Chapter 13 – Littlefinger's Scheme (1)
Littlefinger suddenly said,
"Yes, Cat. King Robert intends to hold another grand tourney to celebrate his eldest son Joffrey's eleventh name day. This time, the prize purse alone will exceed a hundred thousand gold dragons."
Cat—the intimate nickname Petyr Baelish had used for her since their youth—slipped naturally from his lips.
The sound of it made Catelyn uneasy.
She was no longer the girl of Riverrun, and Littlefinger was no longer a harmless childhood companion. For him to address her so familiarly now felt… improper.
Littlefinger watched her closely, catching the flicker of discomfort in her eyes. The familiar half-smile curved across his face again.
"As in previous years, Robert holds a grand tourney for Joffrey's name day. Ordinarily, it's Lord Tywin who foots the bill—thanks to the queen's influence."
He paused deliberately.
"But this year, the king and the queen quarreled rather fiercely. As a result, Lord Tywin has refused to pay."
Littlefinger spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"And so I was forced to travel all this way, through wind and snow, hoping to raise sufficient funds here in the cold North. After all, King Robert and Lord Eddard call each other brothers. Surely Lord Stark would be willing to help."
Catelyn shook her head regretfully.
"I'm afraid your purpose may be in vain. Ned plans to expand the glass gardens in preparation for the coming winter. And there are rumors that wildlings are gathering beyond the Wall, possibly to attack it. The North must begin preparing for war. Winterfell has no spare coin to lend."
Littlefinger chuckled softly.
"As you can see, when Lord Stark learned of my purpose, he refused me without hesitation—using the very same reasons you just gave."
He smiled thinly.
"It seems the bond between Lord Stark and King Robert may not be quite as unbreakable as the realm believes."
Before Catelyn could respond, he continued smoothly,
"In that case, I suppose I'll have no choice but to seek help from the Unbeaten One… the Hundred-Victory Champion… Westeros's foremost warrior—Saelen Stark."
He lingered deliberately on the last name.
Stark.
To Catelyn, the emphasis was unmistakable.
He was doing it on purpose.
Was he mocking her? Provoking her? Trying to stir her emotions, to watch her lose her composure—so he could sit back, amused, and reap whatever hidden benefit he sought?
Littlefinger's smile never faltered.
And that, more than anything, made her uneasy.
He would be disappointed, then.
She was no longer the naïve girl of her youth, nor was she the Cat he so casually addressed. She was now a mother of four, the Lady of Winterfell, Eddard Stark's wife.
Catelyn steadied her emotions and spoke in the measured, authoritative tone of a great lord's lady.
"You intend to borrow money from Saelen? Then I fear you will be disappointed as well. His glassworks survive largely because of Winterfell's orders. Ned has told me that his glass is cheaper and more practical than that produced elsewhere, which is why Winterfell intends to place further orders. Moreover, he has recently taken in tens of thousands of people sent from King's Landing. He is spending gold as fast as water flows—he will hardly have coin to lend you."
Littlefinger smiled slyly.
"Is that so, Lady Stark? How curious. What I have heard is entirely different."
Catelyn's heart tightened.
"What do you mean, Littlefinger?"
The change in address slipped out instinctively—and immediately unsettled her.
Littlefinger's expression turned wistful.
"Littlefinger? It has been a long time since you called me that. Once, we were inseparable companions—you called me Littlefinger, and I called you Cat. In the blink of an eye, you became Lady Stark… and I became Lord Baelish."
"That is enough, Lord Baelish." Catelyn cut in sharply. "I once regarded you as a younger brother, but I am now the Lady of Winterfell, not a girl of Riverrun. You are Ned's guest, under this roof. I expect proper respect."
Without a word, Ser Rodrik Cassel placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
Littlefinger raised both hands in mock surrender, his face a picture of innocence.
"My apologies, Lady Stark. Old memories overtook me. Please forgive my lapse."
Then, as though nothing had happened, he continued smoothly.
"You know I serve as Master of Coin. I deal frequently with merchants who travel the length and breadth of the realm. From their mouths, I have learned some… rather interesting things."
When Catelyn did not respond, he went on.
"I have heard that the porcelain produced at Saelen's castle is now valued as highly as gold. Every piece his kilns produce is snatched up at once by eager merchants—who then resell them at even higher prices to southern lords. I'm told that even nobles from across the Narrow Sea are lining up to buy them."
His smile deepened.
"And then there are the tourneys. In every tournament King Robert has held, Ser Saelen never failed to appear—and never failed to win. A great many of the gold dragons I struggled to raise ended up in his purse. By my reckoning, the prize money he has taken from Robert alone amounts to several hundred thousand gold dragons. I think it's only fair that this time… he bleeds a little himself."
Catelyn was stunned.
She had known Saelen managed his lands well—but not this well. Porcelain worth its weight in gold? Hundreds of thousands of gold dragons from tourneys?
She had never heard a word of it.
Worse still, to support his development, Ned had exempted Saelen from taxation. For years, Winterfell had not collected a single copper from him.
How much tax revenue had been lost?
That insufferable man…
She would have to speak with Ned. Those back taxes would need to be repaid.
Suppressing her agitation, Catelyn turned to her side.
"Ser Rodrik, were you aware of any of this?"
Ser Rodrik was still reeling.
"No, my lady. I had heard nothing of it."
Littlefinger observed their shock with clear satisfaction and continued, his tone light.
"The merchants also mentioned that Ser Saelen has stationed a force of several thousand soldiers around his porcelain works—to guard against bandits."
He tilted his head innocently.
"My lady, does the North truly suffer from so many bandits? If so, I should be very careful on my journey home. I doubt anyone would pay my ransom if I were taken."
"There are no bandits of that scale," Catelyn replied sharply. "Under Ned's rule, the North offers no soil in which such criminals could thrive."
Several thousand soldiers—merely to guard a porcelain workshop?
What kind of threat justified such numbers?
Who, exactly, was Saelen guarding against?
Ser Rodrik frowned in thought.
"More than ten years ago, there was a band of exceptionally well-armed brigands. They ambushed Lord Stark and then vanished. I was ordered to hunt them down and spent years searching, but they left no trace—vanished as if into thin air. Aside from them, there have been no bandits worth mentioning."
Littlefinger exhaled in apparent relief, his surprise carefully feigned.
"Oh? None at all? How strange, then. If there are no bandits, why would Ser Saelen maintain such a vast army? After all, feeding and paying so many men costs tens of thousands of gold dragons."
He leaned closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.
"Oh, and just these past few days, I've heard that Ser Saelen has recruited another force—training them daily. The sound of drilling carries for miles. Such extravagance… one must wonder what he intends to do with so many soldiers."
His smile lingered.
And the silence that followed felt suddenly very heavy.
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