Towards evening, when the scarlet sunset stretching across the entire horizon began to darken and fade, and a light haze rose over the water, Baelish gave the order to slowly return to the city.
The smugglers knew how to navigate in the dark and by oar alone. Not a single rowlock creaked, not a single oar struck another as the ship turned in the right direction and glided quietly across the water. The captain knew every shoal and sandbar here as well as he knew his own wife's body. By nightfall, when the stars and moon were already shining brightly, the King of Sardine reached the agreed location and dropped anchor.
Littlefinger knew the appointed time was still far off, but he couldn't sit still in his cabin. He went out onto the deck and walked several times from the stern to the bowsprit.
A couple of men were hanging in the rigging — they could see in the dark as well as cats. And now they were quietly scanning the surroundings for any unpleasant surprises or expected visitors.
Petyr shivered — the sea breeze crept under his clothes and easily stripped away all the warmth of the day. He had to return to his cabin and put on a plain but very thick woolen cloak.
Time passed slowly. Petyr glanced toward the bay of King's Landing, lit by countless torches, and pondered how everything ought to unfold.
Life was certainly a fine thing — especially if one knew how to navigate it and understood which way the wind was blowing.
The minor lord Petyr Baelish, descendant of an adventurer from Braavos who had once entered the service of the Great House of Arryn, had managed to build a stunning career for himself.
From an insignificant scribe to clerk, then assistant to the chief, and finally chief of customs in Gulltown — his rise had been rapid and surprising to many. But Petyr's ambition and aspirations at that time were far from being satisfied. Soon, thanks to his mistress Lysa Arryn, her husband, and the Hand of the King Jon Arryn, he managed to become Master of Coin of the Seven Kingdoms. Petyr proved a skilled, dexterous treasurer, very adept at playing with words and numbers. And he clearly understood one simple truth: King Robert must be given what he asks for — and then everything will be perfectly well.
Littlefinger did his job, pocketed some serious coin, and continued moving toward a goal only he knew, trusting in his lucky star. And then King Robert died — long live the new king!
The kingdom was in turmoil — but in such troubled waters, Petyr Baelish loved and knew how to fish best of all. So he "caught" the dilapidated, gloomy, disreputable castle of Harrenhal as his personal domain. Nominally, this made him one of the most influential lords of Westeros. But that wasn't all — now Tywin Lannister had sent him to the Eyrie, to Lysa Arryn. He was to seduce her, marry her, and thus bring the Vale into the alliance between Casterly Rock and the Reach. A difficult task, given that Lysa was weak-minded, practically eating out of his hand and ready to jump into his bed at any moment of day or night.
Petyr pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and smiled involuntarily. Well, it was time for the mockingbord to spread his wings again and astonish everyone with the height of his flight.
But first, he needed to end one round of this game with a single graceful — and deadly — move.
Everything had been prepared and rehearsed. Today, King Joffrey would die, Sansa Stark (he always preferred to think of her that way) would be seized, all suspicion would fall on Tyrion, and he would be able to drive a wedge between the Lannisters themselves.
The plan, though complex, was beautiful in its audacity and scope. And it opened dazzling prospects for the former scribe from Gulltown.
Littlefinger nervously licked his finger and ran it across his eyebrow — it was time for the Red Keep to start worrying. King Joffrey lived an hour, or even two hours, longer than he should have.
Yet despite Littlefinger's nervousness, and contrary to his hopes and predictions, the city remained quiet, wrapped in the darkness of night.
This began to trouble Baelish. The situation did not seem to be going according to plan.
"The boat, my lord," one of the watchers leaned toward him and said unexpectedly, in a low voice.
Littlefinger couldn't see a thing in the shadow of the rocks hanging over the shore, but his man had no reason to lie. So all he had to do was wait.
A couple of minutes later, the boat reached the galley and bumped softly against the side. A tall, broad-shouldered old man in a hooded cloak climbed aboard. He moved quickly and deftly for someone of his years. The man's name sounded like Oswell.
"Why are you alone?" asked Littlefinger. "Did something happen?"
"The thing is, nothing happened," the voice under the hood replied with clear disappointment. "The plan didn't work out."
"Why?"
"Because you, my lord, gave me rotten information. The king turned out not to be as simple-minded as you described."
"Details!" Littlefinger ordered curtly, his lips pressed tightly together.
"First, he was very cautious all day. He only drank from tested cups, and even then, he had others taste them first. And he behaved like that the entire time."
"Go on."
"He didn't get drunk, as you promised. And he watched his food very carefully. He didn't even let the servants pour him fresh wine — he kept sipping that damn Arbor the whole time."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. And now he has a personal cupbearer who, damn it, tastes everything brought to him. And the king himself waits a while afterward."
(End of Chapter)
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