The first strike

"Hey there" - speech

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'Is he talking to me?'- thought

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"𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁?" - shouting

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Petyr Baelish reclined in his chamber, a knowing smile curling his lips. The flickering candlelight danced upon his sly features, casting eerie shadows that matched the intricate web of deception he had woven. The room, adorned with luxurious tapestries and silks, was a testament to the power of influence, a reflection of his ever-ambitious desires.

His eyes, like polished stones, gleamed with a cold, calculating intelligence. The plan he had set into motion was progressing precisely as he had envisioned. Lysa Arryn, a puppet in his skilled hands, had danced to his tune flawlessly. With promises of eternal love, he had ensnared her heart and coaxed her into the ultimate act of loyalty—poisoning her own husband, Jon Arryn.

"The first domino falls," Petyr murmured to himself, relishing the thought. His fingers idly traced the contours of the ornate wine goblet at his side, a subtle reminder of the poisoned chalice that had ended Jon Arryn's life.

But that was only the beginning. Petyr knew the true art of chaos lay not in the act itself but in its aftermath. Lysa, under his guidance, had penned a letter to her sister, Catelyn Stark, a missive that would set the Seven Kingdoms afire. Blame would be cast upon the Lannisters, painting them as sinister plotters in Jon Arryn's death.

And Catelyn had received that letter.

Petyr could almost taste the turmoil that would grip Eddard Stark's honorable heart as he accepted the position of Hand of the King, lured to King's Landing under the pretense of seeking the truth. Suspicion would grow, tendrils of mistrust snaking through the very foundation of power.

He chuckled softly, his voice dripping with honeyed malice. "Chaos, my dear, is a ladder," he whispered to no one but himself. Petyr Baelish understood chaos intimately, for it was the fuel of his rise.

His fingers traced the delicate contours of the letter opener on his desk, a symbol of the secrets he held close. The love he had once harbored for Catelyn Stark had been twisted and deformed, evolving into a perverse obsession—a driving force behind his machinations.

Yet, these events remained shrouded in the realm of potential, not yet a reality. King Robert Baratheon had only just returned to the heart of the Seven Kingdoms that very day. Tomorrow, the small council would convene, and Eddard Stark, the honorable man he was, would start his job as the Hand of the King.

Petyr's lips curled into a wicked smile as he contemplated the possibilities. "Perhaps," he mused aloud, "I will drop a few breadcrumbs for dear Eddard to follow."

The sociopathic master of coin knew that the game had only just begun. In the shadows, he thrived, watching the pieces fall into place, each move designed to further his ascent. And as long as chaos reigned, so too would Petyr Baelish's relentless climb toward ultimate power.

And then suddenly, without any preemptive signs...he couldn't move his left arm anymore. He looked confused at the limb , not comprehending what just happened.

"Huh?" He intoned as kept trying and failing to move his hand.

Petyr's confusion morphed into sheer terror as seconds turned into minutes, and his left hand remained stubbornly unresponsive. Panic gnawed at the edges of his rationality, threatening to consume him whole.

'What is happening?' he thought, his mind racing to grasp the situation. 'Am I poisoned? Injured? Sick?' Each possibility struck him with dread, leaving him paralyzed in a different way.

He tried to will sensation back into his arm, commanding it to move, but it remained as lifeless as a puppet's limb. Fear coiled around his heart, squeezing tight. He could almost taste the metallic tang of anxiety on his tongue.

"It's fine," he forced himself to mutter, though his voice trembled with uncertainty. "If it were poison, surely the effects would be more widespread. It can't be a disease... can it?"

But there were no answers in the silence of his chamber, no logical explanation for this sudden affliction. It left him feeling vulnerable and exposed, a sensation he loathed with every fiber of his being.

"Grand Maester Pycelle," he whispered, the name carrying both hope and trepidation. The old man might have been senile in some respects, but when it came to science and medicine, his knowledge was unparalleled.

He knew he had to seek medical attention, and quickly. Every moment that passed increased his anxiety. Clenching his left hand into a fist was a futile effort, a desperate attempt to regain control.

