"A deal?" Yarn Snow's voice was low and deliberate, yet carried a tremor of excitement.
"Hiss—Hahaha!" The Imp, Tyrion Lannister, who was still immersed in the afterglow of indulgence, burst into a fit of laughter at the audacity of this northern bastard standing before him. But as his amusement subsided, the sharpness of Yarn's sudden acceleration of speech caused Tyrion to inhale sharply, his eyes narrowing with curiosity and a hint of suspicion.
"What makes you think you are qualified to strike a deal with a Lannister?" Tyrion asked playfully, yet there was a dangerous undertone lurking beneath his humor.
The Imp, now fully composed, leaned back in his chair, letting his mismatched eyes survey Yarn with interest. The Mountain, ever loyal and towering behind Tyrion, stepped forward in silent intimidation, radiating a pressure that made even Yarn, who had clawed his way up from the streets, feel a tremor run through him.
Yarn's hands shook as he rubbed them together nervously. His mind raced to arrange every syllable, every nuance, every gesture in a way that might impress the man who held his fate—and, potentially, all of Flea Bottom—in his small, yet unyielding hands.
"Dear Lord Tyrion," Yarn began, bowing slightly, his voice carefully humble, "I know you have recently won over a million Gold Dragons at the Red Keep tourney."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. That is quite the sum. But do continue."
"Even so," Yarn continued, "even if the Silk Street whores served a hundred clients each day, they could not produce such an amount. Yet I… I may have a way to recover a portion of that wealth for you."
The Imp's attention sharpened. The stunner who had accompanied Yarn, who had previously been lounging languidly, now stepped aside, leaving only the tense interaction between the two men. Tyrion patted the stunner's firm backside lightly as she retreated, signaling that she understood her role and that Yarn would now have the floor entirely to himself.
"You do realize the magnitude of what you are proposing, Yarn Snow?" Tyrion asked, his tone shifting slightly from playful to curious. He stood, adjusting his trousers, and approached the northern man, eyes glinting with suspicion and amusement.
"Of course, my lord," Yarn replied, his smile carefully balanced between benevolence and malice. "As Littlefinger's representative in Flea Bottom, I know the depth of his schemes. He is standing at the edge of a cliff; you need only give him a gentle push."
Yarn's hands mimicked the motion, as if nudging an invisible man over an invisible precipice. "And Littlefinger will be doomed forever. With your brother as Commander of the Gold Cloaks, Lord Tyrion, you could seize all of his assets with ease. Surely, even newly appointed Lord Arthas would appreciate such a triumph, would he not?"
Tyrion listened, his eyes narrowing. Yarn was confident, but Tyrion was not so easily swayed by words alone. "Not enough, Yarn Snow. Not enough," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Lannisters do not lack money. Empty words will not suffice against the Master of Coin entrenched so deeply in King's Landing."
Yarn's sharp eyes scanned the room. He gave the scantily clad stunner a pointed glance, and she understood immediately. She glided away with a teasing smile and a coquettish wave, leaving Yarn alone with Tyrion and the silent Mountain looming behind him.
Meeting the hulking gaze of Gregor Clegane, Yarn swallowed and reminded himself, House Clegane is the most loyal hound of the Lannisters. Best not provoke him. Tyrion waved his hand dismissively, indicating that it did not matter.
Yarn took a deep breath and drew a slip of paper from his sleeve. He approached Tyrion with respect, extending it carefully. Tyrion took it and began to read casually, his mismatched eyes scanning the words… until they suddenly constricted in shock.
He crumpled the paper into a fist, looking at Yarn with a mixture of suspicion, disbelief, and awe. "Does anyone else know about this?" he demanded, his voice low and tense.
Yarn's lips curled into a knowing smile, but he did not answer, only casting a sideways glance at The Mountain, who remained immovable. Tyrion's tone grew firmer: "Ser Gregor, this is of grave importance. Kindly excuse us."
The Mountain gave a silent, warning glare, then retreated, leaving the two men alone. Yarn leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper:
"Tears of Lys."
Meanwhile, elsewhere in Flea Bottom, Arthas had arrived, guided by inquiries with the Gold Cloaks. The stench of the impoverished district was strong, but he ignored it, focusing instead on The Mountain stationed dutifully at the door. Arthas' mind wandered briefly: With a physique like his… surely he could be converted into an Abomination. If magic density continues to rise in this world, an undead army might be necessary to contend with the Targaryens' dragons.
The Mountain, recognizing the young lord, dropped to one knee without hesitation. "Lord Arthas. Tyrion is inside, discussing business with the owner of the coliseum. For secrecy, he had me wait here."
Arthas' eyes flickered with surprise. Tyrion, who valued his safety above almost all else, had left his side for this meeting. Sensing the gravity, he nodded. "Do your duty. Maintain watch here." Then he passed by The Mountain, pushing the door open to enter the tense room.
Inside, the sight shocked him. Tyrion sat swaggering in the chair, legs spread casually, while Yarn leaned toward him, both men whispering as if sharing a secret world only they knew. Arthas could not resist a teasing jab.
"When did your tastes change, and to such a peculiar-looking man, no less?"
Tyrion snapped back to composure instantly, leaping from his chair and carefully closing the door. "Stop joking. This is serious. I have discovered a huge secret!"
Meanwhile, Lord Baelish, bruised and battered from the previous night's frantic fundraising, sat in his Silk Street brothel, the air heavy with incense and the faint scent of sweat and ale. He swigged wine, his mind consumed with numbers, calculations, and the impossibility of repaying the enormous debts to the Lannisters.
Nearly five hundred thousand Gold Dragons had been gathered after relentless efforts, the entirety of cash he could muster without liquidating his assets. And yet, it was nowhere near enough. The nobles of King's Landing suspected him of rigging the tournament. They had restrained themselves from demanding repayment, but the suspicion alone left him cautious.
Despite the fear, Baelish's mind worked quickly. He needed an ally, a ruse, and a way to appeal to Lysa Tully—whose obedience and ruthless cunning he knew could extract at least a few hundred thousand Gold Dragons from the Vale. A naked woman emerged from behind a curtain, bearing roasted meat, yet Baelish's gaze remained on the plate, as if the seductive body before him were mere air.
He scribbled furiously:
"Dearest Lysa,
Having not seen you for days, my longing is as ceaseless as the Blackwater's waters.
Since Hand Jon's death, you have returned to The Eyrie with little Robin, leaving me alone in King's Landing, sleepless and famished.
Yesterday, I fell into a trap by House Lannister, saddled with an enormous debt.
Dearest Lysa, your aid—one and a half million Gold Dragons—would save your Littlefinger from ruin.
Hand Jon's spirit in heaven would surely bless your generosity.
Yours eternally,
Petyr Baelish"
He paused, satisfied, a sly smile returning to his face. The letter balanced false affection with a subtle reminder of her dark deeds, a masterstroke of manipulation.
Rubbing his hands together over the naked woman beside him, Baelish's eyes flickered with hatred and amusement simultaneously. "To dare trap me, Arthas… Tyrion… we shall see who prevails!"
The game of power, wealth, and secrets had begun anew. And in the shadowy streets of King's Landing, every player—noble, bastard, or streetwise—had begun to stake their claim.