Gerold I

“- Robert’s army met the loyalist forces, led by Rhaegar Targaryen, when they were ford crossing the Trident. The resulting battle caused the death of Prince Rhaegar and the destruction of the Royal Army.” The maester shifted in his seat as his chains clattered and gave a sorrowful look at the young lord. “Lord Grafton?” He put down the scroll and placed his arms at Gerold’s shoulders trying to get his attention.

The daily council dragged on as the boy Lord seemed lost in his thoughts. Gerold looked at his father’s sword, placed ominously above the fireplace. Made of pure meteorite iron that predates back before the Andals invaded. House Grafton… The family may not be respected in the Vale, but it certainly demands prestige. Prestige for diligently governing the largest city and making it the wealthiest across the Vale. Yet they didn’t have the respect they were due. One thing the Graftons lacked was honour. To get to the position they enjoyed they had to conduct trade, or as most ignorant Vale lords called it –‘copper counting’. They despised such practices and would often decry them as ‘dishonourable’.

To assure the loyalty of affluent merchants and influential sailors, they leveraged their kins for marriage. A lordly house giving peasants marriage proposals. ‘How outrageous!’ The illiterate Vale Lords would say. Gerold tightened his fists and recalled how his betrothal was dismissed because of it. It was no secret that the main branch of House Grafton is dying. Vultures hovered and occasionally swooped down, hoping to end his house right there and then. Yet they never succeeded.

The late lord Grafton, saw the decline ever since his mother died. Died of the white plague. He watched on as his mother’s skin paled and coughed incessantly before succumbing to the Stranger’s grasp. Gerold’s father changed after that. He refused to remarry, thinking the Seven has forsaken and attainted his house.

Gerold didn’t know what his father meant back then, after all, he was only six years of age. But after reading his journal and skimming through the parchment, he was shocked. He came to Maester Stephas and old-man Rydan to confirm if it was true.

The deeds his father took to raise the Grafton prestige and wealth were monstrous. From hiring honourable Valemen sailors and disguising them into pirate scum to harass their competitors in Duskendale and White Harbour. To regularly ransoming Braavosi merchant lords. The despicable acts these so-called ‘privateers’ committed didn’t sit well with the young Lord. From a young age, all Vale lords were taught the values of Honour and Chivalry. But the things father ordered contradicted them and violated the laws of Gods and men!

At least his father sought to remedy his numerous sins. He taught Gerold well. From teaching him to lift his sword and how to properly administer his future city. Theirs now… The Gulltown Arryns are going to be trouble. Thanks to the Usurper, we are still owed half of the taxes in Gulltown. It was lenient, for sure. But… Gods… It’s painful. This isn’t what dad wanted! He wanted to be honourable. To remove the ‘curse’ placed on my house. He thought by siding with the rightful king, who’s been chosen by the Seven, he would have his sins forgiven. Alas, that may have been the case for dad. But not for House Grafton and not for me. Picking up the pieces for the last months after the Usurper sieged Gulltown was hard. Back then I was given a choice. To be ‘honourable’ and fight for a distant king or to be a coward. A coward that cares for his people. A coward that didn’t want to see their homes burnt and looted. A coward that didn’t want to have enemy soldiers raping his people.

He felt something on his shoulder and looked to his right. “Forgive me Stephas. Even a month after dad died, I could not help mourn and be lost in my mind.”

“It’s no problem, Gerry. We all miss him. Despite his faults, he was a good man.”

Suddenly, a big burly man with a grin on his face opened the door to his solar. “He was more than a good man, Steph. He was a good friend.” The man looked proudly at Gerold. “And a good father.”

The maester sighed in exasperation. “I thought you were inspecting the ships. A direct order from the Arryns cannot be ignored. You know that, Rydan.”

“Dunt ye worry about that. I’ve got that sorted. No…” Rydan pointed behind him. “I’m here to introduce you to someone. He claims to be one of the lords of the Fingers. I present to you, Petyr of House Baelish.”

