For the moment, the crowned stag still enjoyed the appearance of invincibility.
That much was clear to Petyr Baelish.
Lord Tywin Lannister had won a battle at the Crossing, yes—but what kind of victory was it? A costly, hollow triumph. Men had died in droves, and the Northern army had thrown expendable troops into the slaughter without hesitation. Worse still, the casualty exchange had shaken Lannister morale.
Most nobles knew only the songs and rumors.
Littlefinger knew the truth.
"The Boy Blacksmith…" Petyr muttered under his breath. "He has ruined every calculation I made."
Standing over a table covered in maps, he pressed one finger sharply onto Harrenhal.
"What are you thinking now, boy? Why are you not marching south?"
The war should have entered a clean new stage. Instead, it had become tangled, unpredictable, and dangerous.
Jaime Lannister had been badly wounded.
Riverrun had been relieved.
Harrenhal had fallen.
Now the combined strength of wolf, trout, and stag was stronger than Tywin's field army, and morale favored them as well.
Gendry—the so-called Boy Blacksmith—had solved two of the North's greatest weaknesses in a single stroke: money and command.
He had gathered elite troops and expendable shock forces at Harrenhal to form the spearhead of a southern campaign. Meanwhile, the Young Wolf and Brynden Blackfish ravaged the western front, raiding Lannister lands, burning stores, and severing supply lines.
And to the east, the Crackclaw Point men were stirring.
Tywin Lannister, once the hunter, was now becoming prey.
Petyr's eyes shifted southward to King's Landing.
"How long can the capital hold?"
The Crownlands formed a broad arc around the city like the jaws of a beast. If the northern armies advanced, the men of Crackclaw Point rose, and Renly or Stannis marched north, King's Landing would be surrounded.
Completely.
The host gathering under Gendry included his own soldiers from the Two Cities, forces from Bronze Yohn Royce of the Vale, House Redfort, and other eager allies.
Petyr sneered.
"Bronze Yohn… arrogant as ever. And tied to the Starks by marriage."
"And Redfort? That fool must think wedding a princess is within reach."
He knew the Vale lords well.
Proud.
Rigid.
Hungry.
Yohn Royce had long gathered influence, openly dissatisfied with Lysa Arryn's foolish rule. Now he had sent men to Harrenhal without permission.
But Petyr was not worried.
"Let them feel triumphant for now," he murmured. "I still have friends in Gulltown. I still have friends in the Vale."
His finger moved again.
Then stopped.
"Grain."
That was the true issue.
Always grain.
If the Crackclaw men swept out of their marshes and forests, raiding the farmlands of the Crownlands, King's Landing would face disaster. Tywin could not divide his forces again. The city already strained under shortages.
One push would be enough.
Petyr knew how close the capital already stood to chaos.
More than half the city's food came through lands like Rosby and Stokeworth. If those routes were disrupted, the city would boil over.
He remembered all too well what hunger could do.
Mobs tearing nobles apart.
Holy men dragged through streets.
Women snatched away.
The city was dry tinder.
It only needed a spark.
"No wonder the bastard remains calm," Petyr said softly.
"His cruelty exceeds Robert's."
He was beginning to understand Gendry's strategy.
Let Renly and Stannis weaken each other.
Let Tywin bleed in the Riverlands.
Let the city starve.
Then whoever survived would inherit ruin.
Even Tyrion Lannister, clever as he was, could not solve famine with wildfire.
The capital was doomed to madness.
Petyr sighed and leaned back.
The Tyrell army could not arrive quickly enough.
Dorne remained cautious.
Prince Doran Martell stirred, but slowly.
The Reach watched mountain passes.
And the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea wasted time with elections, speeches, and vanity while opportunity slipped away.
Fools.
The time for choosing had come.
Should he remain near the capital and profit from its collapse?
Or retreat to the Vale with Sansa Stark and wait for the realm to tear itself apart?
A knock came at the door.
Rosso entered.
"My lord, you were correct. A Braavosi vessel named Titan is in harbor. Cargo is being loaded onto smaller boats. They prepare to depart."
"Excellent."
Petyr smiled thinly.
"I shall speak with the captain myself."
If the winds favored him, he would make his exit appear graceful and innocent.
"Let the fools in King's Landing destroy one another," he said.
"We shall prepare to leave."
The Vale was safety.
