Littlefinger had originally intended to enter the pristine, beautiful Myr, but the customs envoy who received him informed him that the Triarch would see him at the newly erected Wolf's Den in the Disputed Lands.
"The Wolf's Den… the Wolf Pack!"
The words alone stirred a deep unease within him. Did the shadow of House Stark still linger over his heart? That wound from decades ago seemed to tear open again, rising from memory to stab at him anew.
After a long, dust-choked journey, passing through countless checkpoints and inspections, Littlefinger finally arrived at Wolf's Den. The heart of this new kingdom felt less like a city and more like a vast military camp.
"A pleasure to see you, Lord Petyr!"
A middle-aged man with unmistakable northern features stepped forward to greet him. Jorah had changed into grey-white leather armor, though the sigil of the Great Bear still adorned his chest.
Jorah led Littlefinger into the military encampment outside Wolf's Den.
"The Triarch is waiting for you, good envoy of the Iron Throne."
"If I'm not mistaken… you must be Lord Jorah? I still remember your heroic deeds from years past," Littlefinger said with an amiable smile.
"That was long ago. Now there is only Jorah, loyal servant of the Triarch."
The Great Bear gave him a measuring look. He had heard plenty about this man—deeds that filled northerners with disdain. Challenging Wild Wolf Brandon beyond his station. Rising to power by currying favor with Lady Lysa.
Littlefinger's smile never wavered. These damned northerners were always so rigid, so lacking in finesse. If the king's bastard had grown up surrounded by men like this, he would inevitably share the temperament of Wild Wolf Brandon. That would make him easier to deal with.
Inside the camp, Littlefinger saw banners spread like painted canvases, heard the ringing clash of steel, watched spears thrust in unison. Soldiers drilled together in tight formation, clearly preparing for another war.
The men with corded muscles, solid frames, and grey-white Wolf Pack badges were the elite Wolf Pack army. Those in lighter mail, leather, or chain, their physiques less imposing and their features drawn from every corner of the world, were likely the reformed Free Company—former slaves turned soldiers.
Even so, an army numbering in the tens of thousands, backed by Myr's wealth and a fleet dominating the Narrow Sea, was enough to make the Iron Throne uneasy. The Free Cities were rich by nature; once their forces were organized and placed under capable command, they became a true threat to the Iron Throne.
"This game was chaotic enough already. Wolves, Falcons, Fish, Lions, Stags. I only meant to draw the Direwolves into the fray. Now the wild stag across the Narrow Sea have risen out of nowhere and want a seat in the game of thrones as well. I must win. I need more for myself."
...
The Triarch's tent was enormous but austere. Littlefinger's gaze fell upon a cold warhammer and a massive iron shield bearing the image of a crude iron mask.
"From this alone, you can tell the bastard truly is the king's own blood," he thought.
An Unsullied attendant pulled aside the curtain and ushered him inside.
Petyr was short and of ordinary build, yet undeniably handsome. He had grey-green eyes, a small tuft of beard on his chin, and dark hair streaked faintly with grey.
"I serve as envoy of the Iron Throne and Master of Coin on the Small Council—Petyr Baelish. It is my honor to meet Lord Gendry, Triarch of the Disputed Lands, Myr, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea," Littlefinger said in a honeyed voice, bowing deeply. A heavy cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened with a silver Mockingbird.
He studied the tall youth before him and almost mistook him for Renly at first glance. But a closer look revealed the differences. The young man was handsome as well, yet his jaw was broader, his brows thicker.
With his short, practical hair and compact, powerful frame, he lacked Renly's slender elegance. Gendry had broad shoulders and the thick, powerful arms of a smith—unsurprising, given the tales that he had once worked the forge.
Gendry did not look like a pampered noble lord.
He looked like a warrior.
"What is it you wish to discuss?"
Gendry did not speak. Instead, a white-haired old man at his side answered first.