A gangly-looking man sauntered over the door and immediately bowed his head. “Thank you for the introduction, Master Porter. My lord, you may not know who I am – “

“Littlefinger. I know who you are. War is afoot and why haven’t you responded to your liege lord?” Gerold asks distrustfully. This was a man surrounded by unwelcome rumours. The man supposedly disgraced his foster father by duelling the late Brandon Stark for his daughter’s hand. There were even whispers of him taking the maidenhead of one of the Tully sisters. Further association with this man boded ill for house Grafton and he was confused as to why the Oldman brought him here. He waited and gave ‘Littlefinger’ the chance to explain himself.

“It seems I wasn’t important enough to get their banners called. You see, Lord Grafton, Baelish holdings don’t have enough people to levy for war.”

“I see no reason why that’s the problem. Honour dictates that you should’ve personally marched to your liege lord, Lyonel Corbray. Why haven’t you done so?” He was surprised that the thin man that barely stood straight didn’t even flinch. Accusations about your personal honour would’ve made any Vale lord’s blood boil. How fascinating. I need to prod him further. Oldman Rydan seems to like him, and I trust his judgement.

“I would’ve gladly offered my sword and even my life to fight against the Mad King.” Gerold straightened his back at that but gestured for him to continue. “However, it seems lord Lyonel has completely forgotten about me. He didn’t even bother sending a raven to call for me.” Baelish stumbled slightly and gestured at the chair. “Sorry, three days of sailing and I’m still not used to walking on land. May I have a seat?”

Gerold looked at Rydan and got a nod in return. “You must be tired from your journey. Please have a seat.” He waited for Petyr to sit down. “I’m curious why you’ve chosen to travel to this city. Surely, it would’ve been much better to ingratiate yourself to your liege lord’s family back at Heart’s Home.”

“You’re right, my Lord. However, after receiving the news of your father’s death, I had to make my condolences.”

Gerold couldn’t take it any longer and stood up. “His funeral was last week. You should’ve been here and paid your respects then. Why didn’t you?” His suspicions were building up and calmly sat back down. Was he one of dad’s employed raiders, rapists and pirates? Was he one of his privateers? He closed his eyes and looked at Petyr. “You said you sailed here? Where’s your crew?”

“I’m truly sorry I wasn’t able to come for his funeral. He was a good man and a just lord. He may have fought for the wrong side, but the Vale mourns the loss of your father.” Petyr again bowed his head before relaxing on his chair and leaning back. “I sailed here myself, my Lord. My late father had Braavosi connections, and they would often teach me how to sail. Though, it would only be in the Trident near Riverrun. I’m still relatively inexperienced when navigating the seas.”

Gerold gave the Oldman a pointed look as he ignored Petyr, to his utter confusion. Rydan understood and shook his head. It makes sense. He was fostered in Riverrun. He’s not one of dad’s privateers. Gerold relaxed slightly and sighed.

“That’s all good but you still haven’t answered one of my questions. Why did you decide to come now and not at his funeral?”

Baelish responded with a smirk that amused him. “I heard whispers of your father’s funeral.” He paused as the man gave everyone in the room a solemn stare.

“Good whispers, I hope.” Gerold jested.

“Oh no. Not good ones, I’m afraid. They said the event was a… Frugal affair. The Wake reception barely had booze and food to serve. They said some unflattering things.” He paused. Again.

Bastard! He’s doing this on purpose. “And those are?”

“How you don’t respect your dead father. They speculated that you were glad he died, so you can inherit his position.”

Gerold was normally calm and stoic - just as his father taught him but for the second time, he lost control. “I loved him! After mom died, he was the only family I have left! He taught me everything! From chivalry to honour!” He gripped his mug as his knuckles turned white and gulped his ale. He slammed the mug down which startled both the maester and harbourmaster, though Petyr remained pensive. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to be a lord. Never have, never will. I’m not good with my sums. I’m average at best at administration. And the vultures are circling around me!”

