The moment Luke’s eyes met those of Petyr Baelish—seemingly warm, yet unfathomably deep, gray-green eyes—the translucent system interface popped up without warning in the upper-left corner of his vision.
A line of pale gold text emerged and flashed clearly, like a stone cast into water:
[Free Attribute Points +2]
Luke couldn’t help but freeze, his pupils contracting slightly.
Free Attribute Points?!
He got them just by interacting with key figures?
But meeting Bronn hadn’t given him any points!
Was the Bronn by his side an impostor?
Or was there some other…
hidden mechanism?
His momentary lapse in composure naturally did not escape the perceptive eyes of “Littlefinger.”
The warm, harmless smile on Petyr’s face remained unchanged, but a subtle hint of amusement and scrutiny flashed deep within his gray eyes.
He tilted his head slightly, his voice soft, carrying just the right amount of confusion and a touch of self-deprecation:
“It seems I am indeed that Master of Coin rumored to frighten even the newly arrived ‘eccentric’ of King’s Landing.
And here I thought a minister so deeply…
respected by the people would be considered more approachable.”
He deliberately used a slight, self-deprecating tone on “respected by the people.”
Luke quickly pulled himself together, a sheepish yet polite smile appearing on his face at just the right moment.
At the same time, he finally had the chance to closely study this mastermind behind the scenes, renowned for his cunning and ambition in this world.
He indeed wasn’t tall—perhaps even a bit short.
With Luke’s current height of 170 centimeters, he could clearly look down on him.
Petyr had an ordinary build, but his clothes were exquisite.
A well-tailored, dark velvet doublet lent him an air of steady composure.
He could be called handsome.
The neatly trimmed pointed beard on his chin and the silver threads running through his dark hair added a touch of maturity and shrewdness.
Most striking of all were his eyes—gray-green, watching him with an amused look that didn’t quite reach his pupils.
Luke bowed slightly, performing a simple and decent greeting.
“Lord Baelish, you flatter me.
I am Luke Jackeneen, honored to meet you.
I merely did not expect to be summoned by you, my Lord, and was…
rather overwhelmed for a moment.
May I ask what business you have with me?”
“Luke Jackeneen…”
Petyr repeated the surname softly, the syllables rolling over his tongue as if savoring an unfamiliar wine.
His gray eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze like a fine-toothed comb, trying to untangle Luke’s background from his clothing, demeanor, accent, and even the subtlest movements.
“Jackeneen…
Draconian…”
He thoughtfully chewed on the pronunciation of the word, then looked up, his sharp gaze locking onto Luke.
“It sounds somewhat like ‘draconian’—does it have some connection to ‘dragon’?”
“And yet, you possess neither the Targaryen silver hair nor their purple eyes. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
You don’t seem to be…
of the fabled dragonblood either?”
“With the Baratheons in power now, does someone dare challenge the authority of the stag?”
Luke silently marveled at the man’s sharpness and leaps of association.
However, he maintained a slightly mysterious and self-assured smile.
“Your Lordship’s capacity for association is admirable.”
“Jackeneen…
you may understand it as carrying a meaning far more ancient and noble than Targaryen.”
He paused, meeting Petyr’s probing gaze, and dropped a bombshell with absolute certainty—half-truth, half-bluff:
“I am a descendant of the Celestial Dragons.
In my veins flows a heritage far older and more noble than that of the dragon lords.”
“I am…
a descendant of the dragon.”
“A descendant of the dragon?”
The smile on Petyr’s face froze for a fraction of a second.
His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly before smoothing out again, but the curiosity in his eyes only deepened.
These words sounded arrogant, mysterious, and perhaps even…
utterly absurd.
Yet, when combined with the unfeigned confidence of the young man before him, as well as those unprecedented “treasures,” it seemed to cast a believable shroud of mystery over the wild claim.
“Whatever…”
Petyr used a word tinged with an accent from across the Narrow Sea, smoothly steering the conversation away, as if those startling words were merely an inconsequential interlude.
Resuming his mild, professional politician’s smile, he got down to business:
“I hear that some very…
novel and interesting things have appeared in King’s Landing lately.
For instance, salt as white as snow and free of impurities; a ‘snow’ as sweet as honey and fine as sand; potions that ward off insects and bring a cooling sensation; and perfumes with uniquely lasting scents, housed in exquisitely crafted glass bottles.”
He took a small step forward, his tone filled with just the right amount of admiration.
“To my knowledge, the craftsmanship of those glass bottles is something even the finest artisans of Volantis might not match.
Truly marvelous works of art.”
By the end, his gaze locked onto Luke once more.
Though he didn’t state it outright, his meaning was crystal clear.
Luke met his gaze calmly and nodded.
“The Master of Coin is indeed well-informed.
Yes, the goods you mentioned do indeed come from my hand.”
“They hail from an incredibly distant realm, unknown to ordinary men.
They are crafted through ancient magic and artistry by master dwarves and elven mages.”
A mysterious smile played on his face, his tone carrying an unquestionable air of monopoly.
There is no other supplier.”
Shifting the subject, he asked directly, “So, what are your Lordship’s instructions in summoning me today?
Surely…
the treasury isn’t looking to audit taxes on these ‘novelties’?”
Petyr let out a low chuckle and shook his head.
“Taxes?
No, no, Mr.
Jackeneen.
I am far more interested in promoting trade and increasing the…
prosperity of King’s Landing.”
He walked over to a plush, cushioned chair and sat down, gesturing for Luke to do the same.
“I operate a few…
establishments of entertainment.”
Petyr spoke delicately, but both Luke and Bronn, standing nearby, knew he meant his brothels.
Bronn stood just behind Luke like a dutiful guard, though his shifty eyes were busy sizing up the room’s luxurious furnishings.
Petyr continued, “After my girls used the perfumes you provided, the results were extraordinary.
The patrons have been reluctant to leave, and business…
has more than doubled.”
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice with a level of intimacy reserved for sharing secrets.
“And it’s not just my ‘small business.’ In the Red Keep, there are quite a few powerful figures interested in your wares.”
“The crown wishes to secure a stable supply of Mithril Salt and Velvet Snow to safeguard court provisions.
And our Queen Cersei…
seems to possess an extraordinary passion for collecting every variety of your perfumes.”
He paused, observing Luke’s reaction, before dangling the bait: “I believe we can cooperate.
And I, as the Master of Coin, might be able to help you…
secure the status of an official ‘royal purveyor’.”
“This is not just a steady stream of orders; it is a protective talisman that will grant you safe passage throughout King’s Landing, and indeed the Seven Kingdoms.”
Luke sneered inwardly, but his face remained expressionless.
A protective talisman?
More like a death warrant and a golden collar.
Partnering with Littlefinger was no different from bargaining with a tiger.
Yet, he needed this channel.
He needed to legitimize and premiumize a portion of his goods, and he also needed to leverage “official” power to deter potential predators.
“So,” Luke spoke calmly, looking straight into Petyr’s eyes, “what is the price?”
A genuinely pleased smile blossomed on Petyr’s face, as if he had been waiting for this exact question.
“I do love dealing with clever men, Mr.
Jackeneen.”