"Lord Stark, the Crown is currently more than six million gold dragons in debt," Littlefinger said, his voice soft and unhurried, as though he were reciting a shopping list rather than revealing the financial ruin of a kingdom. "House Lannister is our largest creditor—three million gold dragons owed directly to Lord Tywin. But they are not the only ones we've borrowed from. Lord Tyrell has offered his coffers, the Iron Bank of Braavos extended several substantial loans, and a handful of Tyroshi merchant houses have also been… generous. Recently I looked toward the Faith for additional revenue, but the High Septon negotiates like a Dornish fishmonger—he squeezes every last copper."
The number hit Eddard Stark like a mailed fist to the chest. Six million. He had known the Crown was in debt—any lord with ears in Westeros had heard whispers—but he had not imagined a number so appalling. The North was harsh and unyielding; even as a Great Lord, he would never dare such extravagance. Only a king could squander so fearlessly.
"Aerys left behind vaults full of gold and silver," Eddard said sharply. "How in the Seven Hells did it come to this?"
Littlefinger smiled faintly. "The Master of Coin finds money, Lord Stark. The King and the Hand spend it."
Eddard fell silent. He could not blame Jon Arryn, not now, not when the old man lay in his tomb. And Robert—though he had loved and trusted his foster father—had never listened to caution.
"My royal brother loves tourneys," Lord Renly added cheerfully, folding his hands behind his back. "And exotic delicacies, and hunting feasts, and anything that lets him forget what he calls 'counting coppers.'"
Littlefinger tilted his head. "Speaking of tourneys… gentlemen, how much do you suppose it costs to host one dedicated to the new Hand of the King?"
Renly smiled knowingly. "The champion's purse is fifty thousand gold dragons. The runner-up earns thirty thousand. The melee champion gets the same, and the archery victor twenty thousand."
"One hundred and thirty thousand gold dragons," Littlefinger concluded with a sigh. "And His Majesty has been more generous than usual. Perhaps he wished to impress Lord Eddard with his grandeur. But of course, that doesn't include expenses for feasts, singers, cooks, carpenters, maids, actors, and jesters."
"We aren't short on jesters," Renly said lightly. "My brother insists every war must first be announced by wasting coin on champions."
"And war," Eddard muttered, "will drain gold faster than any feast. If the Triarchy and the Iron Throne come to blows, gold will flow like water spilled on the ground."
Littlefinger shrugged. "War is costly."
Eddard felt a deep weariness settle over him. A hundred and thirty thousand gold dragons—for games. In the North, five gold dragons could purchase a full suit of sturdy plate armor. In the North, five gold dragons could feed dozens for a winter. Winter—the true winter—could arrive any year now, and the realm was tossing its wealth into the wind.
"I will speak to His Majesty," Eddard said quietly. "The Crown cannot afford this."
Even as he spoke, he felt his isolation. In King's Landing, amidst flatterers, schemers, and fools, it was nearly impossible to tell friend from foe.
"It's wise to talk to him," Renly agreed, "but we should prepare for the worst."
Grand Maester Pycelle, who had been nodding off, suddenly wheezed awake. "Ahem—yes, yes. In times such as these, before a great war, a certain… expenditure… may be necessary. If we must fight traitors and the remnants of the Mad King's brood—"
Eddard shot him a cold look. Pycelle's loyalties were no secret. Among the King's small council, none bent so deeply toward House Lannister. And years ago, when King's Landing had fallen, it was Pycelle who had urged Aerys to open the gates to the lions—inviting slaughter.
A shadow lay across the realm: the shadow of Targaryen exiles, and the shadow of Robert's bastards. In Eddard's mind, a young antlered giant—Robert in his glory—brandished a sword beside three dragons. But that vision felt distant. Robert grew older and softer, and the capital grew restless and divided. Could they prevail against another rebellion? Eddard doubted it. He needed to deal with the present danger—the tightening noose of House Lannister.
"That will be all for now," Eddard said at last, feeling drained. The others exchanged looks—perhaps he had been too stern. "This is not Winterfell," he reminded himself. "I am not lord here. I am merely one voice among many."
"My lords," he continued more gently, "forgive me. I am tired. Let us adjourn until tomorrow."
He rose without waiting for approval and left the chamber.
Outside, the courtyard was chaos. Knights, banners, servants, and carriages churned through the mud. Horses stamped and whinnied. The city was bursting at the seams.
The King, someone told him, was still on his way.
