Petyr Baelish stood on the deck, his gaze fixed indifferently on the horizon. The sea mist was thinning, and the bow of the Juneflower cut through the gray-green waters with steady purpose. As a jagged line of rocky ridges emerged from the dissipating fog, the colossal figure of the Titan of Braavos came into view.

The Titan stood astride the entrance to the lagoon, his massive stone legs planted on either side of the rocky gap. His lower body, draped in a green-bronze war skirt, seemed carved directly from the same black granite as the reef beneath him. A bronze breastplate gleamed across his torso; atop his head, a crowned bronze half-helm added to his imposing presence. His hair, fashioned from thick ropes of green hemp, cascaded down his back, while his cavernous eyes burned with fire. One enormous hand clutched the ridge of the left cliff, fingers pinching a boulder. The other arm stretched toward the sky, gripping the hilt of a broken sword.

The Titan of Braavos was, without doubt, the largest humanoid statue in the known world. Even without its defensive capabilities, it remained a breathtaking sight.

But Petyr spared it only a passing glance.

He had seen it before.

—

His great-grandfather had been a Braavosi sellsword, though the man’s son—Petyr’s grandfather—had sworn fealty to House Brey and become a knight. That was how House Baelish first came to Westeros.

When his grandfather was granted a knighthood, he’d chosen the Titan’s head as their family sigil, a nod to his Braavosi roots.

Irony.

If the old man truly admired the Titan so much, why couldn’t he have passed down some of its strength? Instead, Petyr inherited a wiry frame, unimpressive height, and a mocking nickname that had stuck with him his entire life.

“Littlefinger.”

The first person to call him that was Catelyn Tully. He could still remember the sound of her voice when she said it—soft, teasing, and utterly unaware of the wound it left.

He had adored her then. He adored her still.

That name might have been an insult from anyone else. From her, it had been a gift.

Petyr shook his head, forcing the memory away.

He knew better than to dwell on the past. What haunted him now wasn’t the girl who never loved him back, it was the invisible hand that had shattered his plans.

If the so-called “final testimony” had been the hammer that crushed his ambitions, then there was someone behind that hammer… someone who had tracked his every move and exposed his schemes at the most critical moment.

A hidden enemy. Unseen. Unknown.

And far more dangerous than anyone else in the game.

—

Yes, Jon Arryn had died by his hand but not as originally planned.

Petyr’s scheme had been elegant in its simplicity: manipulate Cersei into poisoning Jon Arryn. Once the Lord of the Vale was dead, he could sow discord between the Lannisters and Starks while remaining safely in the shadows.

But Cersei, for all her ruthlessness, hesitated.

She stalled and stalled until Jon Arryn was ready to act, ready to confront Robert with the truth about her children’s parentage and have both her and Jaime arrested.

Faced with that looming disaster, Petyr was forced to activate his backup plan.

He convinced Lysa Arryn to poison her own husband. It was effortless, really. Lysa was a fool. She believed every lie he whispered in her ear, believed she was protecting her son.

—

With Jon dead, the pieces of Petyr’s puzzle began falling into place.

Eddard Stark had arrived in King’s Landing with his righteous northern ideals. A minor knight, became the next pawn: an expendable figure Petyr had maneuvered into position.

First, he persuaded Robert to knight the young man for his loyal service. Next, he arranged for the knight to earn a small fortune just enough to buy himself armor and enter the tournament. Then came the crucial step: whispering carefully chosen suspicions into Cersei’s ear.

It worked like a charm.

Cersei, ever the paranoid lioness, feared that he had learned too much.

She ordered Gregor Clegane to deal with the man.

A mountain crushed an ant.

The murder bore the unmistakable stamp of House Lannister. Exactly as Petyr had intended.

—

But then came that damned letter.

The so-called testimony.

The very existence of those words unraveled everything he had built.

The writing wasn’t the knight’s. Petyr was certain of it. The man had never even been near Lysa Arryn, let alone learned of the conspiracy.

Someone had fabricated the note and timed its release perfectly.