Yet, beneath the fear, a darker thought loomed. 'What if this... injury was not natural?' he pondered, a seed of suspicion taking root. 'Who would target me in such a way? Could it be a subtle move in the game?'

Petyr felt like a pawn in a grander scheme, and he hated the vulnerability that came with it. Gathering his resolve, he slipped his unresponsive hand into the pocket of his clothes, concealing it from prying eyes.

Where there's a will, there's a way. But he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was no longer the sole player in this dangerous game, and caution had become his most valuable asset. As he made his way toward the Grand Maester's chambers, he couldn't help but wonder if he was about to enter a web of intrigue far more complex than anything he had ever spun himself.

The Master of Coin hastened down the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, his urgency in stark contrast to the peaceful slumber that had surely engulfed most of King's Landing at this hour. His mind churned with a multitude of thoughts, chief among them the blackmail he held over the old Grand Maester, Pycelle.

The winding corridors finally led him to the door of Pycelle's chambers. He rapped on the door with a force that bordered on impolite, considering the late hour. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a disheveled and bewildered Grand Maester.

Pycelle's hair was matted and wild, his robes haphazardly thrown on. He blinked at the intruder, his watery eyes struggling to focus. His initial irritation softened slightly upon recognizing Petyr's face. "Why in the blazes do you disturb me at this hour?" he croaked, his voice scratchy from sleep.

Petyr forced a polite smile onto his lips, a veneer of charm concealing his underlying unease. "My apologies for the untimely hour, Maester," he began, his tone smooth. "I find myself in a most perplexing situation."

The aging Maester grumbled as he shuffled away from the doorframe, allowing Petyr entry into the dimly lit room. He watched with a mix of annoyance and curiosity as the visitor continued. "You see, Maester Pycelle, I have suffered a most unusual affliction. My left hand," Petyr tried to extended the unresponsive limb for emphasis, but could only move his shoulder "has, quite suddenly, lost all sensation and mobility."

Pycelle's eyes widened with a mix of surprise and concern. He nodded, his expression now that of a physician rather than an irritated old man. "Let me have a look at it, Lord Baelish."

With a level of care and gentleness that belied his usual lack of enthusiasm, the Maester examined Petyr's arm. He peered at it with a focused intensity, scrutinizing every inch. "Your arm appears unharmed," he muttered as he palpated it, seeking some hidden injury. "The blood flow seems to be well. And I detect no swelling or signs of inflammation." He paused for a moment, furrowing his bushy white brows. "I've seen cases where men have lost sensation in their limbs, but never this suddenly, and certainly not without some trauma preceding it. If you'd been struck with a hammer or some such thing, I might understand. But your arm looks perfectly fine."

Pycelle continued his examination, tapping various points on Petyr's arm and hand with a small hammer. "There are ointments I can make from special herbs," he murmured more to himself than to Petyr. "They might offer some relief. But I would advise against getting your hopes up, Lord Baelish."

Petyr nodded, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He leaned back, allowing Pycelle to finish his examination. "You're quite right, Maester. This has left me utterly bewildered." He spoke with a mix of frustration and apprehension, allowing a hint of vulnerability to creep into his tone.

The Grand Maester looked up from his inspection, his faded blue eyes regarding Petyr with a measure of concern. "Tell me again, Lord Baelish," he said gently, "how did this happen?"

As he recounted the sudden onset of his affliction, Petyr couldn't help but let his thoughts wander. Who would benefit from his sudden disability? Whose plans might it disrupt? He knew he was a man with many enemies, and this newfound vulnerability could be the chink in his armor that they had been waiting for.

The list of potential suspects and motives swirled through his mind, and he couldn't help but wonder how this would affect his intricate plans and alliances. In a world where power was everything, weakness was a poison that could prove fatal.

As Maester Pycelle continued to examine him, probing and prodding, Petyr considered the web of political intrigue in which he was ensnared. He couldn't ignore the nagging suspicion that his sudden affliction was no mere happenstance.

And Petyr Baelish lay there, his left hand still unresponsive, his thoughts twisted and turned like serpents in a pit of shadows. Suspicion clung to his mind like a noose tightening with each passing moment.

