Littlefinger had set his sights on entering the pristine, radiant city of Myr, but the customs official who met him at the border relayed a summons: the Regent desired his presence at Wolf's Den, the burgeoning stronghold rising in the heart of the Disputed Lands.
"Wolf's Den, Wolf Pack!" Littlefinger echoed those terms inwardly, a shiver of unease rippling through him. Did echoes of House Stark still pursue him across the years? The scar from long-buried wounds throbbed anew in his mind, sharp and unrelenting.
Littlefinger navigated layer upon layer of inspections and pointed questions, at last reaching Wolf's Den—the pulsing core of this fledgling realm, more akin to a sprawling fortress under arms than a settled domain.
"Welcome at last, Lord Petyr!" A weathered man with unmistakable Northern ruggedness stepped forward to clasp his arm. Jorah now donned grey-white leather armor, though the emblem of a rampant Great Bear emblazoned his chest.
Jorah ushered Littlefinger through the bustling encampment beyond Wolf's Den's gates. "The Regent awaits you, esteemed emissary of the Iron Throne!"
"If memory serves, you're Ser Jorah Mormont, are you not? Your valorous exploits from those turbulent days linger vividly!" Littlefinger remarked, his tone laced with feigned warmth.
"Bygones fade like morning mist. These days, I stand simply as Jorah, steadfast aide to the Magistrate!" The Great Bear fixed Littlefinger with a measuring stare. Whispers of this schemer's exploits had reached even the North—his brash duel against the fierce Wild Wolf Brandon, his ascent fueled by Lady Lysa's whispers.
Littlefinger, undeterred, plastered on his signature grin. These unyielding Northerners clung to their codes like barnacles, blind to nuance's dance. If the King's Bastard had matured amid such company, he'd likely mirror Brandon's untamed fire, ripe for subtle sway.
Within the camp's thrumming heart, Littlefinger beheld banners snapping like vivid tapestries, the rhythmic clash of blades, ranks of spears slicing the air, and squads drilling in unison, steeling for fresh conquests.
The corded warriors, their frames forged like iron, broad and unbowed, sporting the grey-white Wolf Pack sigil, formed the vanguard elite. Beside them marched lighter-clad ranks in chain, leather, or scaled mail—figures less towering, hailing from distant shores—the Free Army, reborn from chains.
Yet regardless of origins, these multitudes—tens of thousands strong—bolstered by Myr's coffers and the Narrow Sea's armada, sowed dread in the Iron Throne's halls. The Free Cities brimmed with riches; their drilled hosts, ignited by a visionary's spark, posed a dire reckoning for the throne's gilded spires.
"This board already teems with frenzy! Wolves, eagles, fish, lions, stags! I aimed to stir the direwolf alone, yet this wild stag from beyond the Narrow Sea surges forth, crashing the fray! Victory demands my edge—to carve deeper gains!" Littlefinger schemed silently... The Regent's pavilion loomed spacious yet stark, devoid of opulence. Littlefinger's eye caught a chill warhammer and a broad steel shield, etched with a stark iron mask.
"From every angle, this Bastard echoes the King's raw vigor!" Littlefinger pondered. Unsullied attendants swept aside the flap, granting Littlefinger passage into the shadowed interior.
Petyr cut a compact, unremarkable silhouette, yet his features held a rogue's allure—grey-green eyes sharp as daggers, a neat goatee framing his chin, threads of silver weaving through his raven locks.
"I, Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin on the Small Council and devoted envoy of the Iron Throne, count it a profound honor to stand before Lord Gendry, Regent of the Disputed Lands, Myr, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea!" Littlefinger intoned in honeyed cadences, dipping into a fluid bow. A lavish cloak draped him, pinned by a silver mockingbird brooch.
Littlefinger appraised the towering youth across the space. For a heartbeat, he mistook him for Renly's graceful specter. Yet scrutiny revealed distinctions; the man, strikingly comely, sported a firmer jaw and bolder brows.
This cropped-haired, resolute figure exuded coiled power—lean muscle honed for strife, far from Renly's lithe finesse. Gendry's shoulders rolled broad, arms thick as a smith's forge; tales of his hammer days rang authentic. No pampered lordling here, but a born fighter.
