Petyr Baelish watched from the window as the eunuch's plump, hooded figure vanished into the dark, labyrinthine alleys of King's Landing. Only then did he allow himself to let out a long, slow breath.
It was only here, in the perfumed shadows of his own brothels, that Littlefinger felt a modicum of security. Varys had operated in the capital far too long; it was impossible to know where the Spider's little birds were perched. The sensation of being constantly watched was a cold prickle at the base of his neck.
But the meeting had confirmed one vital piece of information: Varys desired chaos just as much as he did.
The Queen's golden-haired children were lions, not stags. It was a secret Jon Arryn had died for. It was a secret Varys undoubtedly knew, yet the fat eunuch never spoke of it, playing the part of the loyal, whispering servant. Varys fed the King and the Council a steady diet of half-truths and genuine intelligence to prove his worth, but he never laid a finger on the powder keg sitting directly beneath the Iron Throne.
Varys cannot be trusted, Baelish thought, turning away from the window.
In many ways, the two of them occupied the exact same ecological niche. Both the Spider and the Mockingbird were perpetually amiable, constantly smiling, seemingly a friend to every lord in the keep. Both were men of utterly obscure birth—no great houses, no bannermen, no ancient castles. They existed solely by the grace of the King.
Littlefinger's power was forged in gold and ledgers; Varys's was woven from secrets. Because of this mirror-image existence, Baelish knew better than to trust the eunuch when the realm finally caught fire.
"Eddard Stark comes to play," Petyr murmured to the empty room.
He pictured Ned's solemn, weather-beaten face, forever etched with that sanctimonious northern gloom. Poor Ned. You are more of an Arryn than a Stark. 'As High as Honor.'
"But in this game, Lord Stark, you are either a player or a piece on the board."
It was Jon Arryn's rigid adherence to honor that had allowed Littlefinger to rise so high, so fast. Honor made men predictable. Honor made men blind. If Petyr had been forced to deal with a true Wolf of Winterfell—a brutal pragmatist like Cregan Stark—his head would likely be on a spike already.
Petyr unlaced the top of his green velvet doublet and pulled down the linen of his shirt. He ran his fingers over the thick, ugly scar that ran from his chest down to his navel. The healed flesh writhed like a pale centipede against his skin.
It was a gift from the Wild Wolf. From Brandon Stark.
Years ago, a foolish, love-struck boy from the Fingers had challenged the heir to Winterfell to a duel for the hand of Catelyn Tully. Brandon had carved him to pieces with effortless, laughing grace, sparing his life only because Catelyn had begged for it. Catelyn had never spoken to him again. After Brandon's death, she had burned every letter Petyr had ever sent her, unopened.
He would never forget the look in Brandon Stark's eyes. It was a look of absolute, aristocratic contempt. Brandon had let him live, but the boy from the Fingers had died on the bloody stones of Riverrun that day.
The North remembers, Petyr thought, his grey-green eyes hard as flint. And so do I.
Every time he touched the scar, the fire of his ambition flared anew. He would climb. He would climb until there was no one left to look down upon him. The men who had humiliated him, the highborn lords who sneered at his birth—he would see them all bleed. The Starks left me alive. I will use the rest of my life to show them what a terrible mistake that was.
His network was already vast. The Keepers of the Keys, the royal accountants, the assayers, the masters of the three mints—all were his creatures. Nine out of every ten harbormasters, toll collectors, and tax farmers answered to Littlefinger. They were men like him: merchants' sons, minor lordlings, and foreigners hungry for advancement.
But the office of Master of Coin was a ceiling. To break through it, he needed chaos. He needed war.
Tywin, Renly, Stannis, Eddard, and the half-dead kraken in the Iron Islands—they all thought they ruled the realm. They did not realize that the strings were being pulled by the small men in the shadows. The stag's dynasty was rotten. The King was a whoring drunkard. The wolves and lions despised each other, the sun of Dorne burned with silent hatred, and the roses of the Reach plotted in their gardens. All it took was the death of Jon Arryn to strike the match.
Petyr smiled, pouring himself another cup of wine.
"And I must not forget the new player on the board."
His mind drifted across the Narrow Sea, to the boy King in Myr. The chaos the bastard was sowing would serve perfectly. Petyr remembered the colossal, looming trebuchets in the Disputed Lands, and the cold, terrifying weight of the boy's gaze. For a fleeting moment in the Myrish camp, Gendry's sheer physical menace had reminded Petyr of Brandon Stark.
But he is just a boy playing at war, Littlefinger reasoned, dismissing the chill. He relies on brute strength and steel. He does not understand the game. Let Lys and Volantis bleed him.
A sharp knock at the door broke his reverie.
"May I enter, my lord?" a gruff voice asked.
"Come."
The door opened, and his newly hired freerider stepped into the room. Lothor Brune was an aggressively ordinary-looking man. Square jaw, flat nose, greying hair, and a stocky, powerful build. He wore patched brown breeches and a weathered leather jerkin. Only his heavy riding boots looked to be of any real value.
Baelish understood his own physical limitations perfectly; he possessed no skill at arms. Therefore, he bought the best steel he could find.
"Does the gold spend well, Brune?" Littlefinger asked, offering a warm, perfectly calibrated smile. Knowing he lacked the dashing good looks of a Rhaegar or a young Robert, Petyr used an amiable, unassuming charm to disarm those around him.
"Well enough," Lothor grunted, his face impassive.
"Then why do you not buy yourself a proper suit of clothes?" Petyr asked, gesturing to the patched leather.
"I am used to these," Lothor replied flatly.
"So long as you are loyal to me, you will have all the gold you desire," Littlefinger promised. He liked this man. Middle-aged, utterly devoid of charm, a man of few words, and deadly with a blade.
"I only want the gold, my lord," Lothor said coldly.
"I am told you claim distant kinship to the Brunes of Crackclaw Point?"
"I made no such claim when they were throwing horse dung at my head from their walls," Lothor replied without missing a beat. "My only faith is in the coin. And men say you have more of it than anyone in the city."
"Excellent. I appreciate a man with simple, unwavering faith."
Varys had his little birds. Littlefinger had his gold. He was immensely satisfied with this down-on-his-luck sellsword.
"You will serve as my personal shadow," Littlefinger instructed. "There will be a grand tourney soon to celebrate the new Hand. You may enter the lists. If you win, the purse is yours."
"Yes, my lord," Lothor said, his answers remaining perfectly brief.
Littlefinger was pleased, though he trusted no one entirely. He would have his other men keep a quiet eye on Brune. It was simply the way the game was played.
Far across the water, in the sunbaked courtyards of the Wolf's Den, the air was filled with a different kind of music.
The grey-and-white banners snapped in the sea breeze as hundreds of men stood in perfectly dressed ranks.
"Nock! Draw!"
"Loose!" Dick Fletch roared.
A black cloud of arrows leapt into the sky, whistling a lethal, uniform note before burying themselves with terrifying precision into the distant straw targets.
Gendry watched from the balcony, his arms resting on the stone balustrade. The men in Westeros were playing their game of thrones, whispering in the dark. He was building an anvil.