First and foremost, his mind fixated on the enigmatic Varys, the Master of Whispers. The eunuch possessed a shrewd intellect and a network of spies that rivaled even Petyr's own. Varys knew too much, including Petyr's true nature and his ambitions. Could it be that Varys, driven by his mysterious motivations, had decided to sever one of Baelish's strings in this intricate dance of politics?

Queen Cersei was another potential culprit. Her secret affection for her brother Jaime was a vulnerability Petyr had glimpsed. If she believed he held knowledge that could expose her desires, she might consider him a threat worth neutralizing.

Yet, in the labyrinth of King's Landing, it was unwise to disregard the possibility of betrayal from within his own ranks. His so-called allies, those he had manipulated and deceived to further his ascent, might see his weakened state as an opportunity to eliminate him.

Despite these speculations, one thing remained clear: Petyr Baelish could not dwell on the identity of the true culprit, for it would only serve as a distraction. In this deadly game of shadows, identifying the traitor could prove elusive, and time was a luxury he no longer possessed.

Maester Pycelle returned with the prepared ointments , just as Petyr's thoughts shifted to survival. He would need to navigate this treacherous terrain with even greater care, his every step measured and deliberate. In a world where trust was a commodity easily traded for power, Petyr understood that only the cunning and the ruthless could ascend the ladder of chaos.

As the Maester concluded his examination and gave him the ointment he prepared , Petyr's gaze met the old man's eyes. "Thank you for your expertise, Maester Pycelle," he said, his voice a curious blend of appreciation and caution. "I am in your debt."

Pycelle nodded, his eyes betraying a hint of sympathy. "Rest assured, Lord Baelish, I shall do what I can to assist you.

'Of course you will....Or I will make sure you sink along with me' Petyr thought ruthlessly as he made his way back to his chambers to get some sleep. He would not let this bring him down. He would not let the plans he worked so hard for be disrupted by something as mundane as him losing a hand , dammit.

Some might call him courageous or stupid for returning to the very chamber he had his sudden affliction in , but given his symptoms, and the likely possiblity that he was unknowingly injured by a concealed assassin, it was safe to say what happened to him was more of a warning and a threat.

How and why?

He didn't know , but If the one who harmed him wanted to do so once more , he doubted a simple change of rooms would assure his safety.

'Maybe I should have asked Pycelle for some sleep medication...the Seven know I won't catch much sleep with these thoughts swirling in my mind...'

'Well then , if I can't sleep , let's use this time productively...'

As dawn's first light began to paint the stone walls of the Red Keep, Petyr Baelish found himself wandering the corridors of power, his mind swirling with thoughts of his mysterious affliction. He had sought out his network of informants, most of them loyal guards on his payroll, hoping they might have uncovered some thread of information that could explain his sudden paralysis. However, to his dismay, none had anything of interest to report. It was as though the castle itself had cloaked his predicament in silence.

Disheartened by his fruitless inquiries, Petyr decided to clear his mind with a stroll through the palace gardens. The meticulously manicured hedges and colorful blooms often offered solace amidst the intrigues of the court.

But on this morning, serenity would elude him.

As he roamed among the verdant pathways, lost in thought, he happened upon a figure, a "little bird" in his intricate network of spies—a peasant child who served as a spy for Varys. Coins had won the loyalty of this young informant, and Petyr had called upon him for whispers from the streets.

The child's eyes darted nervously as Petyr approached, his expression not so subtly demanding compensation for his services. Petyr understood the nature of these transactions well and produced a few pew groats from his purse. He handed them to the boy with a practiced smile.

"I heard many whispers tonight," the young spy began, the expectation of further rewards evident in his tone. Petyr, always the skilled manipulator, nodded and listened intently.

The words that followed would chill Petyr to his very core. The boy's voice trembled as he recounted a disturbing tale. A few hours past, a frail, elderly woman had taken to the winding streets of King's Landing, her voice carrying accusations that sent shivers through those who heard her. She spoke of Lord Littlefinger, accusing him of plotting Jon Arryn's death and claiming that the gods themselves had cursed him.

