Author's Note:
Hey guys, I know it's been a while, but im back! I finally bought a new laptop, which means I im able to start writing from anywhere and I im not restricted to only my desktop, which, among the entire grocery list of issues I've had over the past few months, was one of the biggest things stopping me from releasing more chapters.
But nonetheless im back and hopefully here to stay, God willing.
[King's Landing, 6th day of the 9th Moon, 298 AC]
Littlefinger had always believed that men revealed themselves best when they thought they were unseen.
It was one of the few true comforts of King's Landing, that everyone watched everyone else, yet almost no one ever truly looked. Secrets flourished in the noise of the city. Power hid in plain sight. And Littlefinger, who had made an art of being overlooked, had spent decades cultivating the city's blind spots like a gardener tending rare and poisonous blooms.
Which was why it unsettled him to realize that he could not find one around Alaric Stark.
From a shaded balcony overlooking the Street of Sisters, Littlefinger leaned lazily against the stone balustrade, a cup of spiced wine cradled loosely in his hand. Below, the street bustled with the clatter of carts, the shouts of merchants, the low hum of a city that never slept and never stopped devouring itself.
At the center of it all stood the Wolf of Winterfell.
Alaric Stark did not dress like a courtier. That much Petyr had already noted. No bright silks, no gilded clasps, no peacocking banners or ornate images of heraldry. Black and grey wool, trimmed in dark blue, the Stark direwolf worked subtly into leather and thread rather than blazoned loudly for effect. Beneath the leather and wool, a mail hauberk would be exposed every now and then. His attire utterly practical, northern, and disgustingly deliberate.
The mark of a green boy-turned-man who had never knew King's Landing politics, the mark of a true northern barbarian.
And yet, Littlefinger knew better.
Alaric stood beneath a striped awning, flanked by two direwolves so large they might have been mistaken for living siege engines by the smallfolk who skirted nervously around them.
He had heard many a tale of the Stark's and their ancient beasts having returned and yet, despite having grown used to the sight, the giant beasts still unsettled him.
The male, Tempest, storm-grey, massive, eyes pale as winter sky, sat on his haunches like a carved idol of old gods and older violence. The female, Cinder paced at Alaric's right, smaller but no less dangerous, her reddish-brown coat catching the light like shimmering embers, amber eyes never still.
They were not leashed.
That alone told Littlefinger a great deal.
Across from Alaric stood three men who did not belong in King's Landing by birth or loyalty: two Braavosi merchants in layered silks, their coin-belts heavy and ostentatiously displayed, and an Ibbenese man whose broad shoulders and dark beard marked him unmistakably as a son of the whaling cities.
Littlefinger smiled faintly. 'Brokering trade with the Essosi ilk is he?'
"How very southern of him." He said to himself, barely audible, an equal parts amused and disgusted smirk adorned on his face
He sipped his wine as he listened, atop his balcony, still leaning on the balustrade, not with his ears alone, but with his instincts, honed sharp by years of surviving men far more dangerous than Alaric Stark had yet proven himself to be.
Whether the Stark lordling had noticed his presence or not, he hadn't seemed to care enough to warrant a reaction, nor look, something that nagged at his ego.
The Bravosi spoke first, gesturing with elegant hands, voice lilting with the musical cadence of the Free Cities. Timber shortages. Shipbuilding demands. The constant hunger of the Titan's shadowed docks for strong, straight masts and seasoned planks.
Alaric listened.
That, too, was notable.
He did not interrupt. Did not posture. Did not sneer at eastern accents or foreign coin. He listened with the stillness of a man accustomed to being obeyed without needing to remind others of it.
When he spoke, it was plain, almost blunt, none of the usual pomp and pageantry that the majority of Westerosi lords spoke with.
"The North has enough timber to drown your harbors," he said. "Pine, oak, even ironwood. Logged, seasoned, and bound by men who know how to fell trees in winter and float them come thaw. We can meet your needs. For a price of course."
The Ibbenese rumbled something in his thick, guttural tongue. One of the Bravosi translated, brows lifting slightly.
"The whaling fleets of Ibben require hulls that can survive ice and storms. They will pay well for northern wood."
Alaric inclined his head once. "Good. Then you understand why I will not sell to you at the rates my Grandsire accepted."
Ah, Littlefinger thought. There it is.
Not greed. Not desperation, no, nothing so superficial. Renegotiation, the dance of words and numbers.
His fingers tightened slightly around his cup.
Brandon Stark's son was not merely securing coin. He was rewriting old arrangements, ones that had quietly benefited the crown, the Reach, and several merchant houses Littlefinger himself had spent years cultivating.
"And the Crown?" one of the Bravosi asked lightly. "King Robert levies tolls on all large trade entering Blackwater Bay."
Alaric's mouth curved, not quite a smile.
"The Crown may levy what it likes on goods once they reach King's Landing," he said. "They will not touch them before. The timber will be sold in White Harbor, Ramsgate, Karhold, or even Widows Watch. If you want it here, you pay twice. Once to me. Once to my uncle."
