Petyr Baelish arrived at Runestone with minimal fanfare, as was his style. The Master of Coin preferred to appear harmless—just a minor lord with a talent for numbers and an unfortunate fashion sense.
I knew better. So did he. And honestly? Having read the books, I knew way too much better.
"Ser Rodrik!" His smile was warm, practiced, and about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. Which didn't exist here because they didn't even have one-dollar bills. They barely had functional banking. Medieval economics were a nightmare.
"Lord Baelish. Welcome to Runestone." I clasped his hand, resisting the urge to check if my fingers were still there afterward. "I trust your journey was pleasant?"
"The Vale is beautiful this time of year. Though I confess, I'm more interested in seeing your latest innovations. Your letters have been... intriguing."
Intriguing. That was Littlefinger-speak for "potentially exploitable." I'd been getting those letters for two years now, each one a delicate dance of business proposals and subtle manipulation. It was like playing chess with someone who'd already sold half your pieces to your opponent.
We'd been corresponding carefully, building what looked like a business relationship. I needed his connections and his cover—partnership with the Master of Coin made my activities seem legitimate, like I was just a clever businessman instead of a time-traveling isekai protagonist trying not to die horribly. He needed my innovations to increase crown revenues and line his own pockets, which were apparently bottomless.
It was a marriage of convenience, and like all such marriages in Westeros, probably going to end with someone getting murdered.
I showed him the mills first—the improved designs that had doubled grain production across Royce lands. Littlefinger examined the water wheels with the focused intensity of a man calculating profit margins down to the copper penny.
"Fascinating," he murmured, running his hand along a gear assembly. "You've essentially created a self-regulating system."
"Basic mechanical engineering," I said, trying to sound humble while internally screaming I LEARNED THIS FROM A YOUTUBE VIDEO ABOUT MEDIEVAL TECHNOLOGY. "The principle is simple once you see it."
"Simplicity is genius." He smiled that smile again. "Though I notice you've kept the truly revolutionary aspects hidden. The gear ratios here are standard, but I suspect your personal mill runs quite differently."
Damn. He was perceptive. Of course he was perceptive—this was Littlefinger, the man who climbed from near-poverty to Master of Coin through sheer cunning and an alarming number of murders.
"A man's entitled to some trade secrets," I said.
"Of course. Though secrets have a way of becoming less valuable when everyone else catches up." He turned to me, eyes sharp. "You could patent these designs, charge significant licensing fees. Make a fortune."
"I could. But I've found that giving them away builds more valuable currency." I gestured to the workers around us, several of whom had literally cried with gratitude when I'd introduced basic labor safety standards. The bar was low in medieval times. "Loyalty. Gratitude. Every house using my designs owes House Royce goodwill. That's worth more than gold."
"Spoken like someone who's never been poor." But his eyes gleamed with approval, like a teacher watching a particularly apt student. "Though you're not wrong. Debt takes many forms. The question is: what do you plan to do with all that goodwill?"
"Survive winter," I said simply. "When the snows come, having friends matters more than having gold."
Also survive the War of Five Kings, the Red Wedding, the Purple Wedding, Cersei's various murder schemes, the Long Night, and whatever the hell Daenerys was going to do when she inevitably went full Mad Queen. But I couldn't say that part out loud.
"A practical philosophy," Littlefinger said. "Your father would be proud."
"I hope so," I said instead.
We walked through the keep, and I showed him the forges next. The blacksmiths were producing higher-quality steel now, thanks to some "innovations" I'd "discovered"—which was a polite way of saying I'd remembered enough from a History Channel documentary to improve their carbon content ratios.
"Remarkable work," Littlefinger said, examining a sword blade that one of the smiths had been particularly proud of. "This steel is nearly as good as castle-forged. Better than most garrison weapons."
"Better smithing techniques. Better materials. Better results." I shrugged like it was no big deal, when internally I was doing victory laps because holy shit, I actually remembered how medieval metallurgy worked.
"You're underselling yourself again." Littlefinger set down the blade. "This could revolutionize warfare. Every lord in Westeros would pay premium prices for weapons of this quality."
"Which is exactly why I'm not mass-producing them." I met his gaze. "Flood the market with superior weapons, and suddenly everyone's got them. Including your enemies. Better to keep this advantage limited, controlled."
His smile widened. "You think strategically. I appreciate that."
What I actually thought was: If I start arming everyone in Westeros, the already-horrific wars are going to be even worse, and I've got exactly zero interest in being responsible for thousands of extra deaths because I wanted to play medieval arms dealer.
But again, couldn't say that part out loud.
We discussed business ventures over the next few hours. Littlefinger wanted to expand my operations to the Crownlands—more mills, better trade routes, improved tax collection through my bookkeeping systems. Which, by the way, was just double-entry accounting, something that wouldn't be "invented" here for another few decades. Medieval economics was so backward it physically hurt.
In exchange, he'd provide capital and protection from rivals.
The terms were generous. Too generous.
Which meant he wanted something else.
"I'm curious," I said over dinner that evening, watching him delicately dissect a roasted quail like he was performing surgery. "Why invest so heavily in a minor Vale house? You could partner with the Tyrells, the Hightowers, houses with more power and reach."
Littlefinger sipped his wine, considering his words with the care of a man who'd built a career on saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.
"The Tyrells and Hightowers are established. Set in their ways. Old money, old thinking." He set down his cup. "You're young, innovative, and—most importantly—you think differently. You see opportunities where others see traditions."
"That sounds like flattery."
