Littlefinger waited until the eunuch's plump silhouette vanished into the dark corridor before finally allowing himself to exhale. Only here—in the shadowed confines of his brothel, his own carefully curated domain—did he feel even the slightest sense of ease.
Varys had prowled through King's Landing far too long, and his Little Birds were everywhere. That constant, unseen watching made Littlefinger feel as though needles pricked beneath his skin. Yet, tonight, at least one thing had become certain:
Varys craved chaos, too.
The children born of the lion's incest—illegitimate heirs masquerading as true stags—were a secret the old Hand had uncovered only at the end. For Varys, of all people, not to know was impossible. But the Spider, sly and patient, never spoke of it. He feigned ignorance, keeping that one secret tucked away, offering the King and the Hand only fragments of truth mixed with polished lies. Enough to prove his usefulness, but never enough to reveal what truly mattered.
The true powder keg beneath the Red Keep was one Varys intentionally left untouched.
"Varys cannot be trusted," Littlefinger thought, lips curling slightly.
In truth, the two men were predators of the same species. Both charming. Both smiling. Both claiming friendship to all while truly belonging to none. Both born with no names worth remembering—no keeps, no banners, no armies. Only the favor of kings kept them alive.
Littlefinger's weapon was gold;
Varys's weapon was secrets.
That alone made them natural enemies.
And yet, each would play along as long as chaos served them both.
As Littlefinger settled deeper into his seat, a name slipped unbidden into his thoughts.
Eddard Stark.
He pictured that long, solemn face—so heavy with duty that even his smiles seemed burdened.
"Poor Eddard," Littlefinger murmured. "You're more Arryn than Stark. High as Honor… High as Honor."
A noble sentiment. Too noble. In the game of thrones, honor was not a shield but a spear pointed inward. A man was either a player or a pawn; there was no middle ground. Old Jon Arryn, with his unyielding principles, had ironically paved the way for Littlefinger's ascent. Under the Hand's rigid sense of order, Littlefinger's schemes had taken root and flourished.
But had he met a true Stark of the old breed—a Cregan, a Wolf of Winterfell—Littlefinger doubted he would still be alive.
He lifted the green velvet tunic at his chest, revealing the ugly scar that twisted across his torso like the segmented body of a centipede. The flesh had long healed, but the memory never had.
A gift—from Brandon Stark, the "Wild Wolf."
Petyr Baelish had once challenged Brandon to a duel for Catelyn's affection, blinded by youth and pride. Brandon had defeated him effortlessly—and spared his life only because Catelyn begged for mercy.
Catelyn never spoke to him again.
Every letter Petyr had written to her after Brandon's death had been burned unopened.
Littlefinger could still feel Brandon's contempt, burning hotter than the blade that cut him.
The Starks had not killed him.
So he would spend his life wounding their world in return.
"The North remembers… and I never forget."
Every glimpse of that scar reignited his ambition—an ambition that now burned hotter than wildfire. Too much had been risked. Too much had been gained. There was no turning back. He had woven himself into the very arteries of the kingdom:
All four quartermasters answered to him.
The royal accountants, assayers, and the masters of the three mints—his men.
The harbormaster, customs officers, toll collectors, shipmasters, wine merchants—nine in ten owed him coin or favor.
Sons of merchants. Bastards. Foreigners. Minor nobles with empty pockets.
People like him.
People no one else valued.
But being Master of Coin was no longer enough. He needed something larger—something only chaos could birth.
"Tywin, Renly, Stannis, Eddard, even that half-dead grey kraken…" Littlefinger smiled thinly. "They think themselves the great men of the realm. But wars are never ignited by giants. It's always the little people who strike the first spark."
The Baratheon dynasty was cracked at its foundation. A king who was little more than a brute—more interested in wine, whores, hunts, and tourneys than ruling. A realm riddled with discontent: the direwolf and the lion snarling at each other, the stag brothers circling like wolves, the sun and the rose whispering rebellion, the kraken restless beneath the waves.
Remove one man—Old Jon—and the whole kingdom would slide into the abyss.
The thought made Littlefinger's lips curl in smug delight.
"Oh… and we mustn't forget the new players stepping onto the board."
Across the Narrow Sea.
A king rising from exile.
He remembered the towering trebuchet the Bastard King had once shown him—an unsubtle threat from a boy too bold for his age.
Wild. Strong. Impulsive.
A warrior, like Brandon.
A dangerous resemblance.
"Still just a child," Littlefinger muttered. "He'll blunder his way through the game. Once Volantis and Lys make their move, he'll have no time to trouble me."
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"My Lord, may I enter?"
"Come."
The voice belonged to Rosso Brenn, the Free Knight he had recently recruited.
The man entered: grey hair, blunt nose, square jaw, a frame built for battle. His patched breeches and worn leather vest spoke of long roads and hard years. Only his boots looked worth more than a copper.
"How was the gold?" Littlefinger asked, smiling pleasantly.
"Good," Rosso replied, his tone stiff.
"Then why haven't you bought yourself better clothing?"
"I'm used to these," the knight said simply.
"As long as you remain loyal to me, you'll have more gold than you know what to do with."
Littlefinger's grin widened. Rosso was precisely the sort he needed—middle-aged, skilled, quiet, reliable, with no ambition beyond coin.
"I hear you were once distantly related to House Brenn?"
"Not after they threw dung at me." Rosso's expression didn't change. "My only faith is in gold. And they say you're one of the wealthiest men in the city."
"Good. I like your loyalty."
Varys gathered secrets;
Littlefinger gathered men driven by hunger and desperation.
People like Rosso were the perfect pieces—strong enough to fight, too poor to betray.
"You'll stay close to me from now on. A grand tourney is coming to King's Landing. Enter, win, and the gold is yours."
"Yes, my Lord."
Littlefinger was satisfied, but not foolish. He would place watchers on Rosso, just as Rosso would watch others. None of his subordinates ever served alone.
Across the Narrow Sea, in the courtyard of the Wolf's Den, rows of archers practiced under the grey banners of the Wolf Pack. The sigils fluttered like wings spread against the coastal wind.
"Nock! Draw!"
"Loose!"
Black Billy's voice echoed across the yard.
The Arrow Maker watched approvingly as volleys rose and fell in swift succession. Longbowmen were the backbone of any land force—and these men were improving.
War was coming.
All the pieces were moving.
The board was nearly set.
And soon, the Seven Kingdoms would tremble as the War of the Six Kings began.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)