Who?

Varys? Perhaps. The Spider was the only one with the reach and the cunning to orchestrate something like this.

But if Varys had known the truth, why not move sooner? Why not stop Jon Arryn’s death in the first place?

No.

Varys had his secrets, but this didn’t feel like his work. The eunuch might scheme and manipulate, but he didn’t leave his enemies clueless.

Petyr had studied his rival’s style for years. Varys always let you glimpse a corner of the web, just enough to know you’d been caught.

Who else, then?

The Stark fool? Eddard didn’t have the subtlety.

The Queen? She couldn’t outsmart a fish.

Renly? A dilettante.

Stannis? Too straightforward. If he knew of Petyr’s involvement, he would’ve had him arrested immediately.

Petyr rubbed his temples. His mind kept circling the same barren terrain.

If Varys hadn’t done it, and none of the usual suspects had the capacity for it… who the hell had?

The Titan loomed closer now, its burning eyes staring down at him like twin accusations.

Petyr clenched his jaw.

The Vale had once been his failsafe, a sanctuary to retreat to if things went wrong. But with the Alliance of Righteous in open revolt, that option was gone.

He needed a new plan.

The Juneflower glided past the Titan’s legs, entering the harbor.

Braavos was his last refuge.

There, hidden from the eyes of Westeros, Petyr Baelish intended to sell his final secret asset.

The gold would be enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life… as long as he rid himself of the royal guards trailing him and disappeared before Robert Baratheon sent anyone after him.

Petyr Baelish stood at the edge of the deck, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The briny sea breeze tugged at his cloak, and the ship beneath his feet, the Juneflower, glided through the gray-green waves with steady determination. The morning fog thinned as the sun rose higher, revealing the jagged ridge of rocks that guarded Braavos’s lagoon.

Moments later, the Titan came into view.

The Titan of Braavos: colossal, ageless, unyielding.

The stone colossus straddled the narrow entrance to the harbor, his feet anchored on twin crags of black granite, as though he held the sea itself at bay. Time and wind had darkened his weathered surface, yet the bronze war skirt encircling his waist still glinted faintly in the light. A massive breastplate covered his chest, and a half-helm crowned his head, its crest adorned with a sculpted laurel. Green ropes of hemp hair fell to his shoulders like seaweed-drenched locks. His eyes were empty caves with flames burning in their depths. One hand gripped a stone outcrop; the other thrust a broken sword skyward, as though in eternal defiance of the waves below.

The Titan had stood sentinel over Braavos for centuries. Petyr had seen it before, more times than he cared to remember.

Today, it evoked no awe.

Only resentment.

—

The Titan’s gaze bored into him as the Juneflower approached the harbor.

Petyr turned away from the sight and instead forced himself to consider his next moves.

He was no longer Littlefinger, Master of Coin. No longer the clever puppeteer behind the Iron Throne’s purse strings. The game had shifted, the board upended.

But the game isn’t over.

Viserys Targaryen might be a promising candidate for his next gamble. The last known male heir of the Targaryens, a wandering exile in Essos.

But the intelligence reports Petyr had acquired painted the Beggar King as impulsive and arrogant, a fool convinced of his own divine right.

No. That option was too risky.

Perhaps another player…

—

The Juneflower sliced through the harbor waters, passing beneath the Titan’s legs. The sunlight caught the bronze sheen of the war skirt, momentarily blinding Petyr. He blinked away the glare and turned to face the two guards standing at his back.

“Braavos welcomes us,” he said with a charming smile, slipping effortlessly into his familiar persona. “And we should extend our gratitude, don’t you think?”

The guards exchanged wary glances.

“Gratitude?” one asked.

“Of course.” Petyr spread his hands. “His Majesty will deal with repaying the loan. We’re only here to secure it. In the meantime, Braavos boasts some of the finest… hospitality in the world.” His smile deepened. “I insist. My treat. You’ve both worked so hard on this journey. A little wine, a little music. Perhaps the company of some kind-hearted locals.”

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep