The moon hung high over King's Landing, pale and sharp, casting its silver light over the winding streets and crowded rooftops. Stars twinkled sparsely in the night sky, adding a delicate shimmer to the city that never truly slept. The capital of Westeros was quiet for the nobility, who preferred the safety of their opulent, heavily guarded manors, seeking pleasure behind closed doors.
But down in Flea Bottom, the night was alive. Here, darkness was not a deterrent but a calling. The stench of refuse and smoke mixed with the raucous shouts of the poor, creating a chaotic symphony that only the fearless dared to navigate. Gold Cloaks avoided the district at night unless bribes or profit could justify the risk. This was a city within a city, ruled not by law but by cunning, greed, and cruelty.
Casinos, brothels, and fighting pits thrived here, exploiting every ounce of desperation from the common folk. It was said that the infamous Daemon Targaryen had once walked these streets freely, earning him the nickname the "Lord of Flea Bottom." Tonight, the air was alive with cheers from those gathered around the fighting pits.
Inside one such pit, Yarn Snow, its portly and ambitious owner, surveyed a chest overflowing with Gold Dragons and Silver Stags. His jowly face split into a wide grin. This moment—the scent of money, the sound of cheering—was his greatest pleasure.
Yarn had traveled far from the North, a bastard with no fortune or influence. Life had taught him cruelty and cunning, and he had learned to value money above all else. King's Landing was a strange and dangerous city, but it had offered him opportunity. Using the fierce spirit of his Northern roots and the sharp wit of a city native, Yarn had carved out a small kingdom in Flea Bottom, making himself untouchable in this den of scum and opportunity.
"Yarn."
The hoarse voice cut through the cheering like a knife, startling him. He seized a candlestick and spun around. A hooded figure emerged from the shadows, face bruised and purple in the candlelight.
"Oh! The esteemed Lord Baelish!" Yarn exclaimed, feigning surprise and throwing his arms wide in mock hospitality. A subtle gleam in his eyes betrayed his true amusement.
Baelish did not move to embrace him. His gaze was sharp, assessing, unamused by Yarn's theatrics. He walked past the man and approached the chest of coins.
"I need money, Yarn," he said simply. No pleasantries, no hesitation.
"But last month's share has already been delivered, Lord Baelish," Yarn said, his voice firm, yet carefully respectful. He glared at the Master of Coin, eyes sharp with distrust. He understood Baelish's sudden appearance. News from the tourney had spread like wildfire, and the nobles' servants were even wealthier and more cunning than their masters. Information—who visited whom, what scandals occurred—was currency in itself. Yarn's network rivaled even Varys in the city, and he knew that Baelish would not come empty-handed.
"Don't be stingy," Baelish's voice sharpened. He pressed closer, eyes glinting with urgency and unspoken threat. "Do not forget who rescued you from the streets, who taught you to survive, and who made you the richest man in Flea Bottom. I expect you to honor that debt."
Yarn's lips pressed into a thin line. He knew the gamble Baelish had taken at the tourney—accepting Tyrion's outrageous wager on Arthas. Refusing now was not an option; a debt to House Lannister was never forgivable.
"A Lannister always pays his debts," Baelish reminded him, each word like iron.
Yarn's gaze flickered to the chest, calculating, scheming. "Lord Baelish, Flea Bottom is poor, and profits are scarce. My pit barely brings in a few dozen Gold Dragons each month. The rest already goes to you." He spread his hands in mock helplessness, though every syllable was carefully measured.
Baelish did not flinch. "Then go to Silk Street," he said, voice low but firm. "Noble lords spill Gold Dragons there like rain when they're pleased. Your little empire can produce a hundred thousand Gold Dragons by tomorrow morning, and it will."
Yarn hesitated, weighing risk and reward. Baelish's presence was a warning and a promise. He softened his tone, feigning concern, yet the glint in his eyes betrayed the calculation beneath: "Silk Street is your choice, and a wiser man would seize the opportunity."
Baelish's voice became sharper. "A hundred thousand Gold Dragons, Yarn. Not a coin less. After all these years, are you telling me a Northern bastard can't manage this? Remember, I made you. I can unmake you just as easily."
The words struck deep. Yarn's mind raced—loyalty and fear intertwined. He had prospered under Baelish's guidance, but never had the stakes been so high. Finally, after a tense pause, Yarn nodded. "You are right, Lord Baelish. I will deliver the hundred thousand Gold Dragons by morning. You have my word."
Baelish's lips curved in satisfaction. He patted Yarn's shoulder, the gesture equal parts reassurance and command, then vanished into the shadows.
Alone, Yarn's face hardened. His eyes glinted with greed and determination as he hugged the chest to his chest. "My money… no one will take it from me. Never."
Meanwhile, inside the Red Keep, a grand feast was underway. The nobles of King's Landing had been summoned by King Robert to honor Arthas, newly appointed Commander of the City Watch.
"Yoo-hoo! Arthas!" The Imp called, wobbling as he approached, clearly struggling to maintain balance. He climbed onto the table, looping his arms around Arthas' neck, shouting over the music and laughter.
"Lighten up! You're the star tonight. Don't be such a boring old man like back in Casterly Rock! Don't forget—you're only fourteen!"
Arthas simply set Tyrion down with ease, calm as ever. "I hear you," he said, his voice composed.
"Don't be such a spoilsport! We won over a million Gold Dragons tonight!" The Imp's excitement radiated, and he lifted his wine cup high.
Arthas clinked his cup gently against Tyrion's, maintaining his calm demeanor. "While winning money is exhilarating, Tyrion… as a Lannister, are you ever truly short on coin?"
The question struck Tyrion. For the first time, his excitement over the gold faded. He realized he had been outmaneuvered; even a Lannister could not casually summon over a million Gold Dragons.
Thinking quickly, he spotted a beautiful, brown-haired maiden dancing in the center of the hall. A plan formed in his mind.
"Hey, Ael," he said, nudging Arthas' calf. "You haven't had any… proper conversations with women yet, have you?"
Arthas glanced toward the maiden, curious. Tyrion continued, chest puffed in pride, "See that beauty? Almost half the men here are watching her. If I were you, I'd seize the chance tonight!"
The maiden, catching Arthas' gaze, smiled warmly. With elegance, she approached, lifting her wine cup in a graceful salute.
"As the first knight of the Seven Kingdoms," she said softly, "shouldn't you share a drink with a lady?"
Arthas inclined his head politely, maintaining his composure, while the Imp watched with satisfaction, pleased to have nudged the young lion into society's dance.