Chapter 150: The Death of a Schemer

When Petyr Baelish opened his eyes again, he found himself staring up at a vast, star-studded sky.

"You're awake, Lord Baelish."

Hearing that voice, Petyr shivered involuntarily. He struggled to sit up and realized he was lying in a small rowboat. Across from him sat Samwell Caesar, casually rowing toward the harbor of Blackwater Bay.

"Samwell…" Petyr managed a strained smile. "How did you find me?"

"A little bird told me," Samwell replied with a lighthearted grin.

In truth, after exploring the Red Keep's secret passages with Arya as his guide, Samwell had guessed that Varys might try to smuggle "Littlefinger" out of the city. After all, Varys had "prior experience" doing exactly that.

In the original story, the Spider had secretly aided Tyrion Lannister's escape from the Black Cells. Thus, Samwell stationed a falcon to watch the secret tunnel's exit, and as expected, he had soon detected the movements of Varys and Petyr.

Hearing the term "little bird," Petyr's first thought was that Varys had betrayed him. But almost immediately, he dismissed the idea; the eunuch had no reason to toy with him in this way.

"So…where are you taking me?"

"Back to King's Landing, of course. You have an appointment in court tomorrow, Lord Baelish. We don't want to be late now, do we?" Samwell replied with a smile.

A chill ran through Petyr's entire body, so intense that even the warm summer breeze couldn't keep him from shivering. That was when he noticed his clothes were completely soaked. He realized that Samwell must have dragged him through the seawater for some time.

But that raised another question—his arm…

Frantically, Petyr glanced down to find the white bandage around his severed arm entirely stained in red. Blood was still trickling from the wound, pooling into a shallow puddle on the bottom of the boat.

A wave of dizziness overtook him, and he collapsed backward in a faint.

"Samwell," Petyr whispered weakly, lying flat on his back. He felt his life slipping away with each drop of blood. Summoning his last reserves of strength, he pleaded, "Save me… save me!"

Samwell put down the oars and moved to sit beside Petyr, grinning as he looked down at him. "Apologies, Lord Baelish. I let your wound get a bit wet. I'd help if I could, but unfortunately, I don't know how."

"It's… simple. I'll… teach you." Petyr held back the curses forming in his mind and forced himself to wear a friendly expression. "Heat the blade until it's red-hot, then press it to the wound. The flesh will cauterize, and the bleeding will stop…"

"Enough, Petyr," Samwell interrupted, no longer interested in playing along. "We both know I'm here to kill you. Let's not waste your dignity on pointless groveling."

"Samwell, listen to me. Don't kill me. I can be useful—I can give you everything you've ever wanted!"

Samwell burst out laughing. "You, give me everything I want? Petyr, you don't even have anything yourself—what could you possibly offer me?"

"I have nothing? Ha…ha…" Petyr laughed weakly. "Samwell Caesar, you really do underestimate me. If you managed to deduce I was behind Jon Arryn's death, and spread those rumors about me and Lysa Tully, then surely you can see my hold over the Vale?"

Samwell chuckled. "You don't really think an orphan and a widow are enough to secure your grip over the Vale, do you? Even if you did marry Lysa, you'd never be able to make the Vale lords obey a mere Baelish."

Petyr's face tightened with desperation, but he kept his tone enticing. "I'm not relying solely on her. My influence in the Vale goes far beyond what you can imagine. If you save me, I'll tell you everything."

But Samwell merely looked at him, unmoved.

With each passing second, Petyr felt colder, his life ebbing away. Fear crept into his heart as he realized he was nearing the end.

"Samwell, listen." Petyr's voice grew more frantic. "I was the tax collector in Gulltown for five years. I increased its revenue tenfold! Traders, captains, adventurers, bankers—all of them are my allies. The power they wield is beyond the comprehension of those sword-wielding noblemen. They could never harness that kind of power. But I can!"

Samwell raised an eyebrow, surprised by Petyr's grasp of Gulltown's strategic importance. Had this schemer become the mouthpiece of a rising merchant class? It wasn't shocking that Petyr had succeeded as Master of Coin—he wielded considerable influence in finance and trade.

Of course, there was likely some embellishment in his words.

Petyr pressed on, hoping to further persuade him. "You know that Lord Lyonel Corbray of Heart's Home is nearly bankrupt, don't you? His wife recently passed, and I proposed a match for him—not a noble, but a commoner. He declined, but I saw his hesitation. And why? Because this commoner is rich. Mark my words; he'll agree eventually!

