Chapter 14 – Littlefinger's Scheme (2)
Ser Rodrik spoke hesitantly, "It should be in preparation for the wildlings… and the Others. Recently, Saelen captured a wildling and learned from her that the wildlings are gathering to attack the Wall, and that the Others have reappeared. After discussing it with Lord Stark, he decided to personally venture beyond the Wall to verify whether the reports were true."
"If the information proves accurate, Lord Stark will surely summon the North's bannermen to Winterfell to confront the wildling threat. That is likely why Saelen has begun recruiting and training so many troops—to be ready to answer that call."
Yes.
He is raising these forces to answer Ned's summons—to face the wildlings and the Others.
That was what Catelyn told herself.
Yet another voice whispered in her mind:
He is guarding against you.
Catelyn silently begged the gods for mercy. She hated this feeling—this gnawing uncertainty, this poison of doubt.
Sensing her unease, Ser Rodrik tried to reassure her.
"My lady, there is no need for concern. I watched Saelen grow up. He is a man of honor. If he harbored any treacherous intent, he would never have volunteered to risk his life beyond the Wall."
Catelyn stared ahead, lost in thought, offering no response.
"Lady Stark, my apologies. I shall take my leave now."
Littlefinger spoke with a polite smile.
"I will be staying in Winterfell for several days. Should you need anything at all, do not hesitate to seek me out."
With a bow, Petyr Baelish departed.
Truly, Littlefinger lived up to his reputation as the most insidious schemer in Westeros. Wherever he went, trouble followed. Every word he spoke, every action he took, carried hidden intent.
Saelen noticed it as well.
The moment he saw Littlefinger, his guard had gone up. His first instinct was that Baelish had come for him. When had Littlefinger arrived at Winterfell? And seeing how smoothly he spoke with Catelyn… it set off alarms in Saelen's mind.
So he's sowing discord again.
As Saelen's thoughts wandered, Robb and Jon seized the opening and launched a fierce counterattack, briefly pushing him onto the defensive. Saelen recovered instantly—but by then, he had already lost interest in continuing.
With a few swift exchanges, the bout ended.
Robb and Jon were left stunned. One moment they held the advantage; the next, they had been decisively defeated.
"Let's end it here for today," Saelen said calmly. "I'm tired. I'll go rest."
He nodded to them and left the training yard. Robb and Jon, still replaying the clash in their minds, only nodded back, saying nothing.
Saelen had barely stepped out of the yard when a voice called after him.
"Ser Saelen."
Littlefinger emerged from the side, smiling faintly.
"I have been waiting for you for quite some time. Might I trouble you for a moment?"
"Lord Baelish?" Saelen replied in mild surprise. "What business do you have with me?"
I hadn't even gone looking for him—and he's come straight to me.
Littlefinger's smile widened as he offered a smooth compliment.
"You grow stronger by the day, Ser Saelen. Is there anyone left in Westeros who can truly stand against you?"
"If you have something to say, say it," Saelen replied, spreading his hands helplessly. "As you can see, I'm drenched in sweat. I'm not here for idle chatter."
"Of course," Littlefinger nodded agreeably.
Then, casually, as if making small talk, he said:
"Ser Saelen… your porcelain business is thriving, isn't it?"
Saelen was momentarily puzzled. Why had the conversation circled back to porcelain again?
Still, he replied calmly,
"My little business hardly compares to yours, my lord. The brothels you own in King's Landing bring in gold every day—and they also help you uncover secrets most people would never hear."
Littlefinger's heart skipped a beat.
So he's wary of me already.
Seeing no point in idle banter, Littlefinger abandoned the small talk and went straight to the point.
"Ser Saelen, King Robert intends to celebrate Prince Joffrey's twelfth name day with a grand tourney in King's Landing. Unfortunately, the Iron Throne is already drowning in debt."
"As Robert's Master of Coin, I can only run about the realm, begging and borrowing to raise the necessary funds."
"Oh?" Saelen spread his hands helplessly. "So you've come to borrow money. Regrettably, I have none to spare either. My lands are currently mobilizing to deal with the wildling threat—I simply can't support the Iron Throne."
He even patted his clothes, as if to prove he didn't carry so much as a single gold dragon.
Littlefinger ignored the display entirely.
If you're poor, then Westeros has no rich men at all.
"Lord Stark gave me the same answer," Littlefinger said lightly. "But Ser Saelen, you are a knight personally anointed by King Robert. Every tourney he has held—weren't all the champion's purses claimed by you?"
He smiled thinly.
"Others may not know the exact sums, but I do. After all, I was the one who scraped those gold dragons together."
Saelen sighed inwardly. Now he's settling old accounts.
Put that way, refusing outright did sound… ungrateful.
"So," Saelen asked, "how much do you need?"
"One hundred thousand gold dragons."
Petyr Baelish raised both hands, fingers spread.
Saelen immediately regretted asking.
One hundred thousand gold dragons—enough to feed, arm, and pay his army for months. The man might as well have asked him to start a war.
He thought for a moment, then raised five fingers.
"Fifty thousand. I'll give you fifty thousand—no more."
Littlefinger considered it. "How about eighty thousand, Ser Saelen?"
Saelen turned and walked away without a word.
Littlefinger froze.
That's not how negotiations are supposed to go.
He hurried after him. "Very well! Fifty thousand it is."
Saelen finally turned back.
"Then you'll have to send someone to collect it from Edd Castle, Lord Baelish. I don't happen to carry fifty thousand gold dragons on my person."
Littlefinger hesitated, then declined politely.
"I still have business to attend to in Winterfell. Please have your people deliver it instead."
Go to your castle?
Into a wolf's den?
Eddard Stark was bound by honor—but Saelen? That was another matter entirely.
Saelen sighed with exaggerated regret.
"What a pity. I was hoping to invite you to visit my castle."
"Next time, certainly," Littlefinger replied with matching politeness.
Saelen wasn't finished.
"Lord Baelish, Joffrey is Lord Tywin's grandson. Why not seek gold from Lord Tywin instead of traveling all the way to the North?"
"After all," Saelen added casually, "they say even the shit Lord Tywin squeezes out is made of gold."
Littlefinger had already achieved his goal. His familiar smile returned at once.
"Careful, Ser Saelen. Lord Tywin does not appreciate that saying. The last man who repeated it—if I recall correctly—is still rotting in a dungeon beneath Casterly Rock."
Saelen smiled faintly.
"And would you report me, my lord?"
You would, Saelen thought. And you'd embellish it, too—if the price were right.
He had long suspected that the rumor branding him as Eddard Stark's bastard—spread across all of Westeros—might have been Littlefinger's handiwork. He'd lacked proof, so he'd held his hand.
If he runs to Tywin now… all the better. Then I'll have a reason.
"That depends," Littlefinger replied smoothly, "on whether Lord Tywin is willing to pay a high enough price."
Saelen's eyes narrowed. Then he laughed.
"Then I wish you a safe journey home, Lord Baelish. The North isn't very peaceful these days—wildlings roam freely. One never knows what might happen."
He waved casually and turned away.
Littlefinger remained rooted in place, his smile stiff and frozen.
A moment later, he forced it back into place—and walked off in the opposite direction.