The Master of Coin was suddenly brimming with confidence again

"A deal?"

"Hiss-hahaha!"

Yarn's words drew a burst of laughter from the Imp, who had been thoroughly enjoying the excellent service.

But he had reached a critical moment, and the beauty's sudden quickening made him suck in a sharp breath.

"What makes you think you're qualified to strike a deal with the Lannisters?"

After a series of spasms, the Imp slowly calmed in his postcoital clarity, his mismatched eyes studying the brazen bastard from the North with interest.

"That little fighting pit of yours?"

As the Imp asked his question, the Mountain obligingly took two steps forward.

A suffocating pressure emanated from the Mountain's massive frame. Yarn swallowed with a shudder, rubbing his hands together incessantly in front of him.

At the same time, he frantically searched his mind for every word he had ever learned, trying to arrange them into something that would sway the short man who could decide his fate.

"My dear Lord Tyrion."

Yarn tried to make his voice sound as humble as possible. He knew these nobles all enjoyed feeling superior.

"I know you won over a million Gold Dragons from Littlefinger at the Red Keep's tourney grounds."

"But as you also know, even if the whores on the Street of Silk each took a hundred customers a day, he still couldn't come up with that much money."

"However, I have a way for you to recover as much of your losses as possible."

Listening to Yarn's explanation, the Imp waited until the movement beneath him stopped entirely, then patted the beauty's firm, springy bottom. She obediently stood and stepped aside.

"Do you know what you're saying, Yahn Snow?"

Satisfied in body and mind, the Imp pulled up his trousers, hopped down from his chair, and slowly approached Yarn.

He raised his head to study this vicious-looking man who nevertheless reeked of mercenary calculation, and asked with a hint of amusement.

"Of course, my lord."

Seeing the Imp question him, Yarn knew his words had already piqued his interest.

"As Littlefinger's representative in Flea Bottom, I know most of the illegal dealings he's conducted over the years like the back of my hand."

Yarn wore a friendly smile, but his words were full of malice.

"He's already standing on the edge of a cliff. All you need to do is give him a gentle push from behind."

As he spoke, he made a pushing gesture with both hands.

"And Littlefinger will be ruined beyond recovery!"

"Then, with your younger brother serving as commander of the Gold Cloaks, you could easily acquire all of Littlefinger's property, Lord Tyrion."

"I believe the newly appointed Lord Arthas is also in great need of an achievement he can take pride in, isn't he?"

Yarn confidently laid out the basis of his assurance, believing the Imp was already largely persuaded.

"Not enough, Yahn Snow."

"Not enough."

The Imp had intended to wag a finger in front of Yarn's face, only to discover he could not reach him at all.

He awkwardly turned around and sat back in his chair.

"The Lannisters aren't short of money."

"And empty words alone won't bring down a Master of Coin so deeply entrenched in King's Landing."

The implication was that unless Yahn produced something substantial, he could forget about getting him to commit.

"Of course, Lord Tyrion."

Having clawed his way up from Flea Bottom, Yarn was no slouch at reading expressions.

First, he glared at the scantily clad beauty beside the Imp. She immediately took the hint and left with a seductive sway, throwing the Imp a flirtatious glance on her way out.

After she left, Yarn raised his head to look at the Mountain, only to meet his savage, brutal stare, which seemed to say:

Tell me to leave, and I'll smash your head in!

"It's all right. House Clegane are the Lannisters' most loyal hounds."

Seeing Yarn's misgivings, the Imp, who could not order the Mountain around himself, immediately waved a casual hand to indicate that it was fine.

Yarn said no more. He merely drew a slip of paper carefully from his sleeve, took two quick steps toward the Imp, and respectfully offered it.

The Imp accepted the slip and began reading it casually.

Suddenly, his pupils contracted. He crushed the paper into a ball with both hands, then looked at Yarn with a gaze full of shock and uncertainty.

"Does anyone else know about this?"

Knowing that the man would not have gone to such lengths only to joke about something so important, the Imp's hands began to tremble around the slip of paper.

Faced with his questioning, Yarn did not answer, merely casting another sidelong glance at the Mountain looming behind him.

"Ser Gregor, this is a matter of grave importance. Please give us some privacy."

Seeing his solemn expression, the Mountain turned and headed outside, despite Arthas's orders to remain at the Imp's side and protect him.

Only when he reached the doorway did he shoot Yarn a warning glare.

Bang!

Once the door shut, Yarn leaned toward the Imp's ear and spoke in a voice only the two of them could hear.

"Tears of Lys!"

"Mountain, what are you standing here for? Where's Tyrion?"

After leaving the king's banquet, Arthas had made his way to Flea Bottom by asking the Gold Cloaks on duty.

Finding the smell here rather hard to bear, he frowned deeply at the Mountain, who stood dutifully outside the door.

With his build, this fellow really would make a suitable abomination.

Ever since sensing the concentration of magic in this world gradually rising, Arthas had found himself considering how to assemble an undead army of his own.

After all, House Targaryen had dragons. With his current meager magical power alone, he could not possibly contend with that legendary force.

"Lord Arthas."

Recognizing his distinctive long golden hair and handsome face, the Mountain hurriedly dropped to one knee, paying no heed to whether the ground in Flea Bottom was clean.