Lord Grafton got up and went to the window and pointed at a hill. Sat on top was the Falcon Manse. The coat of arms depicting the wings of a falcon was visible to the eye despite the large distance. Crenelations lined the Manse and a slew of construction dotted across the remaining empty space of the hill. “The Arryns of Gulltown… Their manse is slowly turning into a castle. At this rate, they’ll surpass Grafton Keep.” He sat back down and waved away the useless words of comfort from his two most trusted servants. He levelled Petyr a piercing glance, as his hazel eyes slowly turned green. “The whispers about you, Littlefinger, paint you a competent man. A man that’s not afraid to ply the trades of smallfolk. A man that made thousands of dragons in tourneys of Riverrun, from taxing food stands and providing tents and charging them.” Gerold was about to continue but noticed Petyr’s mouth opening. Was that surprise? He was about to burst into laughter, but etiquette kicked in.

In a split second, Petyr returned to his stoic demeanour.

“So…” Gerold calmed down as he pointed suspiciously at Petyr. “Why are you here? To rub into my face that I didn’t spend excessively for dad’s funeral? That the Graftons are basically an impoverished house with half their lands seized?! My house may no longer command the wealth it once did but I, and my children, will never forgive this insult!”

Rydan soon stood up and gave the boy lord a placating gesture and was about to say something, but Petyr waved him off.

“That was never my intention, my lord. I come here, not to taunt nor to disparage you for the funeral of Lord Marq, may the Seven bless him. But I come to you as a fellow man. A man that has lost his father to war. A man that has seen his mother coughing herself to death.”

“Your mom died of the white plague too?”

“Yes…” Petyr hesitated and grabbed his chin. “I suppose. I’m sorry, talking about my ma’s death is not a comfortable subject for me.” Littlefinger fidgeted and scratched his cheeks

“Same. It’s hard. When my mom died, father was a changed man. In a fit of irony, he turned for the better. Sometimes I pray to the Seven, that he turned into a better man without the need for mom’s death. It seems the Seven had different plans. The Septons would always assure me the Seven works in mysterious ways.”

“They do indeed. But know this. The Seven will always look after you. The hardships and adversity you have suffered have made you into a stronger person. As the Smith tempered and hammered his iron, you have come out like steel.” Petyr stood up and patted Rydan’s back. “Master Porter said nothing but praises for you. The smallfolk plying the streets cried and prayed for you. The levels of loyalty you have developed to your people and advisors are inspiring. Much better than my liege lord who has forgotten about me.

“To answer your question, in short, I want to serve you. Serve House Grafton. Make Gulltown the Jewel of the Vale! Hopefully, given time we could be good friends.” Petyr opened the door to Gerold’s solar and gestured at the barrels. “But before that, I brought booze. Mourning with alcohol seems to do the trick! My dad wanted his funeral to be a happy event full of merriment and drinking. Come! I’m sure Lord Marq didn’t want you to wallow in grief.” Petyr held his hands and waited for Gerold.

Gerold’s eyes widened, he puffed his chest out and felt something at the back of his throat. When tears flowed from his eyes and he began to sob. He grabbed the older boy’s hand and stood up. Is this what hope feels like? Did he want to be friends? Now I feel bad for doubting him from the start.

Petyr I

He grabbed his head in a pitiful attempt to stave off the mind-cracking headache. He reached for the basin on the floor and quickly relieved himself. No flushing toilets… For fucks sake! Petyr stood up and immediately fell and face-planted towards the floor. A wave of Déjà vu overcomes him. This reminds me of my first night in this medieval hellhole. I swear to God Almighty, I will lift this world to the wonders of civilisation.

He hummed on the floor as he mentally ticked his checklist. Through luck and persistence, he now has access to the upper echelon of Gulltown management. To his detriment and maybe advantage, the side he hitch-hiked on seems to be damaged. Wounded, on the verge of death.

This wouldn’t do. His first impression of the boy was nothing but positive. Kids that age should be playing games. Making new friends at high school and generally, enjoying life. I certainly did. I don’t know why but I still remember stealing my dad’s old driving license and going on a night out with friends, who did the same, at the age of sixteen. He groaned loudly and tried to lift himself but flopped back down. Those were the good times. It’s a shame that my friends have their faces blurred. As much as I try, I seem to struggle to remember people.

