The capital of the Seven Kingdoms, King's Landing.
King's Landing had three things in abundance.
First, brothels.
The Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish, better known as Littlefinger, owned the most brothels in the city. His establishments came in two tiers: the highest catered to royalty and noble houses, including the king and the prime minister; the second tier served knights and lesser nobles. The city was built on three main hills, with streets and houses everywhere, and on every bustling street, there was a Littlefinger brothel.
Second, people.
King's Landing had a permanent population of over 500,000. As the site of the continent's second-largest port and the political, cultural, and trade center of the Seven Kingdoms, it attracted the largest flow of transient residents.
Third, garbage.
Trash littered every street, filling the air with a nauseating stench that the Seven Kingdoms knew all too well. Because of this, King's Landing was also called the "Garbage City." Even outside the city walls, the foul smell drifted into the countryside.
The city's largest garbage dumps were near the Iron Gate and the Flea Bottom slums. Flea Bottom was where the poorest lived. Just north over was the Red Keep district, where visiting merchants, high officials, and noble families kept private villas.
Littlefinger's three most upscale brothels were located in the wealthy district.
Every night, Littlefinger sat in the largest brothel in the Red Keep district, counting his profits. Managers from brothels across the city brought their earnings and ledgers from the previous day to him for auditing. This ritual had been followed daily for two years.
Describing Littlefinger's income as "making a fortune every day" was no exaggeration.
Petyr Baelish was neither tall nor short, but medium-sized and lean, giving him a sharp, cunning appearance. Handsome, with a constant sly smirk that seemed to mock the world's ignorance, his gray-green eyes and a small patch of black beard on his chin gave him a distinct look. His dark hair was streaked with gray.
Littlefinger was fastidious about manners and noble demeanor. Always impeccably dressed, he wore a fine robe fastened by a pin shaped like the Baelish family's mockingbird sigil, pinned diagonally on his right side, marking him as true aristocracy.
It was that time again, the moment to collect money and check the ledgers. The madam from the farthest brothel, the one near Mud Gate, always arrived earliest. She was Littlefinger's most trusted assistant.
When the madam slipped in through the brothel's back door, Littlefinger's pale green eyes narrowed, and his voice quickened: "Where's my money?" That was his first question.
The madam's lips were split, several teeth knocked out, her body covered in blood, with both eyes bruised and the right side of her face badly swollen. Her once elegant silk gown was shredded, revealing a red undergarment beneath.
"My lord." she hurried forward and collapsed at his feet, clutching his leg. "My lord, the money was stolen, and I was humiliated. You must send the guards to arrest those thugs." Her voice grew shrill and tearful.
"Shut up!" Littlefinger crouched to regain his usual calm and grace. Smiling gently, he whispered, "Listen carefully. I have a noble guest from across the Narrow Sea here. If you disturb a single one of my guests, I'll cut out your tongue and toss you into the lowest brothel in Flea Bottom. I guarantee twenty foul-smelling men will take turns with you every day."
The madam instantly fell silent, her tears drying with her voice.
"Who did this?" he asked.
"A knight named Polliver Clegane." she said, her fear barely masked despite her clarity and quick responses. "That man is a monster. He said he'd dig out my eyeballs tomorrow and soak them in wine to make an art piece. He said he liked my eyes, my lord."
Littlefinger knew well that the Clegane name was not to be trifled with.
"What else did he say?"
"He said, if you don't approve their requests tomorrow, he will…" The madam stopped, too frightened to continue, her voice dropping. "That man is not normal, my lord."
"Anyone named Clegane is never normal. Speak clearly. What exactly did he say?" Littlefinger smiled warmly, his charm intact.
The madam shivered as if an invisible blade pressed on her heart.
"He said, if you don't give them the highest ore grade, the best price, and the most lenient delivery schedule, he'd cut off… your… thing… and shove it into your mouth. Then he'd burn down all your brothels."
Littlefinger already knew from his officials that these people arrived empty-handed, without ore samples, demanding the highest grade classification and the most expensive price from the ore inspectors. They had no maps or estimates of the Goldleaf Bay mine but insisted on setting monthly minimum and maximum ore delivery quotas.
In short, they offered nothing but wanted the best terms, unreasonably high standards and quotas.
From experience, Littlefinger suspected they'd fail to deliver the agreed quantities, likely substituting stones for ore. The Serrettt family from the Westerlands had tried this before.
"Did they say where they're staying?"
"Yes, at the Street of Steel Inn, the highest inn on the hill next to Tobho Mott, the weapons master's smithy. Their lord, Gregor Clegane, is waiting for you tonight. After tonight, they'll come looking for you here."
"Good. I understand. Go back, consider your losses forgiven." Littlefinger gently patted the swollen madam's face. "Get back to work. I'll make sure they don't bother you again. Don't worry, your eyes won't end up in a wine jar."
"Yes, my lord!" The madam trembled slightly.
...
Knock, knock.
Someone knocked politely.
The door opened, revealing a man reeking of wine, scowling: "Who are you looking for?"
Littlefinger smiled elegantly. "I'm looking for Ser Gregor Clegane."
"Oh." The man turned and clanged the daggers at his belt. "Follow me."
Littlefinger entered the inn, greeted by the raucous sounds of drunken gambling and shouting. A bunch of uncouth brutes.
He followed the soldier up the stairs. The inn was mostly empty except for one loud group, after all, the most notorious villain of the Seven Kingdoms had taken over this place, and everyone else had to leave.
...
"Ser Gregor." Littlefinger said calmly, standing before the knight, "you come to King's Landing without sending word for me to prepare some virgins from Lys to ease your nerves? Are you and your brothers comfortable here? If this place displeases you, lodging, feasts, women, all will be on me. You and your men must have a good time."
Gregor Clegane said nothing, only glared.
Littlefinger's face betrayed no reaction. In the arts of scheming, he was unrivaled. And it was his greater ambitions that drove him to fully wield his cunning and intelligence.
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