"Still?" Eddard murmured. A sense of helplessness gnawed at him. The King was hardly present, hardly ruling. He spent more time hunting or feasting than managing the realm. In King's Landing, money, soldiers, and taxes had turned into toys for others—Renly, the Lannisters, and Littlefinger.
"One hundred men are not enough," Eddard thought grimly. His household guard could hold one gate—two at best—but not the city.
He crossed the outer yard, passed beneath the gatehouse, and entered the inner court. He headed toward the Tower of the Hand—until Littlefinger appeared at his side like a shadow.
"Stark," he said with a smile, "you're going the wrong way. Follow me."
Eddard's jaw tightened. Beneath that smile could be resentment—or malice.
Still, he followed.
Littlefinger led him not upward, but down twisting stairs, through a narrow sunken court, then along a forgotten corridor lined with old suits of Targaryen armor—black steel forged into the likeness of dragons, scales set into the helms. Dust coated everything. Ghosts of an old dynasty.
"This is not the way to my chambers," Eddard said.
"Did I say it was?" Littlefinger asked lightly. "I'm taking you to the dungeons, Stark. I plan to slit your throat and seal you into a wall."
Eddard glared.
"Relax," Littlefinger said. "Your wife awaits you."
---
At the Wolf's Den — Across the Narrow Sea
In the Map Room, Gendry stood beneath a vast Myrish tapestry depicting the known world in exquisite detail. The visitors from Claw Peninsula had departed hours earlier, carrying armor, weapons, grain, and quiet warnings.
The Triarchy's fleets controlled large stretches of the sea now, and Moros's black-ship task force kept their operations safe.
Gendry's eyes traced the Crownlands—an arc of territory around Blackwater Bay. King's Landing lay at the heart of that crescent, where the Blackwater Rush met the sea.
"Lord Stark should be in King's Landing by now," Qyburn said. "The new Hand of the King."
Gendry nodded. Jon Arryn's death had set the game in motion; the gears of fate were turning. And the wolf had entered the lion's den.
"Stark's arrival will only worsen tensions," the Handsome Man said. "House Lannister has ruled King's Landing in all but name for years. When the lion and the wolf clash, chaos will follow."
"Stark may not survive long," Jorah warned. "The old gods do not protect northern men who travel south."
Silence fell. After all—whom else could Robert trust?
"The King blundered," Gendry said. "If the Crownlands, Stormlands, and Dragonstone had remained united, House Baratheon's strength would be unmatched. Instead, they are split among three brothers—Robert, Renly, and Stannis."
"That division is our opportunity," Qyburn murmured.
Jorah studied the map carefully. "The Crownlands lack natural defenses. King's Landing is high-walled and easily supplied by sea. Around it are marshes and pine forests in the Claw Peninsula. Elsewhere, the land is flat and open. The Stormlands are worse—rugged mountains inland, jagged coasts, dense jungles."
"Naval supremacy is what matters," Moros said. "With it, we can land troops anywhere. But Stannis's Royal Fleet remains an obstacle."
Gendry turned to him. "And your plan?"
"Your Highness, Dragonstone was House Targaryen's ancient seat. Most of the Royal Fleet is anchored there. I propose we raid Dragonstone, seize it as a landing base, and blockade King's Landing completely."
Gendry studied the map. Three possible routes threatened King's Landing:
• North, through the Claw Peninsula,
• Middle, by taking Dragonstone and cutting off sea access,
• South, by capturing Storm's End and pushing upward.
"Stannis will not fall easily," Jorah warned. "I've known him—he's iron. And a blockade will anger Braavos and the free cities."
"Renly is the greater issue," the Handsome Man countered. "With the Reach behind him, his gold and manpower could dwarf Stannis. Stannis has no popularity, and his lands are thinly settled."
"Wherever our banners fly, supporters will emerge," Qyburn said. "The Crownlands, the Riverlands, even the Stormlands. Many remain loyal to the old blood."
Gendry nodded slowly. "You are all correct. But the question remains—how do I defeat both Renly and Stannis?"
Gold could buy swords—but magic could shape destiny.
And the Red Priestess, with her wildfire visions and unearthly power, was the greatest unknown. The red comet had not yet appeared, and her magic was still muted. In this moment, Renly seemed unlikely to fall so easily. The war could shift in unexpected ways.
"Has the woman I asked you to track appeared on Dragonstone?" Gendry asked.
"Not yet," Qyburn said. "But I will continue to watch."
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)