Blurred faces. Barely recognisable. That was the remains of his family and friends from another life. It made moving on much easier but remembering the niceties, like the internet and flushing toilets, he couldn’t help but feel envious of his other life. Thankfully, the guilt of possessing this poor boy was fading and days staring at the ocean and sky did wonders to his mental health.

He ran his mind back to yesterday. He was shocked to hear that he made that much money from tourneys. If the boy was telling the truth, then he was rich. He ran the boy’s memories to overdrive but nothing was coming up.

Then Petyr‘s face slowly reddened then he punched the floor like a gavel. “Hoster! That miserable trout! I hope he dies painfully from cancer!” He couldn’t believe it. He helped his foster father by giving them an overflowing treasury at the mere age of 15, yet he couldn’t bother forgiving the poor boy. Don’t these damn primitives have a concept of puberty? Hormones make kids compulsive! Damn you, Tully!

Sobering up quickly, Baelish stood up and paced around the room. Surely, there was a better way of punishing the lad without banishing him at the pain of death! Petyr’s father must be rolling in his grave. He saved the pitiful fish for nothing! He should've let him die in the Stepstones. His son was drinking himself to death in his own keep and drank the same booze he bought 14 years ago!

None of this made sense to him. He remembers Hoster being fair and just. Not cruel and petty. He could’ve forgiven the lad and given him a slap on the wrist. It wasn’t the young lad’s fault that his daughter was spectacularly proportioned!

Hoster wouldn’t have been that cruel. Unless… Oh. Lysa… That’ll do it. For such an intelligent young man, he could be quite daft. He ponderously grabbed his chin. She must be, at the very least, four months pregnant. I’m going to be a father in this life too. He shook his head and mentally filed the memory away. It’s going to take another five months for the babe to be born anyway. And knowing Lysa, she’ll send out a letter to him as soon as possible.

He clapped himself, “Problem solved. Simply react to Lysa’s letter. Don’t initiate contact with her at any cost, otherwise, the old trout will deliver his ‘justice’. I don’t know what that means but I don’t want to find out.”

Petyr stood straight and crossed his arms and huffed heavily. “Now to prepare for the future.” He grabbed his bag and pulled out his parchments which were full of scribbles and spilt ink. Reaching out for the ink and quill, he made his second draft of his plans.

Thinking about this society, filled him with despair. How can such a civilisation stagnate so much with no signs of progress? Three hundred years ago, these primitives fought with steel. Three hundred years later, they still fought with steel! If one were to compare this to Earth; they fought with muskets, then three hundred years later Nagasaki and Hiroshima were wiped out with nuclear hellfire.

Once again, Petyr thanked God that he was given a body with perfectly eidetic memory, as he combed through his mind once again. Looking through the books of the Riverrun library as if he’s seeing them for the first time. Skimming them at lightning pace when eventually he found what he was looking for. What he found out was truly strange. Seasons that weren’t dictated by the planet’s axis towards the sun. Seasons that were a few years. Oh, dear God. A few years of winter. A few years of unproductivity! Especially in an agrarian society! What. The. Hell. Snow that would blot the roads rendering them unusable… The economist in him trembled with sorrow and he dramatically clutched his chest.

His plans seem to fade into a metaphorical black hole which saddened him greatly. This is not ideal. Petyr silently anguished. The conditions set about by irregular seasons have halted human progress. Halted innovation. Causing conservatism and traditionalism to triumph against change, and through change, progress. Well of course it did. If change means potentially dying from winter-induced starvation, then change is unnecessary. The primitives must’ve developed a mentality of ‘if it ain’t broke then don’t fix it’ and augmented it on bloody steroids!

He skimmed through his plans of progressive reformism and doubted himself. Many of these should be possible even in a society in a medieval stasis. It includes establishing a Customs office to clamp down on smuggling, new taxes (polled at 5%) aimed at the rich –

A knock on the door woke him from his planning stupor. “Yes? You can come in.”

“Milord. Lord Grafton has just woken up and bids you to break your fast with him. But the first meal may take a while to prepare so he asked me if you would have a bath first?” The maid indicated Petyr to follow her without waiting for his response.

