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Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 1: Sean Lends a Hand by High Plains Drifter
 A song of Ice and Fire & Game of Thrones Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Eddard S., Words: 109k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 737, Published: Jul 22, 2014 Updated: Feb 1, 2015  423Chapter 12 - Littlefinger (I)
Littlefinger (I)
Petyr's jaw ached, and as he gingerly dabbed his tongue against the swollen, scrapped gum inside his abused, handsome face, he determined with a grimace that a tooth had likely chipped. Physically he couldn't do much more than that, as he awaited the Hound's not so tender pleasure, what with his hands tied roughly to the horn of the saddle he found himself be-straddling. Though confined, the Mockingbird's mind never stopped observing, analyzing, and scheming a thousand different ways all at once. He cocked his dapper head to watch the reviled, and apparently more deadly than he ever supposed, bald headed figure that was bound on the grey mare beside him. The Spider's eyes, he noted, lay very still; revealing nothing, no outward indication that he even shared Petyr's delicate predicament. 'Varys, Varys, Varys … you've been terribly naughty for a very long time, haven't you?' he snickered to himself, enjoying the implications of at least those particular startling revelations made this dangerous night by the pretend shade a dead man. The Eunuch didn't even twitch at Petyr's steady, amused gaze upon him. 'No doubt plotting how to extricate yourself from your own sticky web, while I already …'
The clever man cut off his smug thoughts and released a small "whoosh" of pain as Clegane finally started moving their intimate cavalcade of horses and mute children towards the Dragon Gate and the Hound's anxious, ever suspicious mistress. Both the reins of Petyr's black gelding and those for Varys' mount were tied to the Hound's massive warhorse, as was the slender iron chain of shackled urchins. His belly and ribs hurt much worse than his jaw. At least the pair of brainless brutes who'd cheerily pummeled him earlier hadn't also squashed his precious branch and plums. 'Well, perhaps not so completely brainless after all,' Petyr generously admitted of this new and unusual obstacle. Both the Not Stark's appearance and performance hadn't at all been what he'd anticipated. 'Never guess how a ghost will act,' he advised himself. Recalling the image of that 'man' started churning up the eerie feeling which had threatened to swamp the Mockingbird's cool demeanor during the so called parley inside the tent. Petyr fought down the unpleasant sensation, and its impossible implications, by reanalyzing every angle he'd viewed of no longer Happily Headless Ned for the tiniest sign of proof that the mirror perfect reflection was a Faceless Man.
At first, as the unbelievable reports of Tywin Lannister's catastrophic downfall at the hands of a resurrected Lord of Winterfell came to King's Landing, Petyr thought the rumor merely a clever ploy by Cat's boy to cause panic and further confound his enemies. The Stark spawn had after all proven himself a master strategist of sorts by arranging the defeat of not one, but two, Westerland armies, so the Master of Coin paid little heed to the nursery tale and focused his considerable intellect on how to use the coming chaos to advance his own already considerable and now threatened position in the game. But then, as the weeks turned into a month, and more and more detailed information on the 'Return of Dear Lord Eddard' trickled in through his network of usually reliable sources, Petyr's initial notion of a particularly talented mummer playing at no longer Happily Headless Ned had slowly transformed into something actually alarming and sinister ... a Faceless Man. Dangerous questions began to assail him for which he had no answers; and the not knowing bothered him greatly. 'Why haven't Joffrey and Cersei, myself, or dare I hope Varys, simply not awoken one morning?' 'Where is the North's wealth that it can pay for this face changing assassin's seemingly endless charade?' 'Are the Faceless Men overturning centuries of tradition and making themselves players in Westeros? In the Game of Thrones?' 'What does the North hold over them to make the assassins their lackeys?' 'Is Ned Stark really not …'
He winced as his gelding's misstep jarred his bruised ribs and belly. No grumkin or snark had so rudely struck him; only a man. But one, who more importantly, had run an elaborate, and unfortunately very accurate, bluff; in hopes of tainting the Mockingbird in Cersei's not so clever, yet easy to anger emerald eyes. Fortunately no longer Happily Headless Ned had unwound a little too much rope in trying to snare all his enemies at once. Petyr saw the skeins this man, only a man, was trying to unravel; and the Mockingbird knew exactly how to use it. 'I can outwit this man,' he told himself. Reassured of his own superiority, the Mockingbird's mind unleashed its creativity to plan the complete destruction of House Stark and all its allies, open or otherwise. At last the creak from the opening of the Dragon Gate's thick wrought iron and oak beams brought him out of his delicious revenge laden revelry, 'We shall see who the better player in the Game of Thrones is now, Faceless Man?' the Mockingbird thought haughtily.
