"Ser Domeric—do you know why the Iron Throne is imposing additional commercial taxes on your lands?"
What Petyr said next made Domeric's heart tighten. He followed the line Petyr wanted him to take.
"To be frank, I'm curious as well. Why would the Iron Throne pay attention to a tiny holding like mine?"
"It's simple." Petyr's tone slowed, each word deliberate. "It was the Warden of the North—Lord Eddard Stark. He sent King Robert a confidential letter… because he doesn't want the Lonely Mountain to rise."
By now, Domeric could hardly miss the implication.
This bastard was trying to drive a wedge between House Bolton and House Stark.
Seeing Domeric's stunned expression, Petyr knew his meaning had landed, and he smiled again.
"I don't enjoy being the sort of petty informer who whispers behind closed doors—but believe me, I'm helping you.
As Warden of the North, Stark doesn't want a powerful House Bolton.
So Lord Eddard is using this despicable method—borrowing King Robert's hand to weaken you."
It was—on the surface—a plausible rationale.
Domeric lowered his head as if deep in thought.
In truth, he didn't believe a single word Littlefinger said—not even the punctuation.
With Eddard Stark's rigid, painfully honorable nature, his almost sanctimonious devotion to knightly virtue… getting him to use such a dirty trick against the Boltons would be harder than killing him.
It was obvious: Petyr Baelish wanted conflict between House Bolton and House Stark.
A thousand years ago, when the Boltons were still kings—the "Red Kings"—they had fought the Starks for dominance.
More than once, they had beaten Stark lords, flayed them, and hung those skins in the Dreadfort.
Petyr had likely noticed the Lonely Mountain's potential and decided to throw oil on the fire.
The stronger the Lonely Mountain grew, the more House Bolton's power swelled—until they would no longer tolerate standing beneath House Stark.
Two tigers cannot share one mountain.
In Petyr's mind, Stark and Bolton were destined to clash.
And if they did, men like Petyr—the spiders and plotters—could profit from the blaze.
That, Domeric judged, was the real objective.
…
As Littlefinger kept talking—painting Stark hostility, claiming Eddard leveraged his friendship with King Robert to raise taxes on the Lonely Mountain—Domeric found himself growing bored.
So this was the "greatest schemer in the realm"?
Compared to true wolves—Tywin Lannister, Euron Greyjoy, Stannis Baratheon…
Petyr Baelish was nothing but a clown.
Without the Tully "two idiot sisters" handing him miracles, he would never stir much of anything.
Absentmindedly, Domeric pinched a strand of hair that had fallen from Littlefinger.
[Secrets-Digger System Triggered!]
Squares of text appeared across Domeric's vision:
Petyr Baelish
Identity: Master of Coin; Lord of the Fingers
Title: Littlefinger
Strength: 15
Agility: 20
Spirit: 25
Combat Index: 60
Note: Target is not in fear; unable to窥探 his secrets.
Domeric smiled. So the Master of Coin was not impressive in personal capability…
And so, after a "painful" internal struggle, Domeric finally said, "Lord Petyr—you make a convincing point. I'll write to my father, Lord Roose, at once. House Stark's plot won't succeed."
Petyr studied Domeric for a long moment, then gave a satisfied smile…
After seeing the Master of Coin off, Domeric crumpled the tax decree into a ball and tossed it into the rubbish bin.
Westeros would soon be boiling into chaos.
Pay taxes at a time like that?
Pay my ass.
The next day.
"My lord, do we return to King's Landing now?" Bryen asked respectfully.
"No. We go to Winterfell."
…
Winterfell, the reception hall.
"Cat. It's been a long time."
Petyr looked quietly at the woman before him—auburn hair, blue eyes, long fingers.
She had barely changed.
"My husband will be back soon," Catelyn said, ignoring his intimacy.
Petyr had once been a small, thin boy. Now he was a small, thin man—an inch or two shorter than Catelyn. Yet he was quick and wiry, his features as sharp as she remembered, and those grey-green eyes still full of smiling warmth.
"I only wanted to see you alone. Cat—we haven't met in so many years. Tell me, how long has it been?" Petyr didn't bother hiding the longing in his gaze. "Ah—and this is for you."
He offered her a finely made box. Inside lay a pearl the size of a dragon's eye, shining faintly.
"A rare Braavosi pearl," Petyr said. "This single pearl is worth five hundred gold dragons—priceless, and impossible to buy."
In Petyr's mind, northern nobles were paupers, and the Starks were no exception.
Since marrying Eddard, Catelyn surely had no chance to own jewelry like this—so she ought to be delighted.
Catelyn turned, looking Littlefinger up and down. Her narrow eyes slid to the pearl and narrowed further.
A few months ago, Ser Domeric had sent three pearls—each the size of a hen's egg—one for her and one for each of her daughters.
In his letter, Domeric had written that Braavosi merchants gifted them to him, and that each pearl cost about a hundred gold dragons.
Egg-sized pearls: one hundred gold dragons.
Dragon-eye pearls: five hundred gold dragons.
Smaller… yet more expensive?
That made no sense.
Ser Domeric would not cheapen his own gifts.
So there was only one explanation: Petyr Baelish was inflating the value of his "gift."
Suddenly, in Catelyn's eyes, her childhood companion looked strangely unfamiliar.
She accepted the gift in silence—she didn't want to refuse it to his face and destroy the little goodwill that remained. She decided that when Petyr left, she would send him a return gift worth one hundred gold dragons.
"Petyr—why have you come?" Catelyn's voice was cool, distant.
"We haven't seen each other in years. I came to visit. Is that improper?"
"I'm Lady Stark now," she said. "The past is past, and I've forgotten it."
"…Very well." Petyr's mouth twisted faintly, bitterly, and he revealed the real reason he'd come.
"In truth, I had official business in the Lonely Mountain. On my way back, I came here specifically to warn you—be careful…"
"Careful of what?" Catelyn's expression sharpened.
"Careful of Domeric Bolton."
Petyr looked at her, smile unchanged, eyes dark.
"He's kept nearly four thousand soldiers in the Lonely Mountain—combined with Lord Roose's forces at the Dreadfort…
Gods.
House Bolton alone commands nearly ten thousand men.
My lady—have you considered what he is preparing for?
In the entire North, only House Stark can oppose him.
House Bolton has always coveted the seat of the Kings of Winter!"
Catelyn shook her head, cold certainty in her gaze.
"Ser Domeric is raising forces to deal with the wildlings beyond the Wall. He told my husband this long ago… and he would never act against House Stark."
"And how can you be so sure?" Petyr gave a sly smile.
"Because Ser Domeric is a kind young lord—skilled in arms and true to knightly vows. My husband Eddard trusts him, my son Robb considers him a close friend…
And he loves my daughter Sansa."
"What?" Petyr froze, feeling the edge in Catelyn's words, as if his mind suddenly couldn't keep up.
This was nothing like what he had expected.
It seemed his influence reached only as far as King's Landing.
He knew far too little about the North.
-
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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