"And Lord Jerold Grafton of Gulltown? He's been practically begging me to take his son as my squire. The same goes for Lord Lindley of Snakewood and Lord Waxley of Candleton—both are in dire financial straits, entirely dependent on me!"

"Believe me, Samwell, I don't even need Lysa Tully. Once Jon Arryn was gone, the Vale was as good as mine! The only slight nuisance was Bronze Yohn, but I had plenty of ways to isolate him…"

Samwell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. There was truth in some of Petyr's words. After all, Petyr hadn't thought twice about eliminating Lysa when she had outlived her usefulness in the original tale. And Yohn Royce had indeed formed the "Lords Declarant" to oppose Petyr's rule, only for the faction to be cleverly dismantled through Petyr's manipulation.

"Samwell…" Petyr's voice grew faint, desperation mounting. He fought to maintain composure as he continued, "Think about it—why do you think Jon Arryn promoted me to Master of Coin? Do you think it was because I was his bannerman, or because Lysa whispered sweet words in his ear? No! Jon Arryn understood my worth. He knew this kingdom needed me.

"The Iron Throne owes six million gold dragons in debt. Do you really think that's from Robert's squandering alone? You don't understand, Samwell. Westeros is teetering on the edge of a storm—a storm only I can prevent!

"Samwell, your mother is a Florent, right? Did you know the Foxes of Brightwater Keep are nearly bankrupt too? Stannis's wife herself—gods, I'm so lightheaded, I can't even remember her name—she abandoned the Faith of the Seven to borrow from followers of the Red God!

"And the Hightowers of Oldtown—sure, they're raking in profits from trade now, but they don't understand the risks involved. One major storm or a pirate raid could ruin their entire fleet…"

Samwell let out a dry laugh, cutting Petyr off. "Enough, Petyr. Do you really think I'm some child you can frighten with a few ominous words? By your logic, is every lord in Westeros on the brink of ruin, all dependent on you?"

"You just don't understand, Samwell…" Petyr muttered weakly, growing incoherent. His fear was tangible as he gasped, "Look, you must know what's happening in King's Landing by now. Robert's death—that was my work. I'm sure you've figured that out…"

"I have." Samwell noted Petyr's surprising candor. It seemed the blood loss was muddling his mind, or perhaps he was simply too desperate to conceal his secrets any longer. Hoping to glean more information, Samwell prompted, "And what does that get me?"

"Everything!" Petyr croaked. "Samwell, can't you see? I control King's Landing now. Eddard Stark is a fool, and Cersei a madwoman—I can predict their every move. They're in the palm of my hand. As for the Red Viper, he's just a brute; I could crush him as easily as the rest. Believe me, Samwell! The City Watch is under my thumb. Even the Kingsguard has my men in its ranks…Ser Mandon Moore—Jon Arryn may have recommended him, but he follows my command…"

"Samwell, we can rule King's Landing. We can shape the Seven Kingdoms however we want…"

"Samwell, I can help you take the Iron Throne…"

"Samwell, save me… please… save me…"

No matter how Petyr begged, Samwell remained indifferent.

As Petyr's vision dimmed and his speech grew increasingly disjointed, Samwell briefly considered cauterizing the wound to prolong his life and extract more secrets. But he quickly dismissed the thought. Petyr's words held some truths and many lies, but Samwell didn't have the time or inclination to sift through it all. Petyr Baelish was too dangerous a man to keep alive.

Once dead, his schemes would no longer be an obstacle. Samwell could then proceed with his own plans, unimpeded.

Having made up his mind, he no longer cared about Petyr, leaving him here to fend for himself, and went back to rowing.

"Kate... Kate..." Littlefinger's voice became weaker and weaker, and finally he even muttered Catelyn Tully's name.

Samwell listened silently, and suddenly felt that this might be the only sincerity in this man's heart.

Of course, this relationship was also the biggest inducement for this man to transform into an ambitious person.

A minor character actually fell in love with the daughter of a Great House. If this happened in a fairy tale, it might have become a legend.

But alas, this is the Game of Thrones.

"Kate...why...don't you reply to my...letter..."

The night fell, reflected in Petyr Baelish's gray-green eyes, as it finally froze in complete darkness.

(End of this chapter)