No, it was as Petyr expected, peering into the torch lit gloom as he passed out of the Dragon Gate. 'Too many thin reeds,' he told himself with acceptance. The situation was too tenuous to let mere feelings temper his actions. 'They would hesitate to attack on my say so, no matter the river of silver stags and golden dragons I've flowed through their pockets over the years.'
The score of Lannister red cloaks under the proficient captain Vylarr already stood more or less at attention atop their chargers. The gold cloaks, led by the buyable, biddable, morally flexible Allar Deem, scurried about in a show of typical incompetence. Half of the twenty with mounts were still trying to reach their sorry nags, let alone saddle up. And many of the eighty city watch on foot seemed to be reluctantly dragging their ringmail clad bodies away from the squalid pot shots, diseased whore closets, and rigged dice games lining the sides of the flagstone paved, shit invested traveler's square behind the gate. At least no white cloaks or lordlings high in the Queen's favor had been sent down in his absence to await the meager embassy's return. Up to a point, his authority as Master of Coin, and purveyor of many, many bribes, would stay undisputed as they returned to the Red Keep and the uncertain warmth of the Queen's magnificent bosom. So at least for now, Cersei's predictable paranoia over the need to guard her own and her precious Joffrey's fates from the northern wolves played to the Mockingbird's needs.
"Captain Vylarr! Captain Allar! Come release me Sers!" Petyr declared in a strong, authoritative voice, striving for the initiative. "The Starks have profaned the parley and lain hands upon me!"
The two men and their closest aides almost instantly started moving forward, staring hard through the dim light to see what the Master of Coin and member of the King's Small Council meant.
"No Baelish, you're mine," the Hound snarled, giving a jerk to the reins of Petyr's horse, pulling both the gelding and its rider closer to his hideous face and repugnant breath.
"No, Clegane, as a member of the Small Council I'm the King's, at least until the Queen Regent, your mistress, says otherwise. Now be a good dog and stop barking at your better," the Mockingbird replied in his best bored, superior tone.
"I'll smash your teeth in the next time you squeak, Littlefinger," the Hound rumbled menacingly, his gauntleted free hand flexing into a large, formidable fist.
"Because my mere words scare you?" the Mockingbird scoffed, calculating a slightly better than even chance that the thug's threat were a bluff. When nothing more than throaty growls answered his question, Petry immediately gestured as expansively as he could with his tied hands toward the approaching red and gold cloaked figures. "Those will risk rescuing me away from you?" he ridiculed. "I think not. And even if they did, where could I flee, hmmmnn? Back to the tender mercies of Ned Stark? No thank you, I'd rather keep my head; which is where it will stay when Cersei learns of all I have done to benefit her Grace."
"Lies," hissed Varys, finally breaking his silence since the Stark's tent. "Self-serving lies."
"Says the traitor who can only play with words since he doesn't have a cock to stroke. Why should I lie when the Stark truth leaves me in a far more palatable light then you, eh Eunuch?"
"Shut up!" Clegane snapped. "Or I'll piss in your dead mouths."
Feeling he'd taunted the dog as far as he could for the moment, Petyr offered the mindless brute a smile, but did not say a word.
