Littlefinger had intended to step into the fair, white city of Myr, but the customs envoy who met him informed that the ruler would instead receive him in the newly established Wolf's Lair, deep within the disputed lands.
"Wolf's den… wolf pack…" Littlefinger muttered under his breath, feeling a faint chill. The very words filled him with unease. Could it be that the shadow of House Stark still lingered to haunt him? The old wound left by that northern family seemed to reopen in his memory, as sharp as ever.
Weary from his long journey, Littlefinger finally arrived at the Wolf's Den—the heart of this new kingdom. It resembled less a castle and more a vast military camp.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Petyr!" greeted a middle-aged man with the unmistakable features of the North. Jorah Mormont had exchanged his old armor for a greyish-white leather suit, though the proud sigil of the great bear still gleamed upon his chest.
Jorah led Littlefinger through the bustling camp surrounding the Wolf's Lair. "The Regent awaits you, good messenger of the Iron Throne."
"If I'm not mistaken, you must be Lord Jorah!" said Littlefinger with a smile. "I still remember your valorous deeds from days long past."
"That was another life," Jorah replied coolly. "Now I am only Jorah—the loyal servant of the Consul."
The big bear's expression was steady, yet his eyes held a quiet contempt. He had heard tales of this smooth-tongued man—his challenge against Brandon Stark, his schemes in King's Landing, and how he rose by charming the likes of Lady Lysa.
But Littlefinger only smiled. "These stubborn Northerners," he thought to himself. "Always proud, always blunt. If the king's bastard grows up among them, he'll be another Brandon the Wolf—straightforward and easy to manipulate."
As they passed through the camp, Littlefinger's sharp eyes took in every detail. Grey and white banners fluttered across the barracks. The air rang with the clang of steel and the clash of spears. Soldiers drilled in formation, preparing for war.
The stronger men—broad-shouldered and fierce-eyed—wore armor marked with the direwolf sigil; they were the elite Wolf Pack soldiers. The leaner ones, clad in lighter chain or tanned leather, were clearly freed slaves and common recruits from across the lands.
Regardless of their origins, their numbers were immense—tens of thousands of trained fighters. Coupled with the wealth of Myr and a growing fleet on the Narrow Sea, this new power could indeed make the Iron Throne tremble.
"The game was already chaos enough—wolves, lions, stags, eagles, fish!" Littlefinger mused. "I only meant to involve the direwolves, yet now wild stags from across the sea leap into the fray. Very well then. I must win—and take my share."
---
The ruling tent at the camp's center was vast but austere. Inside, Littlefinger saw a massive warhammer resting beside a steel shield marked with a rough, iron mask.
"So, the bastard truly is his father's son," Littlefinger thought grimly, as an Unsullied servant pulled aside the curtain for him to enter.
"I am Petyr Baelish, Treasurer of the Council and envoy of the Iron Throne," he began with practiced grace, bowing low. "It is an honor to meet Lord Gendry—the Lord of the Contested Lands, of Myr, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea."
He wore his signature heavy cloak fastened with a silver mockingbird.
Across from him stood a tall, broad-shouldered young man. For a fleeting moment, Littlefinger thought he saw Renly Baratheon—but the resemblance ended quickly. This man's chin was firmer, his brows thicker, his expression harder. His short dark hair and muscular frame spoke of a blacksmith's life, not a nobleman's ease.
"So this is Robert's bastard," Littlefinger noted silently. "A hammer instead of a crown suits him better."
Before Gendry could speak, an old man with a mane of white hair at his side addressed Littlefinger.
"I bring gold, fine wine, and a father's love," Littlefinger announced smoothly, raising his voice. "His Grace offers you a fief on the Blackwater River and a title of your own!"
A ripple of laughter filled the tent. To these men, such an offer sounded like an insult.
"And what are the conditions?" Gendry asked, his voice calm but edged with steel. The laughter died at once.