Petyr felt his heart quicken, his mind rejecting the incredulous notion that someone could unravel his careful web of deceit so brazenly. It was as though a nightmarish specter had risen to haunt him.

"The guards," the boy continued, "they tried to question her, to learn what she knew. But before their very eyes, she collapsed, lifeless." He mimicked the woman's voice, and a chill passed through Petyr.

"And then," the child's voice grew softer, filled with unease, "an old man, he started doing the same thing, making the same claims. But when the guards moved to apprehend him, he, too, fell to the ground, dead."

Petyr couldn't bring himself to speak, the air thick with the weight of dread and disbelief. The boy's eyes bore into his, and his final words resonated with a sinister uncertainty. "I don't know if there was another," he admitted, his gaze unwavering. "But I ran here to inform you of these happenings, Lord Baelish. Whispers, they may be, but who knows if they are true…"

With that, the boy turned on his heels and scampered away, clutching the few groats Petyr had given him. Left alone in the garden, Petyr felt an overwhelming sense of horror descend upon him, a darkness that seemed to stretch into the very depths of his soul.

His brain struggled to accept what he had just heard, to rationalize the inexplicable. It was as if the gods themselves had woven a tapestry of doom around him, and the threads of fate were closing in. The torment of uncertainty gnawed at him, and Petyr Baelish, master manipulator, was left with a chilling realization—there were forces at play beyond even his control.

Petyr's mind was a tumultuous storm, thoughts colliding like crashing waves against the shore of his sanity. His once meticulous plans had crumbled before him, and the weight of disbelief bore down upon him. How could this have happened? How could he have been exposed?

As the sun's first rays stretched across the garden, casting long shadows upon the delicate blooms, Petyr felt as though he stood at the precipice of an abyss. He couldn't fathom the possibility that he had been unmasked, that the threads of his scheming had unraveled so catastrophically.

Was it the gods, punishing him for his manifold sins? Or had someone within the labyrinthine corridors of power discovered the depths of his deception? The questions circled in his mind like vultures over a battlefield.

A sudden voice behind him broke through the haze of his thoughts. "Lord Baelish."

Petyr started, his gaze darting toward the source of the voice. Guards had materialized like phantoms, their expressions grave and unwavering. One among them, the voice's origin, spoke with an unsettling impassivity.

"You are under arrest under suspicion of murdering the former Hand of the King. Please come to the throne room peacefully. The king would like to speak with you about these allegations."

Petyr remained silent, his lips sealed in a rigid line. But his silence was not the surrender of a defeated man; it was the silence of a mind still racing, calculating, seeking any escape from this nightmarish reality.

With inexorable determination, the guards seized him by the arms, their grip unyielding. Petyr's attempts to resist, to reach for the dagger concealed within an inner pocket of his clothing, were met with a cruel revelation—both his hands, once nimble and adept at the subtlest manipulations, were now as lifeless as stone.

It was a realization that sent a shiver through his very soul. As they dragged him away, his gaze remained locked on the sun, which still hung low on the horizon, casting his shadow long and ominous across the garden.

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A.N :

""The biggest advantage of an ambitious individual is their ruthlessness, resorting to any means possible to arrive at their goal.

Thus, an ambitious individual can only hope to rise up in a chaotic world and accomplish their ambitions!

The greatest flaw of a hero is also the greatest strength of a hero. That is, they are righteous and treasure their relationships, keeping the promises they make. There are some things a man should do and some he shouldn't.

Thus, a hero can rise to prominence instantly in chaotic times. They can even leave their names in the annals of history. However, they would never be the rulers of a great nation. An ambitious individual would be able to easily kill a hero because of the weaknesses of a hero!

Thus, I am not a hero, and I am also not willing to be a hero!""

-Otherworldly evil monarch quote (I think)

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A.N 2 :

No changes in the stat sheet.

There were 12 hours or so since the King returned to King's Landing.

Also , One Gold Dragon = 30 Silver Moons = 210 Silver Stags = 1470 Stars = 2940 Groats = 5880 Half Groats = 11760 Pennies = 23250 Half Pennies.

A piece of bread costs 3 pennies