Soon enough the pair of captains arrived. "Lord Baelish. Lord Varys. Lord Clegane," rumbled the commander of the Queen's Lannister guards uncertainly, having heard some of the hard words exchanged between the three and at last noticing two of them with bound hands. "What happened out there?"
"A simple misunderstanding, captain," Petyr answered, daring yet again to risk the Hounds wrath and apparently a mouth full of piss. "The Mummer Lord Stark sought to sow confusion amongst his enemies."
Allar Deem coughed nervously, clearly unsure of the situation. "How so, my lord?"
"By doing the unexpected, he told the truth. Now cut me free, Ser."
"Hold," Clegane snarled, causing both captains to remain still. "They're mine."
"And I'll gladly remain yours until you deliver us to her Grace's royal presence. The quicker the better," he urged.
"And me," spoke the Spider from beneath eyes as black as his soul.
'Oh there will be no alliance of convenience with you.' "No," Petyr snapped immediately. "Most assuredly not you, Eunuch. When tonight's truths are untwisted before the Queen, all I have done will prove my loyalty to House Lannister; and yours will only reveal a castrated dragon hiding beneath spider's silk."
"Shut up," barked the Hound, reaching for the dagger at his side.
Vylarr's eyes narrowed and he let a hand drift over to his blade in response to the unexpected promise of violence.
Allar Deem, revealing his true mettle, backed his horse away from the menacing Hound.
No one spoke as the Lannister's pet dog thought a moment. "Baelish yes. The Eunuch no," he announced with a growl.
Petyr let out the tiniest of sighs, victory. He'd succeeded in gaining the initiative; and now he'd enter Cersei' lush and drearily limited presence unbound. Appearance is everything and a chained Varys would shout a guilty Varys at the rash Queen. "Come, come, Ser Allar," the Mockingbird chided, wasting no time and wiggling his hands openly to spark the dullard into action.
"And what of these urchins?" Vylarr asked practically, jerking a hand at the mute handful of chained children lined up behind the newest and least knightly of the white cloaks.
The Hound shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "Bring'em, kill'em, I don't care. Stark thinks they're the Eunuch's spies."
The gold cloak captain had taken the hint, moved his mount close to Petyr, and started to unsheathe a pocket knife. "We need them alive," the Mockingbird chimed in. "They are … ow-ow-ow-ow," he broke off suddenly in pain, for the Hound had moved faster than the frequently bought officer and sliced not only through the rope binding his hands, but his gloves and the skin beneath too.
As the Master of Coin grimaced and fought back uttering an angry, and under the present circumstances very injudicious, retort at the brutish white cloak, Varys unctuous voice oozed out at its finest to fill the void. "…are the poor sweet leavings of the Starks' monstrous magic, and nothing to do with me. These precious babes, whose tongues were sliced off by cruel northern blades as offerings to their barbaric Old Gods in exchange for Lord Stark's return from the dead, are now ours to nurture, to guard. For that is the last thing the Wight of Winterfell seeks; instead, he inflames us so we will torture these dear ones in the black cells beneath the Red Keep until they tell false tales to incriminate the innocent, and thus complete his dark incantation and destroy all that which protects the Iron Throne."
If Petyr hadn't been so busy tending to his dog inflicted scratches, he'd have laughed. 'How pitiful, Varys. That's all you could come up with? Pathetic.' And then the Mockingbird did laugh out loud, for the Hound had reached out and backhanded the Spider across his simpering face. Though judging by the calculating look on the ugly brute's face when his gaze next fell on Petyr, he was seriously weighing whether or not to slap him too.
"Lord Clegane!" Captain Vylarr burst unhappily, uncertain how to react to the open violence against one of the Small Council; but thankfully, yet, not a second one.
"Oh the traitor had it coming," Petyr interjected with a pain enhanced sneer, trying to stay on the angry Hound's good side. "He's been plotting for a Targaryen restoration since the moment our Grace's brave uncle put an end to Aerys the Mad. And these ones," he jabbed fingers at the sly wretches, "are nothing more than Lord Clegane said, his spies; mute slaves brought over from Pentos to do the Spider's underhanded bidding."
