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Chapter 96: Littlefinger!
🕑 Added 2024-07-10 18:31:24 +0000 UTCGulltown, 289 AC
In a small house next to the bustling port of Gulltown, the major port city of the Vale, a slender man sat hunched over a ledger, quill in hand, tallying the day's takings and reckonings. The room was filled with the scent of saltwater and the faint trace of fish, ever-present reminders of the city’s lifeblood. Petyr Baelish, known to few as "Littlefinger," was deeply engrossed in his work, calculating who owed what tax and how much had been paid to the customs.
Though his office was modest, his ambitions were anything but. Appointed as a minor customs officer by the king's hand himself, though not without being put in good words by the Hand’s wife, Lysa Arryn, Petyr was determined to prove his worth. The quill scratched fervently against the parchment as he noted each transaction with meticulous precision. To the casual observer, it seemed a menial task, but Petyr knew better. Every coin, every trade, every favor exchanged was a thread in the vast web he was weaving.
The house was modest but well-kept, a reflection of Petyr’s careful management of his limited resources. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, dancing in time with the rhythmic scratching of his quill. Outside, the sounds of the port filtered in through the shutters: the creak of ships at anchor, and the constant murmur of the sea in the silent night.
Petyr paused to stretch his fingers, glancing out the window at the harbor. Gulltown was a city of opportunity, a place where fortunes were made and lost with the tide. He had come a long way from his humble beginnings in the Fingers, but he knew this was only the beginning. His position as a customs officer was a small step, but a crucial one. It gave him access to information, to connections, and, most importantly, to money.
His mind was a hive of activity, constantly plotting and scheming. He knew the power of secrets, the value of whispers in the dark. Each entry in his ledger was a piece of a larger puzzle, one that only he could see. The nobles of the Vale might look down on him, but he had something they lacked: vision.
A knock at the door broke his reverie. He set down his quill and smoothed his tunic before opening it. A young messenger stood on the threshold, clutching a sealed scroll.
"A raven, my lord," the boy said, bowing slightly as he handed over the message. Petyr station might not be big in the eyes of many nobles but it was still big to the commoners.
Petyr took the scroll, his eyes flicking over the seal. Breaking it open, he scanned the contents. It was a message from one of his 'friends' with a good holding in the Vale, a man he had helped save a significant amount of tax money whenever he came to trade in Gulltown. He bit his lip as he read, for the news was anything but good. He had asked his friend to do him a small favor and keep him informed about the war. Who knew what opportunities might present themselves that Petyr could exploit? Chaos was a Ladder after all.
Unfortunately, the Greyjoy Rebellion ended far more quickly than he had hoped. But that was not what angered him, nor was it what brought a long-forgotten pain to the scar on his chest.
"Stark!!" Petyr spat the name with venom. The word tasted bitter on his tongue, dredging up memories he would rather leave buried. It seemed the Starks were the main force that had swiftly ended this rebellion. To be more specific, it was the younger member of House Stark, Damian Stark, Eddard's brother, who had made a significant contribution. The King had seen fit to reward this young Stark with the seat of Lord of the Iron Islands.
Petyr’s grip tightened around the scroll, his knuckles whitening. The Starks, the family he loathed above all others, had gained even more power. He could see it now, the proud, cold eyes of Eddard Stark, looking down upon him from some lofty height, filled with the same disdain they had shown him as a boy. The memory of his duel with Brandon Stark, and the scar that still marred his chest, burned hot and fresh in his mind.
“Curse them,” he muttered, pacing the small room. The Starks’ influence was spreading, reaching even into the Iron Islands now. This was a development he had not foreseen, and it irked him to no end. But he knew his power and status were too small to do anything about it directly.
"Just you wait," he whispered fiercely to the empty room, "I will climb to the highest ladder, and then I shall bring your house to its ruins." Petyr took an oath, his voice trembling with the intensity of his hatred.
His eyes fell back on the ledger, the rows of numbers and names blurring before him. He forced himself to sit and take up the quill once more. The ledger was his tool, his weapon. Each entry was a step on the ladder, each calculation a rung to grasp. He would climb, slowly and surely, until he stood above them all.
The night grew darker, but Petyr Baelish felt only the bright, fierce fire of his ambition. The game of thrones was a long one, but he was patient. He would wait, he would plan, and when the time was right, he would strike. And then, the name of Stark would be nothing but a whisper on the wind, a memory of a house that once was.
Comments
Michael Marquardt
War of the five kings alone would be a blood bath if it played out the same the west would get plundered to high heaven