"It would be… difficult for you to harbor both Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen," Littlefinger said carefully. "But if one were to be sent away, it would not harm your honor—and would ease the Iron Throne's mind. I've heard Tyrosh and Lys are hiring sellswords; surely the Commander-in-Chief could use more friends."
Gendry gave a short, cold laugh. "The Iron Throne's generosity overwhelms me. I have no choice but to decline."
Exactly as he expected, Littlefinger thought. This was never about agreement. It was about leverage—and he had come with too few cards to play.
No matter. Once the scandals in King's Landing came to light, the so-called Mercenary King across the Narrow Sea would find himself entangled as well.
"Why didn't Jon Arryn come himself?" Gendry asked suddenly.
"The Prime Minister bears the burden of seven kingdoms," Littlefinger replied quickly. "Age and illness keep him from travel. As his loyal servant, I have come in his stead."
Gendry's lips curved faintly. "As expected of Littlefinger—your silver tongue truly shines. Why not stay a few more days? I'm in need of a finance minister, and they say you can make gold grow from gold."
"Commander, I—" Littlefinger stammered.
"Would you refuse my invitation, Lord Petyr?" Gendry rose to his feet, towering over him.
A cold shiver ran down Littlefinger's spine. Around him, the burly northern officers and silent Unsullied guards watched with stony faces. His strength lay in whispers and gold, not in a camp of warriors across the sea. If he were taken here, he would vanish from the world of power he'd built in King's Landing and the Vale.
"Your Highness," he said quickly, forcing a smile, "I am honored by your generosity—but your good father still requires my service. I remain the Chancellor of the Exchequer."
"I see," Gendry said. "A loyal servant indeed."
"Jorah," he added with a wry grin, "perhaps we should present Lord Petyr with a parting gift."
Before Littlefinger could react, Jorah seized him by the shoulder. Outside, his own guards from King's Landing were already subdued.
They dragged him to three enormous catapults, relics of the siege of Myr—now aimed toward the distant horizon.
"In the past, these beauties were called the 'Three Maidens of Myr,'" Jorah remarked grimly.
"What—what are you doing? I'm here under a flag of peace!" Littlefinger cried, struggling as wolf soldiers bound his hands.
The great machines groaned as the ropes tightened, the sound sharp and metallic in the air.
"Don't joke like that! Commander-in-Chief, I protest—stop this madness!" Littlefinger screamed, his voice breaking.
But the rumbling continued, relentless. The wind howled through his hair as the catapult arm strained higher.
Tears stung his eyes. That same sense of helpless terror flooded back—the memory of a young man bleeding under Brandon Stark's sword, of realizing too late that schemes and words mean nothing before raw strength.
"This isn't King's Landing," he thought bitterly. "No webs, no whispers—only steel."
Then, desperate, he shouted, "Wait! I bring news—terrible news from King's Landing! Jon Arryn is dying! Commander, forgive me—this intelligence is worth more than gold!"
At once, the order came to stop. Shaking and pale, Littlefinger was dragged back into the tent. Only Gendry and a few Unsullied remained.
"I suspected as much," Gendry said quietly, his tone unreadable. "But you are loyal indeed—to survive and still serve."
"Poor Jon…" Littlefinger muttered. "With me and Lady Lysa by his side, his days are surely numbered. When the Hand dies, King's Landing will burn."
Jon Arryn had been Robert's loyal friend, but never Gendry's. The realm would soon lose its balance, and in the chaos, new powers would rise.
Gendry leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I don't care for your intrigues, Baelish. Remember this—you stand in the Wolf's camp now."
Littlefinger bowed deeply, forcing a trembling smile. "Yes, Commander. I understand."
Outside, the camp roared with the sound of hammers and marching feet. The Wolf Pack was preparing for war. And Petyr Baelish, once the master of whispers, had learned a painful truth: across the Narrow Sea, the game was played not with words—but with iron.
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