"It's assessment. I've built my position by finding talented people before they realize their own value. You, Ser Rodrik, are going to be very important someday. I'd rather be your partner than your competitor."
There was truth in that, buried under layers of manipulation like a poisoned cake with really good frosting. Littlefinger collected useful people the way dragons hoarded gold—obsessively, possessively, and with a disturbing tendency to burn anyone who got too close.
"And what do you get from this partnership, besides profits?"
"Besides?" He laughed, and it almost sounded genuine. Almost. "Profits are enough. Money is power, Ser Rodrik. More than swords, more than dragons, more than anything else in this world. But if you're asking what I see in the long term..."
He leaned forward, and I felt the full weight of his attention—like being studied by a particularly intelligent snake.
"The realm is changing. The old ways—birth and swords and honor—matter less each year. Oh, they still matter to the fools who cling to them. But the future? The future belongs to men who control information, trade, innovation. Men who understand that power isn't about who you are, it's about what you know and what you can do."
He raised his cup in a mock toast.
"You and I? We're the future."
It was a seductive vision. It was also dangerous because it was partially true, and Littlefinger was at his most dangerous when he was telling the truth.
The problem, I thought, is that your version of the future ends with you on the Iron Throne and everyone else dead or suffering. Hard pass on that particular timeline, thanks.
"I can drink to that," I said instead, raising my cup and taking a long sip.
The wine was excellent. Arbor gold, probably. Everything Littlefinger did was calculated for maximum effect, including his choice of alcohol.
We concluded our business over the next two days. Expanded operations, shared revenues, mutual protection clauses that were worded so carefully they could mean almost anything. On paper, we were equals.
In reality, we were both circling each other like sharks, each trying to use the other without being used.
I'd been cultivating this relationship carefully—so carefully—since Littlefinger had first reached out about my innovations a year ago. We'd exchanged letters, tested each other's boundaries, slowly built trust. Or the appearance of it, anyway. Actual trust was probably impossible with Petyr Baelish. The man trusted people the way I trusted Joffrey around sharp objects: not at all, and with good reason.
Three months ago, I'd invited him to Runestone for serious negotiations. We'd been working together since then, though "together" was a generous term for our mutual manipulation.
"Your medical innovations," Littlefinger said on the second evening, as we reviewed contracts in my solar. "The treatments you sent to Lady Lysa. Jon Arryn speaks very highly of you."
I carefully kept my expression neutral, though internally I was screaming SHIT SHIT SHIT because this was dangerous territory.
"I'm glad they helped."
"More than helped. You saved that child's life. Possibly Lysa's as well." He set down the parchment he'd been reading, giving me his full attention. "That kind of gratitude from the Hand of the King is valuable. I hope you're prepared to use it wisely."
Use it wisely. Coming from Littlefinger, that was basically a threat wrapped in a suggestion wrapped in a business opportunity.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning the realm is full of dangers. Accidents happen." His expression was carefully neutral, which somehow made it more terrifying. "Even to powerful men. Having friends who remember your kindness becomes very important when the board shifts."
My blood ran cold.
This was three months before Jon Arryn would die in the original timeline. Three months before Littlefinger and Lysa would poison him, trigger Robert's trip to Winterfell, and set off the entire catastrophic chain of events that would kill thousands of people.
Was he already planning it? Or just preparing me for the possibility?
Oh god. Oh fuck. He's definitely planning it. He's literally telling me he's planning it. This is Littlefinger doing his thing where he hints at the truth because he knows no one will believe it, and even if they do, they can't prove anything.
"I hope Lord Arryn lives many more years," I said, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. "He's a good man. The realm needs good men."
"The realm needs many things. Good men are rarely among them." Littlefinger smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "But I'm glad you understand the importance of positioning. That's what separates the survivors from the victims in this game."
"What game is that?"
"The only one that matters."
He stood, moving to the window that overlooked Runestone's courtyard. In the fading light, he looked almost harmless—just a minor lord with graying temples and fine clothes.
But I knew better. I knew exactly what he was capable of. Every betrayal, every murder, every calculated manipulation that would come. I'd read about it, analyzed it, discussed it in forums and fan theories.
And now I was sitting in a room with him, drinking wine and discussing business like we were colleagues.
This is fine, I thought hysterically. This is totally fine. I'm just doing business with one of the most dangerous sociopaths in Westeros. What could possibly go wrong?
"I'll be in touch, Ser Rodrik," Littlefinger said, turning back to me. "I think we're going to accomplish great things together."
"I look forward to it, Lord Baelish."
Narrator voice: He did not, in fact, look forward to it.
After he left the next morning, I sat in my solar for hours, staring at the papers we'd signed and thinking.
Littlefinger was definitely planning something. The question was whether I could use that to my advantage or if I was just another piece on his board, being moved around until he decided to sacrifice me.
The smart thing would be to cut ties, minimize contact, avoid getting tangled in his schemes.
The problem was, I needed him. His connections, his protection, his legitimacy. Without Littlefinger's backing, I was just a minor Vale lord with some weird innovations. With it, I had access to the Crownlands, the capital, the levers of power.
And if I wanted to change things—really change things, prevent the worst of the wars and deaths and disasters—I needed that access.
So congratulations, me, I thought. You've successfully expanded the business partnership with a murderous sociopath who's probably going to try to kill you eventually. This is exactly the kind of brilliant decision-making that got Ned Stark's head chopped off.
I poured myself another cup of wine. It was going to be a long night.
Outside, the sun was setting over the Vale, painting the mountains in shades of gold and crimson. It was beautiful. Peaceful.
It wouldn't last.
It never did in Westeros.