"I bring gold, fine wine, and a father's affection," Littlefinger said, raising his voice. "The King will grant you lands in the Crownlands near the Blackwater Rush, along with a noble title!"
Laughter broke out inside the tent. Such a meager reward felt more like an insult than a gift.
"And what are the conditions?" Gendry cut through the laughter, signaling for Littlefinger to continue.
"It would be difficult for the Lord Commander to hand over both Viserys and Daenerys, of course. But surrendering just one would not damage your reputation. On the contrary, it would improve the Iron Throne's view of you. I've heard that Tyrosh and Lys are gathering sellswords. The Lord Commander could use a few more friends."
"The Iron Throne's terms are so generous that I have no choice but to refuse."
Littlefinger was not surprised. Negotiation required leverage, and he had brought too little to bargain with.
It didn't matter. Once the scandals in King's Landing were exposed, the mercenary king across the Narrow Sea would be dragged into the storm as well.
"Why didn't Jon Arryn come himself?" Gendry asked.
"The Hand of the King carries the burden of the Seven Kingdoms. With his age and frail health, I, as his loyal servant, have taken on this responsibility," Littlefinger replied, momentarily thrown off by the question.
"Truly Littlefinger. A silver tongue that could charm anyone. How delightful. Why not stay here a few more days? I happen to be short a Master of Coin. I hear you're a man who can make gold breed more gold."
"Lord Commander, this—"
"Are you refusing my kindness, Lord Petyr?"
Gendry rose to his feet and looked down at him.
A chill crept over Littlefinger. The burly officers and the cold-faced Unsullied guards were all watching him. His power base lay in the Vale and King's Landing. If he were detained across the Narrow Sea, it would be a disaster.
"Prince, I am grateful for your generosity. But your good father, King Robert, still requires my loyalty and service. I remain Master of Coin."
"So you are indeed a loyal servant to King Robert."
"Jorah, present Lord Petyr with a gift."
Jorah strode forward roughly and seized Littlefinger. His guards, men from the Red Keep and the King's Landing garrison, were subdued outside the tent at the same time.
Littlefinger was dragged to three enormous catapults. They had not been needed for the assault on Myr. Clearly, they were being saved for Tyrosh.
"These used to be called the Three Whores of Myr," Jorah said.
"What are you doing? I came to negotiate peace!" Littlefinger shouted.
He was bound tightly by Wolf Pack soldiers and secured to one side of a catapult.
The massive war machine began to rumble, iron grinding against iron.
"Don't make such jokes, Lord Commander!" Littlefinger screamed, his voice breaking. The catapult continued to rise, climbing higher and higher without any sign of stopping.
Tears streamed down his face. The cold despair of death wrapped around him, just like the day he was wounded by the wild wolf years ago. He felt himself lifted toward the clouds, certain that in the next instant he would be nothing more than shattered flesh.
A scholar before soldiers—schemes meant nothing against absolute force. This was not King's Landing. There were no webs of court intrigue here.
Respect your opponent.
This was a new player, one who intended to overturn the table entirely. Not like the men in King's Landing, bound by old habits and old rules.
"King's Landing… there is grim news from King's Landing. Jon Arryn is dying! Lord Commander, I beg your forgiveness! This information alone should atone for my arrogance!"
Shaking violently, Littlefinger was brought back into the tent. Only the Unsullied and Gendry remained.
"I had already guessed as much," Gendry said, studying him. His voice was low, almost like a devil whispering. "Still, you appear very loyal before me."
Poor Jon.
With Littlefinger and Lady Lysa at his side, not even gods or demons could have saved him. The death of the Hand of the King would soon set King's Landing ablaze.
Jon Arryn had been loyal to Robert, but never to him. If Cersei had killed his bastard, Jon would have done nothing. Everything was always for the greater good—for Jon Arryn's greater good.
"I never concerned myself with your dealings in King's Landing, the way you pull strings and stir the winds. But this is the Wolf Pack."
"Yes! Yes!"