Chapter 106

Petyr Baelish stood on the deck, staring indifferently at the ship’s path ahead. The mist over the sea gradually receded as the June Flower glided smoothly forward, slicing through the gray-green waters. Soon, a jagged ridge of rocky peaks rose from the surface, and the colossal figure of the Titan of Braavos came into view.

This towering humanoid fortress had stood guard for centuries. Its stone legs straddled the gaps in the rocky ridge, each foot firmly planted on a massive boulder, seemingly carved from the black granite of the surrounding reefs. It wore a green bronze war skirt around its waist, a bronze breastplate over its chest, and a half-helm crowned its head. Its flowing hair was made of dyed green ropes, its eyes were cavernous hollows, and within them, great fires burned. One hand rested on the ridge, gripping a massive boulder with bronze fingers, while the other reached toward the sky, clutching the hilt of a broken sword.

The Titan of Braavos—perhaps the largest humanoid statue in the world—was a marvel to behold, even without considering its military significance. Yet Petyr paid it little attention. This was far from his first time in Braavos. In fact, his great-grandfather had been a Braavosi sellsword, who later fathered a son—Petyr’s grandfather—who swore fealty to House Reyne and became a knight. Thus, House Baelish was born in Westeros.

To honor the land where his great-grandfather had been born, trained, and grown to adulthood, Petyr’s grandfather had chosen the Titan’s visage as the Baelish sigil. Ironic, really. For all the grandeur of the Titan, why couldn’t its likeness have passed down to Petyr’s bloodline? If only he had been born as towering and imposing as the Titan itself, he wouldn’t have been bullied his entire youth or saddled with the mocking nickname “Littlefinger.”

Littlefinger. The name had first come from Catelyn. Only the Seven knew how much he’d adored hearing her call him that. Those moments had been sweet and warm, but alas…

Petyr shook his head, dismissing the memory. He knew better than to dwell on the past. Even if he had been tall and strong, the moment he decided to compete with Brandon Stark for Catelyn’s love, he was destined to fail. It had nothing to do with his stature or skill with a blade, and everything to do with class. People couldn’t choose the circumstances of their birth.

Petyr never wasted time on meaningless regrets. Instead, his mind now focused on uncovering who was targeting him in the shadows.

The so-called “testimony of Ser Hugh” was the hammer that had shattered his plans and ambitions, but it was the one wielding that hammer who truly terrified him. Without leaving any trace of their involvement, they had struck at the perfect moment and with precision so lethal it exposed Petyr’s every weakness. Not only had they ruined his reputation, but they’d dismantled all his contingency plans.

…

Yes, it was true: Petyr had orchestrated Jon Arryn’s death. But his original plan had been different. He had intended to manipulate Cersei into poisoning Jon Arryn. However, that foolish woman had delayed until Jon was ready to expose her and Jaime’s affair to Robert, rallying six of the Seven Kingdoms to wage war against the Lannisters. Only then had Petyr been forced to play his trump card—Lysa Arryn—to cover for her failure.

Had he waited any longer, the Lannisters would have been crushed by the old hawk of the Vale. Westeros would have seen a brief war, followed by decades of peace. But Jon’s death was no tragedy; a man oblivious to the fact that his wife was dreaming of running away with another man deserved his fate.

…

Ser Hugh? Petyr had orchestrated his death too, intending to throw Eddard Stark’s investigation off track and redirect suspicion toward the Lannisters. The plan was simple enough: first, Petyr had encouraged Robert to knight Hugh for his years of service to Jon Arryn. Then, using a few underhanded tricks, he had helped the young man gain the funds and equipment needed to compete in the tourney. Finally, a few whispered suggestions in Cersei’s ear had convinced her that Hugh might know her secret with Jaime.

It was laughably easy. Cersei had taken the bait and ordered Gregor Clegane—practically wearing a Lannister banner on his forehead—to kill Hugh in the joust. Petyr hadn’t even needed to lift a finger. Eddard Stark, ever the stubborn northerner, had immediately begun suspecting the Lannisters.

The plan had encountered minor hiccups but had mostly proceeded smoothly. A few nudges would have been enough to ignite a full-scale conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters. Then, Petyr would maneuver events to eliminate Robert, pit the Baratheon brothers against each other, and leave the realm fractured. He would back whichever side seemed likely to triumph, climbing to power amid the chaos.

But the sudden emergence of “Ser Hugh’s testimony” had obliterated everything. The letters weren’t written by Hugh. Petyr hadn’t even met Lysa during his time in King’s Landing, not even for their secret nighttime discussions conducted through hidden passages. Who could have uncovered this?

Not Cersei or Eddard—they lacked the wit and subtlety. Pycelle was just Cersei’s lapdog, too busy basking in his own perceived wisdom. Renly was clueless, and Stannis, though grim and relentless, was preparing to march against the Lannisters, confident of his claim to the throne. If he had known anything, he wouldn’t have let Jon Arryn’s murder go unpunished.

Could it be Varys?

The Spider had always been an enigma, driven by motives Petyr couldn’t fully grasp. Like Petyr, Varys seemed uninterested in seeing the Lannisters fall too soon. When Jon Arryn and Stannis began investigating Robert’s bastards and Cersei’s children, Varys had even fed information to Cersei to delay the investigation.

There was no denying that Varys excelled at gathering intelligence. But Jon’s poisoning had been carried out solely by Petyr and Lysa. If Varys had known despite all of Petyr’s precautions, then he wasn’t a spider—he was a god.

Petyr’s instincts told him it wasn’t Varys, but with no better suspects, he decided to pin the blame on him anyway. A visible enemy, no matter how formidable, was better than an unseen phantom.

The Vale, which had once been Petyr’s fallback plan, was now a death trap thanks to the chaos of the “Justice Alliance.” The only silver lining was that this mess had inadvertently freed Petyr from his house arrest in King’s Landing.

And now, here he was, tasked with borrowing money from the Iron Bank on behalf of the king. These arrogant nobles still underestimated him, treating him as nothing more than a convenient tool.

No matter who won this rebellion, Westeros had become a treacherous land. Petyr knew he could never return. As for the Iron Bank’s money, even a fool wouldn’t dare misuse it. Fortunately, Petyr had secret assets in Braavos. Once sold, they would fund his comfortable retirement—or perhaps even his return to the game.

Viserys Targaryen was a tempting option for his schemes, though reports suggested the exiled prince was as foolish as he was arrogant. But those plans could wait. For now, Petyr had rage to vent—and if Varys truly sought peace in the Seven Kingdoms, Petyr would ensure that peace was shattered.

He had been undone by rumors. It was only fitting that he return the favor in kind.

…

As the June Flower approached the Titan, its shadow loomed over them, vast and all-encompassing. They sailed into the port of Braavos, the waters foaming white beneath the ship.

Petyr Baelish ended his thoughts and turned to face the two attendants Robert had sent to “escort” him. With a genial smile, he spoke, “The one repaying this loan is His Grace the King, but as the representatives here, we are the honored guests. The Iron Bank will undoubtedly have accommodations prepared for us. Braavosi women are famous the world over—perhaps we can’t afford the finest courtesans, but surely we can enjoy something more modest. My treat. You’ve worked hard on this journey. Take the opportunity to relax.”