"Truly?" muttered a perplexed Allar Deem.
"Could be," the Hound replied bad-temperedly, unsure which if any of the long list of lies he'd heard that night held any actual truth and irritated at the effort it was taking to try and unravel.
"So where did all these mutilated mongrels come from then? Oh, Ser Vylarr, Ser Allar, there were at least a score more just like this gathered back in the Northerns' tent. And while there is much I loathe about their icy ilk; aside perhaps than their Flaying Lord Bolton, cutting children is not one of their many vices." The men gathered around the Mockingbird, other than the woozy Eunuch, all nodded in agreement at his statement. 'Good, I have them for the moment,' he thought. "Sergeant Waters," Petyr continued, addressing Deem's deputy most deeply in his pay. "I fear my own modest collection of establishments must be swarming with the Eunuch's spies. Please go to my manor, the one not far from the Old Gate. You know it?"
"Yesh, Lerd Baylesh," the middle aged lisper, street bully, and pedophile answered.
"Tell my Steward Rolland that 'the spider is loose.'" 'Though you'll pronounce it 'loosh,' fool.' And that my sellswords are to capture any tongue-less children who work or frequent my homes and businesses. This must all be done tonight, lest word reaches these perverted waifs of their Master's imprisonment and they try to rescue him through secret passages and the use of poisons," Petyr explained, trying to play on everyone's fears of the Master of Whisperers. 'If there's anyone who knows more of the bolt holes Maegor hid throughout the Red Keep than I, it's you Varys,' he thought nastily.
The child fucker looked down at the chained youths, while chewing at his lower, chapped lip. "So's weeze kills'em?"
'After you bugger them, you mean?' "I don't care how badly you rough up the little devils catching them. But I want them alive and brought to the Red Keep. They are evidence of the Spider's treason against the crown." 'Not that Cersei will wait long to let no longer Happily Headless Ned chop off your head Varys, me thinks. And if I'm truly lucky, Ser Ilyn will swing even sooner than that; and wouldn't that be wonderfully ironic to have a tongue-less man remove your shaved dome after all the naughty things you and your little birds have done. Maybe I can take your ugly skull with me as a souvenir when I desert this rat infested sinking ship. Perhaps somewhere in the Free Cities I can reunite it with your long lost cock and balls. Two heads are better than one.'
"That sounds a clever move, Lord Baelish," Captain Vylarr agreed. "I think we should set a search too once we get to the Red Keep. What say you, Captain Deem?"
"Aye. Let's do so," concurred the pliable gold cloak.
'Hopeless, unless I lead them by the hand.' "Why not spread word about these assassins among the rest of the watch right now," the Mockingbird added. "I think, as Master of Coins," 'for now,' he added to himself, "I can safely state that our Grace will gladly offer a gold dragon as reward for each tongue-less spy, no matter how small, handed over to the crown."
"Very wise." "The King is generous." "Down with traitors." Many of the gathered gold cloaks murmured.
'And by this time tomorrow Flea Bottom will be devoid of street urchins and all the bowls o' brown will taste like tongue. Oh, one last thing' "Captain Vylarr. Captain Allar. When my trusted sellswords bring any waifs found in my establishments tonight to the Red Keep, will the gate be open for them or must they wait until morning to enter?"
The two men looked sagely at each other.
"We will leave word at the postern door," Vylarr rasped.
"Excellent. Now that we seem to have things well in hand. Let us take the Eunuch to the Queen and justice." He bobbed his head in acknowledgement to the unhappily befuddled looking Hound. "Lead on Ser."
The usual angry look returned to the jumped up white cloak. "I'm no Ser," he growled. "And you wag your tongue too much."
'You may be a dog and certainly are no Ser,' thought the Mockingbird smugly. 'But you are a sheep, just like everyone else.' Feeling reassured of his mastery over any situation, Petyr wished for some wine, a sour red would do nicely; his jaw still ached from where no longer Happily Headless Need had hit him.
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