There it was.
My uncle.
Not the Hand. Not the Crown.
Littlefinger felt a cold prickle along his spine.
This was not defiance.
This was structure.
Alaric Stark was building something that did not rely on the South's goodwill.
The Braavosi exchanged glances. The Ibbenese grunted approval.
"Agreed," one of the Free City men said after a moment. "Provided delivery is consistent."
"It will be," Alaric replied. "The North remembers its debts, and collects them."
At a subtle gesture, one of Alaric's Winter Guard stepped forward with parchment and wax. Seals were pressed. Coin changed hands. Not chests, Littlefinger noted that with interest, but ledgers, promises, future obligations.
Smart, he conceded. Too smart, for a Northmen no less.
As the merchants departed, bowing heads cautiously to the wolves as they went, Alaric turned and spoke quietly to one of his guards. Tempest rose in a smooth, powerful motion, shaking out his great shoulders. Cinder paused, lifted her head, a cold sweat dropped from his brow, he could have sworn she had looked directly up at the balcony.
At him.
Littlefingers smile did not falter.
But his pulse quickened.
He left the balcony soon after, descending through winding corridors that smelled faintly of incense and old stone. The brothel was quiet at this hour, its true business conducted elsewhere until nightfall. Girls laughed behind closed doors. Somewhere, a lute played badly.
Petyr ignored it all.
His mind was racing.
Trade with Bravos. Trade with Ibben. Independent contracts.
Not requests, nor appeals.
Cold hard trade deals.
That was dangerous enough on its own. But layered atop Alaric's open hostility toward House Lannister, along with himself, the Stark's willingness to bare teeth in the Small Council chamber, and his obvious coordination with Ned Stark…
Littlefinger grimaced inwardly.
They are not fractured.
He had counted on fractures.
On Ned's honor clashing with Alaric's temper. On generational divides. On northern pride and southern disdain creating hairline cracks he could widen with a whisper here, a rumor there.
Instead, he found a pack.
Different wolves, yes, but hunting together.
He poured himself another cup of wine, hands steady despite the unease coiling in his gut.
He thought of Alaric's eyes when he'd challenged him in the brothel. Cold, measuring, not reactive, as Littlefinger had hoped. Not reckless.
That is the trouble, he reflected. He wants me to think him dangerous, but not unstable.
A man who wanted to be underestimated would rage.
A man who wanted to be feared would smile.
Littlefinger drained the cup.
He needed information.
[Later that evening]
It came, as it often did, cheaply.
A whisper from a washerwoman. A note passed by a stablehand. A mutter aside from a dock clerk who drank too much and talked too freely.
By dusk, Littlefinger had pieced together a troubling picture.
Alaric Stark had not merely brought men south, he had brought infrastructure.
Northern guards rotated in disciplined shifts. No drinking on duty, no brawling, even no whoring. Messages sent north weekly, by raven and rider both. Coin accounted for meticulously. Supplies purchased in bulk, directly from trusted sellers, bypassing guild intermediaries.
Even more troubling: Alaric had quietly begun commissioning warehouses along the riverfront.
Not large ones.
Just enough.
He's planning for absence, Littlefinger realized. Or siege.
Or departure.
Either way, it spoke of foresight, and distrust.
Littlefinger sat back in his chair, fingers steepled.
This was no longer a question of manipulating a hot-blooded young lord into making mistakes.
This was a man laying groundwork.
And groundwork was hard to unmake.
'Very well,' he thought. 'If I cannot move him easily… then I must provoke him.'
He rang a small bell.
A girl appeared. Pretty enough, sharp-eyed.
"Send word to Lady Tanda," he said softly. "And to Lord Gyles. Tell them I've heard… troubling things."
The girl nodded and vanished.
Littlefinger smiled thinly.
Rumors about Alys Stark's pregnancy. About northern timber displacing crown contracts. About direwolves frightening children. About whispered slights in the market.
Nothing that could be traced.
Nothing overt.
Just enough to see which way the wolf snapped.
Night fell heavy over King's Landing.
From a different balcony, higher this time, he watched torchlight flicker along the walls of the Red Keep. Somewhere within, Alaric Stark dined with his men, laughed perhaps, planned.
You are not supposed to be this difficult, Littlefinger thought.
He had played with kings. Broken lords. Set houses against one another with a sentence and a smile.
But Alaric Stark did not dance to southern tunes.
He did not crave approval.
He did not need Petyr Baelish.
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Littlefinger exhaled slowly. "No," he decided. "You will not be moved like the others."
The game would have to change.
If Alaric Stark would not be used… Then he would have to be removed.
Littlefingers smile returned, sharp and foxlike.
"Let us see how well wolves fare," he murmured to the night, "when the forest itself turns against them."
Far below, unseen, a direwolf lifted its head and howled, long, low, and full of promise.
Petyr Baelish shivered.
And for the first time in many years, he wondered whether he had misjudged the bite of the North.