The air in King's Landing still buzzed with the tourney's fever.
In every street and alley, bards butchered verses about the Black Knight.
In taverns, drunks argued over that final lance strike, spit flying.
At noble feasts, "Lynn" was the most fashionable name to drop.
Lynn pushed open the door to Littlefinger's office—once a temple of schemes and desire.
Now it was chaos.
Maesters sweated over ledgers.
The account books were stacked like mountains.
The air reeked of old parchment, ink, and money.
Arya darted between the stacks like a mouse in a granary. Her grey eyes sparkled with curiosity.
Sansa stood stiff by the door.
She wore a sky-blue gown. Looked completely out of place.
She couldn't understand why Lynn would come to a place like this.
Especially when she learned some of this wealth came from brothels.
It made her stomach turn.
"My lord."
A middle-aged man with a goatee—Littlefinger's former chief steward—bowed low.
He handed Lynn a thick ledger.
"All the property deeds and accounts are here."
"Preliminary estimates: the fixed assets you acquired from Lord Baelish—seven brothels, three warehouses at the docks, two estates outside the city, and a dozen shops—are worth approximately fifty thousand gold dragons."
His voice trembled.
"And we've just tallied your winnings from the tourney..."
He paused.
"After paying out the other bettors, you and Lord Stark netted two hundred and thirty-four thousand gold dragons."
Gasps.
Even the maesters—who'd seen fortunes come and go—couldn't help it.
Two hundred and thirty thousand.
One hundred and eighty thousand in bets. Forty thousand in prize money.
Enough to arm an army of ten thousand men.
In all the Seven Kingdoms, only the Lannisters could casually produce that much cash.
Sansa's mind went blank.
She'd grown up in Winterfell. Money was an abstract concept.
But she knew Father had spent tens of thousands building a castle.
And that had taken years to save.
Lynn had earned enough to build several Winterfells—
—in one day.
It was more absurd than any song she'd ever heard.
"How much do these holdings earn each month?"
Lynn's tone was calm. Like the number was just... a number.
"My lord, after expenses, roughly three thousand gold dragons per month."
Lynn nodded.
Littlefinger had just started building his empire.
And Lynn had stolen it.
Three thousand a month. Thirty-six thousand a year.
And that didn't count the information and influence these assets provided.
Littlefinger had spent fifteen years clawing his way up—manipulating Lysa, serving Jon Arryn, becoming Master of Coin.
All of it.
Now Lynn's.
Lynn walked to the window. Looked down at the crowded streets.
This gold was his ticket to Essos.
The foundation of his future power.
"Arya."
She snapped to attention like a little soldier.
"Starting today, you'll come here every afternoon."
He gestured at the mountains of ledgers.
"Learn from the maesters. Learn to read accounts. Manage people. Make money grow."
"Really?"
Arya's eyes lit up like morning stars.
"Ser Lynn!"
Sansa finally spoke.
"How can you let Arya touch these... these filthy things!"
"Filthy?"
Lynn turned.
He knew what she meant.
The brothels.
"Arya needs to understand my holdings. After all, we have an arrangement."
Arya grinned. Stuck her tongue out at Sansa.
I'm going to marry him. Of course I need to manage his business.
Lynn looked at Sansa's naive, pretty face.
"Miss Sansa. What's dirtier—gold, or power?"
"I..."
She had no answer.
"Your dress. Your bread. Where do you think they come from?"
"Heroes in songs don't need to eat. But real knights do."
"Your future husband, Prince Joffrey—his mother, Queen Cersei—she didn't become queen because of her beauty. She became queen because of Lannister gold."
"I..."
"Gold isn't dirty or clean."
Lynn stepped closer. His black eyes were bottomless.
"It's the person using it that's dirty."
"I'm not teaching Arya to love money. I'm teaching her to understand it. To see through it."
"So no one can use it to fool her."
Sansa stared at him.
The innocence in her blue eyes faded.
Replaced by confusion. And thought.
Heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs.
A Kingsguard in golden armor appeared at the door.
His face was respectful.
"Ser Lynn! The king summons you!"
The Red Keep – Throne Room
Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne, irritated.
He held an almost-empty wine barrel.
At his feet, drunk servants lay passed out.
The hall reeked of alcohol.
When Lynn entered, Robert's cloudy eyes brightened.
"Finally!"
His roar echoed through the hall.
"I heard you stripped Littlefinger down to his smallclothes! Nearly two hundred thousand dragons?"
"Thanks to your grace, Your Grace."
Lynn bowed slightly.
"HAHAHA! Well done!"
Robert's laugh was wild.
"I've hated that weasel for years! You did me a favor!"
Then his face darkened.
He hurled his wine jug to the floor.
CLANG.
"You've made your money."
"You've made your name."
Robert descended from the throne. His massive bulk radiated menace.
"Now it's time to work for your king!"
His bloodshot eyes locked onto Lynn.
"I've had Grand Maester Pycelle prepare a ship—the best ship in Westeros!"
"Fifty of the finest royal sailors!"
"When do you leave?"
"I want the heads of those Targaryen whelps! NOW!"
The king's fury was a volcano about to erupt.
Lynn's heart sank.
He couldn't delay anymore.
If Robert's patience ran out, all his wealth and fame would turn to ash.
"Your Grace can rest easy."
Lynn knelt.
"Within half a month, I will depart. And I will bring you the heads of the Targaryen remnants."
"GOOD! Good! GOOD!"
Robert said it three times.
He pulled Lynn to his feet. Clapped his shoulder hard.
"I'll be waiting for your good news!"
"When you return, I'll throw you an even bigger feast!"
Lynn left the throne room.
The heavy oak doors closed behind him. Shut out the stench of wine.
Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, painting the corridor in shifting colors.
A familiar figure appeared at the end of the hall.
Varys.
The Spider looked harmless as ever. Hands tucked in his sleeves. A gentle smile on his face.
"Congratulations, brave Ser Lynn."
His voice was silk.
"You're now the richest man in King's Landing."
"Not for long."
Lynn didn't stop walking.
"Oh?"
Varys fell into step beside him.
"Are you planning to burn all that gold?"
Lynn smiled. Said nothing.
Varys's smile deepened.
"Don't forget our arrangement."
Lynn stopped.
He turned. Met Varys's bottomless gaze.
"Of course, Lord Varys."
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