Ever since Arthas had tamed him, this giant had treated him with extraordinary respect, as though facing Tywin himself.

"Tyrion is inside discussing something with the owner of the fighting pit."

"For secrecy's sake, he asked me to stand guard at the door."

A flicker of surprise crossed Arthas's eyes at the Mountain's answer. He had not expected Tyrion, who valued his life so dearly, to let the Mountain leave his side.

Presuming it must be something particularly important and confidential, he nodded at once.

"Then do your duty and keep a good watch here."

Then he passed the Mountain, pushed open the door, and walked straight inside.

"Well, well, Tyrion."

The moment he entered, Arthas was stunned by the scene inside.

The Imp sat sprawled in his chair with his legs spread, while the heavy-jowled Yarn stood before him, leaning halfway over.

Their faces were pressed close together as they discussed who knew what, like a pair of male rabbits enjoying themselves.

The suggestive posture prompted Arthas to tease them.

"When did your tastes change? And to such a peculiar-looking man, too."

"If you'd told me earlier you liked this sort of thing, I'd have had the Mountain give you some tender loving care."

"Hey, Arthas."

Only then did the Imp come back to his senses and realize that his position with Yarn was indeed somewhat inappropriate.

He hurriedly jumped down from the chair and warily closed the door.

"Stop joking. I've uncovered a huge secret!"

Meanwhile, the kingdom's Master of Coin, the battered and bruised Lord Baelish, still did not know Yarn had sold him out.

He sat panting in his own brothel on the Street of Silk and gulped down a great mouthful of wine, only then easing his thirst a little.

The night had kept him terribly busy. To raise money, he had made the rounds of almost all his businesses.

Fortunately, he had already scraped together nearly five hundred thousand Gold Dragons, all the ready cash he could produce without selling off his properties.

What distressed him even more was that the nobles of King's Landing insisted he had rigged the duel. They were already doing him a great courtesy by not coming to demand refunds, and none were willing to lend him money.

Although his intelligence had long since allowed him to realize that the two Lannister brothers had played him, Baelish did not dare default on a debt to the Lannisters.

He made up his mind to try negotiating with the Imp, paying back part first and repaying the rest in installments.

Given the Lannisters' lavish indifference to money, this plan still had a high chance of success.

"Lord Baelish."

A woman without a stitch of clothing emerged from behind the curtain, carrying a platter of roast meat.

She plopped down beside Baelish, displaying her lovely figure to him without reservation as she gave him a suggestive look.

But Baelish's eyes remained fixed on the roast meat on the platter throughout, as though the beautiful body before him were nothing but air.

It was not that he lacked lust. As the biggest pimp in King's Landing... perhaps in all of Westeros, Baelish's favorite pastime was watching the whores under him pleasure one another.

But he never participated himself.

Some said Littlefinger was so short in a certain respect that his inferiority complex kept him from daring to expose his shortcomings before the whores, for fear they would mock him behind his back.

But Baelish knew perfectly well that this was only part of the reason!

Ever since meeting that woman with auburn hair and beautiful blue eyes, there had been no room in his heart for anyone else.

Not even her younger sister, Lysa Tully, whom he twisted around his little finger!

"Of course!"

Baelish, who had not eaten all day, was wolfing down his food when he suddenly slapped his forehead.

He had been so focused on raising money from his businesses that he had somehow forgotten that foolish woman!

"Fetch me a pen!"

At the thought of Lysa Tully, who obeyed his every word and had even ruthlessly poisoned her own husband, Baelish immediately regained his unflappable composure.

As long as he pretended to be deeply in love with her, the Vale should still be able to produce a mere few hundred thousand Gold Dragons.

"Perhaps I can even turn a profit!"

Snatching up the paper and pen the woman brought him, Baelish excitedly began to write at a furious pace.

"My dear Lysa."

"Though we have been apart for only a few days, my longing for you flows as ceaselessly as the waters of the Blackwater Rush."

"Since the death of Jon, the Hand of the King, you have returned to live at the Eyrie with Robin."

"You have left me alone in King's Landing, unable to take an interest in food or drink."

"Yesterday, I made a terrible mistake."

"I fell into House Lannister's trap. Through their treacherous schemes, they have saddled me with an enormous debt."

"Even if I emptied my entire fortune, I could not repay such a vast sum of Gold Dragons."

"My dear Lysa, I know you cannot bear to see the kingdom's esteemed Master of Coin go bankrupt and end up on the streets."

"For the sake of our many years of affection, please extend a helping hand and provide one million five hundred thousand Gold Dragons to help me through this crisis."

"I believe Jon's spirit in heaven would also be moved by your kindness."

"Your Littlefinger."

"Petyr Baelish."

Letting out a long breath, Baelish slowly set down his pen, an elegant smile just like his usual one appearing on his face.

His letter contained both his false love for Lysa and a veiled reminder that she was the one who had personally poisoned her husband!

As though he could already see heaps of Gold Dragons beckoning to him, Baelish's smile grew even brighter.

He pulled the naked woman beside him into his arms with one hand and kept groping her body, a glint of hatred flashing through his eyes.

"You dared to set me up, Arthas, Imp."

"Just you wait!"