister, Domeric held a modest dinner in the administrative hall.
Compared to the glittering castles of other houses, the place was undeniably plain.
But the food itself was lavish: the table was crowded with delicacies—spiced braised beef, smoked salmon, baked snails, steak in red wine, rich cheese, caviar, roast turkey…
Domeric, after all, was a man who took his eating seriously.
Petyr ate with enthusiasm while chatting with Domeric about the Seven Kingdoms—its lands and skies, its history and customs, its peoples and cultures, its produce and specialties…
Both men were learned and sharp, each with an uncommon perspective on many matters.
They found, with a kind of wry delight, that they had met too late—almost like kindred spirits.
Wine warmed the blood; plates emptied; the table grew disorderly.
At length, Petyr Baelish set down his knife and fork, lifted his napkin to wipe his mouth, and suddenly changed the subject.
"Ser Domeric—do you know why I came to the Lonely Mountain myself?"
There it is.
Domeric listened closely. He knew the real play had begun.
Petyr Baelish, the realm's most notorious schemer, did not ride to the North's backwaters for no reason.
He was after something.
This man wanted Westeros in turmoil—because only in chaos could a low-born minor lord like him climb.
And as a high-level player in the game of thrones, Petyr excelled at hiding his intentions. He would even do things that seemed to bring him no benefit at all—precisely so no one would suspect him.
Then he could remain in the shadows, using lies and leverage to make the "protagonists" at center stage butcher one another.
"To be honest, Lord Petyr, I'm also curious what matter could possibly be important enough for you to come in person…"
Before Domeric could finish, Petyr handed him a rolled sheet of parchment.
Domeric took it at once and opened it—only to find an official writ imposing additional commercial taxes.
It bore King Robert's signature and the royal seal.
Domeric knew it was genuine. With Littlefinger's caution, he would never dare forge something like this.
…
The Iron Throne held the right to levy taxes upon its lords.
It could also requisition goods—during the War of the Five Kings, for instance, House Stokeworth sent grain to King's Landing.
It could even impose labor service, not unlike corvée.
Before becoming Master of Coin, Littlefinger had served as a tax collector for the Iron Throne, then overseen Gulltown's customs, and only then risen to Master of Coin.
In the chronicles, after the Battle of the Blackwater, the Iron Throne even exempted Arbor wine from tariffs for thirty years…
In short, the crown's fiscal reach in Westeros was stronger than that of many medieval European kings—binding its vassals tightly, and even exerting influence over a vassal's own vassals.
In the story, Lord Eddard Stark sent Beric Dondarrion—Renly's bannerman—to punish Tywin's bannerman, Gregor Clegane, seizing his lands and taxes…
And Tywin as Hand bypassed Roose Bolton directly, demanding fealty and payments from Wyman Manderly of White Harbor.
Yet King Robert, as king, was relatively generous—or perhaps simply indifferent to revenue.
So long as everyone paid enough to keep appearances, he rarely pressed harder.
Domeric's own iron trade had yielded enormous profits, yet he had only been required to remit a small portion to the Iron Throne…
A token, the kind you'd toss to a beggar.
And now the crown was "mysteriously" raising his commercial taxes.
"It's regrettable that this should happen at such a critical moment in your growth," Petyr said softly, letting out a faint sigh.
"Paying taxes to the realm is a lord's duty," Domeric replied with righteous composure—though inwardly he was very curious why the Iron Throne had suddenly taken an interest in a place as small as the Lonely Mountain.
Littlefinger had traveled a thousand leagues merely to deliver this news?
Then Petyr stepped closer, placed a hand on Domeric's shoulder, and lowered his voice.
"But this is not without a solution.
I know it is no easy thing to build prosperity in a barren place like the Lonely Mountain. You have so many smallfolk to feed—you must need coin urgently…
And in truth, these taxes are of little consequence to the realm, but to your development they are essential.
That is why I came myself. If you provide me with a 'true' shipment ledger, I can speak for you in the small council…"
Domeric smiled.
Petyr was implying that a modest "consideration" would allow him to make the problem disappear entirely.
"Why help me this way?" Domeric asked. "Forgive my bluntness, Lord Petyr—but before tonight, we were strangers."
Petyr stopped, turned slightly, and looked at Domeric with unconcealed appreciation.
"I have watched the Lonely Mountain's rise. What you have achieved in three years is a miracle. Ser Domeric—you are an exceptional lord.
And I have always been willing to offer what help I can to the realm's young talents—so that their growth may be accelerated."
"You honor me too highly, Lord Petyr," Domeric said, putting on the face of a man deeply moved—while his caution sharpened further within.
When a man offers kindness without reason, it is never kindness.
However sweet the mockingbird sang, to Domeric it was still the devil's whisper.
And what happened to those who trusted Petyr Baelish?
One need only look at the fate of Lord Eddard Stark to understand.
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