Aegor felt the inner layer of his clothes stick slightly to his back, damp with cold sweat.
Even R'hllor's chosen is still human, and with a guilty conscience comes instinctive fear. At the sudden reappearance of this note after so many years, his heart didn't just beat faster—it slammed in his chest. Though his mental fortitude had improved greatly after years of cultivation, he still felt a touch of unease.
He wasn't afraid of Littlefinger himself, but of the chaos that could erupt if the truth behind the note was exposed.
Back when he first arrived in King's Landing, broke and desperate, he had nothing to lose. He had to rely on unorthodox means to stir things up. But now, he had an empire behind him, a powerful army, and hard power on his side. Naturally, his mindset had changed. He was no longer barefoot—he had something to lose. What he feared most now, or rather what he could not afford, was chaos or unexpected incidents.
The Queen's faction was already a complicated coalition with scattered loyalties. If his alliance with Petyr faced any disruption at this critical time, his grand Southron Expedition plan might be delayed indefinitely, or worse, never see the light of day.
Taking a deep breath to suppress his racing thoughts, Aegor reminded himself he was likely overthinking.
He had been extremely careful when he first forged the note. The parchment was a common type widely used across Westeros even before he transmigrated. The handwriting had been deliberately altered to avoid identification. From the idea's conception to execution, every step had been handled by him alone, with no outside involvement. Unless a Greenseer or some other supernatural force had interfered, only heaven, earth, and himself knew the truth. Not even "you" existed.
There was no reason for Littlefinger to link it to him.
Besides, with the kind of man Petyr was, if he had even the slightest suspicion of foul play, wouldn't he plot in secret and retaliate with equal cunning, instead of confronting Aegor directly?
Internally, he had gone from alarm to calm in a few seconds. Outwardly, he merely stared at the note for a moment, then raised his brow and looked up with confusion in his eyes.
"My Lord, what... is the meaning of this?"
Feigning innocence, he also made a silent vow to himself: if there really was some Greenseer behind this, or if Petyr had even the faintest suspicion about him, he would not hesitate to eliminate them both, even if it meant mutual destruction. A rogue mystic and a master schemer—either one lurking in the shadows would be a nightmare. The two of them together, stirring up trouble behind the scenes, was something he could not tolerate.
...
"Despite my best efforts, I couldn't find a single clue about who wrote this note." The first half of Littlefinger's sentence made Aegor's heart skip a beat, but the second half immediately soothed him. "However, while I can't confirm whether its original appearance was orchestrated by Varys, its reappearance here and now, in Winterfell, among your Gift Army, Lord Commander, is absolutely his doing."
"It appeared in Winterfell?" Aegor raised an eyebrow. So it wasn't something Petyr had kept himself?
"This move is indeed vicious. First, it stirs rumors to distract and unnerve me. Second, it reminds Catelyn of what I did to her sister, widening the gap between me—the 'villain'—and House Stark. And third, it aims to disrupt our cooperation and create distrust between us." Petyr spoke without changing his expression, as if he weren't the one at the center of the scandal. "It's a clever ploy, but he underestimated something. After being driven out of Westeros and forced to survive in Slaver's Bay for years, my mental strength is not what it once was. And Your Excellency, the Lord Commander, is not someone easily shaken either."
He paused then looked directly into Aegor's eyes, as if to confirm the truth of his last statement.
"Though the note is clearly a forgery, much of its content is true. I did have a secret affair with Lysa Tully. I did secretly give her a bit of poison. Foolish things I did in my youth, in the name of 'love.' I won't defend myself. Yes, it is humiliating. But not enough to stop me from doing what must be done. If anything, this move only proves one thing—our enemy is starting to panic."
In the dim light, the flame of the oil lamp flickered in Littlefinger's eyes, giving them a faint gleam.
"It's because we risked releasing Robb Stark that the Warden of the North was able to rally the Northern Lords. That struck Varys where it hurt most. We countered his ambush with precision and neutralized the advantage he gained from striking first. Now, unwilling to admit defeat, he's throwing every card he has, hoping to stall us. He no longer aims to defeat us outright, only to force mistakes from us by overwhelming us with pressure, so we reveal more of our weaknesses."
Aegor nodded repeatedly. Whether or not the analysis was sound, there was no way he would challenge it right now.
"The best way to respond is quite simple—stay calm, stand firm, and keep doing what we must." Petyr concluded. "Of course, knowing Varys, this note is likely just the beginning. He'll surely follow up with more disruptions, more schemes, perhaps even direct attempts to harm or eliminate either of us. So, my suggestion is this. During this period, we must be vigilant in every aspect—eating, living, travel. And someone must step forward to take point, to deflect his next moves, so the rest of our work can proceed unhindered."
"My Lord, just give the word," Aegor replied without hesitation.
"The current situation is simple. We are trying to get things done. He is trying to stop us. And between 'doing' and 'disrupting,' the latter is always easier. So we're naturally at a disadvantage. We need to assign someone to hold him in check, to offset this weakness. Since he has the time and energy to plot against us, we'll give him something to occupy his time too." Petyr narrowed his eyes. "I've worked alongside Varys for nearly ten years, under two kings. I know his tricks better than you. So I'll take the lead in counterattacking. You, meanwhile, should continue keeping an eye on the Northern Lords' response. And if possible, investigate who actually spread this note. If you can capture one or two of the eunuch's little birds, even better."
"No problem. Though... isn't this—"
"Isn't this putting all the burden on me, and not giving you much to do?" Petyr smiled. "No. Your task may be more singular, but it's more important. Still, there is one small favor I must ask of you. Though Her Grace has several hundred Unsullied stationed here in Winterfell, they answer only to her. As the Queen's Hand, I can command them to some extent, but I can't expect them to keep secrets for me, much less assist me in opposing her Master of Whisperers. So I hope to borrow a small unit of reliable, tight-lipped men from your command... for something Her Grace cannot be allowed to know."
So that was it. Varys had struck Petyr, and now the latter was preparing to strike back. When two such shadowy players went to war, it was like gods clashing on the board of politics. Observing even one or two moves could offer endless insights.
"Very well. I'll choose a team and have their leader report to you at midnight."
"No need to rush. After breakfast tomorrow will be fine." Petyr waved it off. Then, after a moment's thought, he seemed to decide there was nothing more to say. "Alright, I've been talking for so long my throat's dry. And if I stand out here any longer, Varys's little birds may catch sight of me. Let's part ways here. Lord Commander, take care."
"I will. You too, Lord Hand."
(To be continued.)