Not bothered by the apparent disrespect, he followed her to a room with a tub full of lukewarm water. “Thank you, miss. I appreciate it.” He bowed slightly which caused the maid to flinch and turn her face away.

“It was no problem, Ser Petyr.”

As she was about to exit, he turned to her. “No, my lady. I’m not worthy enough to be a knight yet. I pride myself in the powers of this.” He pointed at his head. “It may not be enough to protect beautiful maidens such as you but hopefully, you’ll enjoy my tongue. So just call me Petyr.” He winked at her which caused her face to visibly redden before running to the door.

“Good day to you, Lord Baelish!”

“Heh. Always gets them.” He disrobed and jumped into the bathtub. At least I’m not a peasant or a smallfolk as these primitives would say. I can enjoy a hot bath anytime I want without lifting a muscle! Such bliss!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Petyr entered the dining room and he was impressed. Five grand arches lined with clear glass, twelve plate armour stands standing at the edge looking dangerously at the middle of the room. He fumbled with his parchment and took his seat. It was just him and Gerold. The less said about his appearance the better.

“Damn it, Petyr! Why do you look like you haven’t drank?!” He petulantly stood up before a headache forced him to sit and nurse his head.

“It’s because I know how to drink. Everyone knows you must eat and drink water as you get drunk in feasts. The pigeon pie tasted fantastic by the way, please give my compliments to the chef.”

“Well, you’re in luck. Some leftovers are still left.” He signalled for the servants to bring their meals. “I hope venison coated with wine-based sauce is to your liking?”

“How fancy. I can’t wait.” He rubbed his hands and did the sign of the cross. Bless us O’ lord and this thy gifts…

Gerold looked at him like he’d grown another head. “A weird ritual to do before eating. Whatever suits you I guess.”

Shit! My habits from my previous life are going to get me burnt in a stake! It took sheer willpower not to react. “It’s just a Braavosi tradition my father taught me to do before eating. It’s to pay respects to the cooks who’ve laboured to give us this lovely meal.”

“The Braavosi seem to pay attention so much to labourers then.”

“Well of course. They’re not feudalistic as us, Westerosi. Despite their faults, they treat their lower class with respect much better than here in Westeros. I guess that’s predictable considering the founding fathers of Braavos were former slaves.” He sliced his venison and picked it up with a fork before eating it. “Now this is heavenly. It’s nice, juicy and not that chewy. This has been cooked well.” He continued to chew. “Plus, my dear friend, these smallfolk clean our dishes and clothes, prepare our meals, take out our waste. Such demanding jobs demand respect, don’t you think? A little bit of kindness will inspire more loyalty and you’re a decent person. It wouldn’t be too hard for you.”

“Interesting. My dad would teach me that the smallfolk would serve you in the little things and in return I would serve them in the big things.” The Gulltown lord stopped eating and scratched his head. “A childish rendition of what he said, I know. But it is perfectly understandable and reflects what you said.”

Petyr smiled at that. What a nice kid. It was nothing but niceties when I said we were going to be good friends, but I’m starting to like this kid. A good head above his shoulders with a strong sense of duty. Now to see if I can manipulate his good nature by implementing my reforms. My reforms will ensure prosperity for all, not just a few noble lords!

Petyr waited for him to finish his meal before dropping the bomb. “This was a good meal and I look forward to meeting the chef. In fact, I can’t wait for lunch and dinner!” He coughed to get his attention. “As thanks for giving me a free room and free meals, I am compelled to give my advice to truly make Gulltown the jewel of the Vale! Trust me, these are all necessary to ensure prosperity to all good peoples of Gulltown.”

Gerold reached for the parchments and glanced through them. “These are all interesting. New taxes… Customs office. Hmmm.” He tapped his finger repeatedly on the table. “Marissa, can you please call for Stephas. And send a runner for the Oldman. I’m sure he can easily delegate the minute management of the harbour. Tell them to come to my solar.”

Baelish smiled. His plans were moving on. After all, to climb higher on the ladder you must find people willing to help you at the bottom. Competent people with good morals, ideally.