"What brings you to my threshold?" Gendry held his silence; a silver-haired elder at his side voiced the query first.
"I carry gold's gleam, vintage elixirs, and a sire's warm regard." Littlefinger elevated his pitch with flair. "The King offers you estates along the Blackwater Rush in the Crownlands, alongside a noble rank!"
Mirth exploded within the tent's confines. Such meager bait smacked of mockery.
"Then, what strings attach?" Gendry quelled the chuckles, bidding Littlefinger press on.
"Surrendering both Viserys and Daenerys might strain the Commander-in-Chief's honor, yet yielding one preserves your stature and softens the Iron Throne's gaze. Whispers swirl of Tyrosh and Myr mustering sellswords; allies remain vital for the Commander-in-Chief's campaigns!"
"The Iron Throne's bounty tempts, yet I must decline with regrets!"
Littlefinger met the rebuff without flinching; it aligned with his calculations. Bargains thrive on leverage, and his meager hand left scant room for play.
No matter, Littlefinger mused. Once King's Landing's scandals ignite, this seafaring Mercenary King tumbles into the blaze.
"Why forgo Jon Arryn's presence?" Gendry turned the question on Littlefinger once more.
"The Lord Hand shoulders the Seven Kingdoms' vast burdens, his years weighing heavy, thus I, as his devoted steward, shoulder this mantle!" Littlefinger hesitated, puzzled by the pivot.
"Ever the silver-tongued charmer, Littlefinger! Why not linger a spell longer? My coffers crave a Master of Coin's touch, and your repute for multiplying wealth precedes you!"
"Commander-in-Chief, such flattery overwhelms!"
"Do you spurn my gracious invitation, Lord Petyr?" Gendry rose, his gaze pinning Littlefinger like a lance.
A frost seized Littlefinger's spine. The burly captains, the impassive Unsullied sentinels—all eyes bored into him. Stranded across the Narrow Sea, his webs spanned the Vale and King's Landing; abduction here spelled ruin.
"Your Highness, your generosity humbles! Yet my liege, King Robert, demands my zeal and fealty; duties as Master of Coin bind me still!"
"Ah, a paragon of loyalty to King Robert!"
"Jorah, bestow upon Lord Petyr a parting token, if you please?"
Jorah lumbered forward with rough intent, clamping Littlefinger's arm. The envoy's escorts—Red Keep veterans or King's Landing gold cloaks—found themselves overwhelmed beyond the flaps.
Littlefinger was marched to three colossal trebuchets, behemoths untouched by Myr's siege, reserved perhaps for Tyrosh's doom.
"Long ago, these earned the moniker 'Myr's Three Harlots'!" Jorah growled by way of introduction.
"What madness grips you? I arrived under parley's banner!" Littlefinger protested, only to be bound by Wolf Pack hands and slung onto a trebuchet's cradle.
The mechanism groaned to life, a metallic growl like grinding ice.
"End this farce, Commander-in-Chief!!" Littlefinger's plea tore raw from his throat, yet the arm swung upward, climbing relentlessly.
Tears streaked Littlefinger's cheeks. Despair's grip mirrored that ancient duel with the Wild Wolf—death's shadow looming. He hurtled skyward, bracing for the crush into oblivion. When wits clash with brute might, cunning crumbles. This wild frontier mocked King's Landing's veiled games.
"Honor your adversary!" Littlefinger's mind raced. "He storms the board anew, upending all—not the predictable puppets of the capital!"
"King's Landing—dire tidings brew there. Jon Arryn teeters on death's edge! Commander-in-Chief, grant mercy; this secret atones for my presumption!" Littlefinger, quaking, was hauled back into the tent, facing only Unsullied and Gendry.
"I'd foreseen such shadows, yet your candor shines here!" Gendry regarded him, voice a velvet menace.
"Poor Jon!" Flanked by Littlefinger and Lady Lysa's shadows, salvation eluded him. The Hand's fall heralded King's Landing's inferno.
Hand Jon served Robert with iron faith, blind to Gendry's claim. Absent his survival's twist, Cersei's blades would have claimed the bastard, and Jon slumbered on. All for the realm's sake, Jon's noble vision.
"Your webs in King's Landing? They lie beyond my grasp! But here, the Wolf Pack reigns!"
"Understood! Utterly!"