Without dragons, the Eyrie was nearly untouchable.
Many great commanders had broken themselves upon the Mountains of the Moon or the Bloody Gate.
Who could challenge it now?
Petyr imagined the wars to come.
The North marching south.
Renly or Stannis marching north.
Battles at Harrenhal.
Battles around the capital.
Riots inside the walls.
Wildfire in the streets.
No one would emerge unscathed.
And he would be elsewhere.
Comfortable.
Protected.
Necessary.
Rosso hesitated.
"My lord… the autumn storms. Travel may be dangerous."
That was true.
Autumn in Westeros brought endless rain, flooded rivers, and treacherous seas.
Petyr waved a hand dismissively.
"In King's Landing, a far greater storm is coming."
Then he smiled again.
"Tell me, Rosso—who has the biggest mouth in the city?"
Rosso thought for a moment.
"The Beggars' Guild?"
"Correct. But not only them."
Petyr's grin widened.
"There are also the whores."
"They carry secrets faster than ravens."
He stepped toward the window.
"Spread word through them all. Tell them Rosby and Stokeworth are under attack. Tell them wild men burn fields and granaries."
Rosso blinked.
"Should we send men to make it true?"
"No need."
Petyr chuckled.
"Once people see smoke, they imagine fire everywhere."
"The mob requires only a whisper."
"But timing matters."
"We spread these tales only after I have publicly departed."
"So none may connect me to what follows."
Rosso nodded slowly.
"Then the city will fall into chaos."
"Perhaps."
Petyr shrugged.
"What has that to do with us?"
He moved back to the map.
"Our dear king will soon hear new petitions, new complaints, new demands."
"And I shall be gone."
He turned to Rosso again.
"Pack warm clothing."
"The Eyrie is cold, and the lords there are colder."
"But I have plans for you."
Rosso knelt instantly.
"My lord?"
"When the time is right, I shall make you Captain of the Guard at the Eyrie."
Rosso looked stunned.
"I am only a sellsword. A bastard."
"You are useful," Petyr replied.
"That matters more."
"One day I may even secure you a knighthood."
Rosso's eyes filled with gratitude.
Petyr hid his amusement.
Loyalty purchased cheaply was the finest kind.
"If I return to the Vale," he thought, "Harrenhal may remain an empty title—but Vale grain, Vale steel, Vale armies… those are real."
He had no love for honors without substance.
That was why Harrenhal never tempted him.
A grand castle meant little if it could not be held.
Real power lay in leverage.
In hunger.
In fear.
In inheritance.
Rosso rose and left.
Petyr poured himself wine.
"The Imp," he murmured, lifting the cup, "allow me one final gift before I depart."
He intended to sail outward publicly toward Gulltown, then linger offshore near King's Landing. If riots erupted, Ser Dontos might spirit Sansa Stark away in the confusion and deliver her neatly into Petyr's hands.
Then Dontos would die.
Evidence would vanish.
And Petyr would sail to the Fingers with his prize.
Perfect.
As for the Vale lords who favored Bronze Yohn Royce?
They all had weaknesses.
Old men died.
Poor men could be bought.
Corrupt men could be bribed.
Lonely men could be tempted.
Greedy men could be led.
Even the proud House Corbray brothers had needs easily exploited.
Then there was Lysa.
"You are next," Petyr whispered.
Lysa Arryn loved him obsessively.
Which made her dangerous.
He would need her for a time—to secure rule of the Vale, diminish Royce's faction, and legitimize his position.
After that?
Accidents happened.
Petyr Baelish had risen all his life through betrayal.
The Tullys had sheltered his family.
He repaid them by harming Eddard Stark and Catelyn.
Jon Arryn had elevated him.
He repaid him with poison.
Lysa adored him.
He already planned her end.
House Baelish itself was built on ambition.
His grandfather had been a hedge knight.
His father, a minor noble of no consequence.
Petyr inherited only bleak rocks on the Fingers.
Yet others mistook him for harmless.
That was always their final mistake.
He remembered Riverrun.
The lower yard.
Brandon Stark's sword.
Catelyn's handkerchief given elsewhere.
The laughter.
The humiliation.
That was where one Petyr died.
And another was born.
A man who learned the world respected daggers more than dreams.
He drank deeply and smiled into the candlelight.
"I fight for no house," he said softly.
"I fight for myself."
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