Chapter 178 — "I Don't Eat Beef!"
Winter had arrived.
The streets of Duskvale Town lay under a blanket of white, yet the place buzzed with life, prosperity evident in the noise and movement everywhere.
At the center of town, one courtyard was especially crowded.
A freshly painted wooden sign hung over the gate, bold black letters proudly declaring:
Ironforge Inn — Former Residence and Early Smithy of His Highness the Regent, Lance Lot
A steady stream of visitors flowed in and out beneath the sign, as if this had become some legendary pilgrimage site—like a celebrity landmark from a past life.
---
Back Courtyard
In a corner room near a pile of hay, a woman lay curled up.
Her hair was tangled and matted, obscuring most of her face, leaving only a pale, haggard chin visible.
Her once-rich gown was now worn and disordered, barely covering skin that had taken on a sickly pallor.
Her body trembled slightly—whether from cold or fear, it was impossible to tell.
BANG.
The door was kicked open violently.
A short, stocky man in faded leather armor strode in with a wooden bowl.
"Food's here, you filthy bitch!"
His accent was a rough imitation of the Crownlands dialect. He stepped closer, eyes raking hungrily over the exposed white of her skin, throat bobbing.
But in the end, he only threw the bowl of unidentifiable gruel and a chunk of hard bread at her feet. Murky broth splashed onto her torn skirt.
"Don't want it? Then starve."
He spat, frustration and restraint tangled in his voice. Orders were orders—he wasn't allowed to push her too far. If she killed herself before the journey, someone would pay.
He gave her legs one last lingering look, then slammed the door and locked it.
Footsteps faded.
Only then did the woman spring up, snatching the food from the floor and devouring it desperately.
After finishing, she stared helplessly at the ceiling.
In the dim moonlight, her black eyes gleamed.
---
Front Hall
The inn's main hall roared with noise. Greasy wooden tables were packed with travelers and locals.
Cheap ceramic mugs clattered. Laughter and drunken shouts filled the air.
The smell of food, ale, sweat—and a faint trace of heather—hung thick.
Along the walls hung old iron tools, deliberately preserved:
"Hammer once used by His Highness Lance Lot (Do Not Touch)"
"Tongs from His Apprenticeship Years (Do Not Move)"
Relics turned into marketing props.
Behind the counter, the fat innkeeper shouted constantly:
"Blacksmith's secret roast beef! Even His Highness Lance Lot praised it!"
---
At a large table in the corner sat five men, silent and out of place amid the chaos.
Their worn but sturdy armor and weapons marked them as professionals.
The stocky man approached.
"C–Cap—"
A glare cut him off.
"Boss!"
Quinta nodded, satisfied.
"That woman still not talking?"
"Same as before. Acting crazy."
"Let her be crazy. As long as she's alive."
Quinta lowered his voice.
"This is the Prince's order. On the day of the ceremony, in front of the nobles of all Seven Kingdoms, we'll grind Lance Lot's honor into the dirt."
"We avenge Lord Franklin. Let the realm see—he can't even protect his own woman!"
The men thumped their chests in assurance.
One asked hesitantly, "Why stay somewhere this crowded?"
Quinta sneered. "Lord Franklin once taught me—the most dangerous place is the safest place. Who'd expect us to hide in that bastard's old workplace?"
Laughter.
---
BOOM.
The inn doors burst open.
Freezing wind and snow blasted inside.
Every head turned.
A short man in an expensive fur cloak strode in confidently.
Petyr Baelish.
Gone was the cautious fugitive. His black-gray hair was immaculate. A thick gold chain hung around his neck, studded with showy rubies.
Most outrageous of all—six gemstone rings glittered on his fingers.
He looked triumphant.
Because nestled against him, small and delicate, was the love of his life—
Catelyn Tully.
Catelyn's red hair was tucked beneath an exquisite sable-fur cap, revealing only her delicate, beautiful face. Her sapphire-blue eyes brimmed with shyness—and helpless resignation.
Feeling the stares from all around, the eldest daughter of House Tully tried her best to maintain her composure. Her swan-like pale neck was already flushed red.
Behind them followed two burly guards in brand-new leather armor, stern-faced and disciplined. They looked like genuine professionals.
Damn nouveau riche…
Such an ostentatious entrance made the inn's patrons grind their teeth in resentment.
But no one dared speak up.
Those two guards alone were enough to make people think twice.
Still, the crest on the man's chest—some kind of grey stone head—was unfamiliar.
Never heard of that house.
---
Petyr Baelish seemed born to bask in attention.
With an arm around Catelyn, he swaggered forward. The fat innkeeper personally hurried out to greet him—but Petyr ignored him completely.
Instead, he strode straight toward a long table beside Quinta and his men.
Arrogant beyond belief, he planted one foot on the bench and looked down at the mercenaries eating there.
"Out of the way! You lowborn trash—clear this seat for me, Lord Hans!"
The mercenaries bristled, ready to curse back—
Clink.
Three gold dragons slid from between Petyr's fingers and landed on the table.
Instant transformation.
Rage vanished. Smiles bloomed. The coins disappeared into pockets as they scrambled to their feet, bowing and ushering Petyr's group into the seats.
"Much appreciated, my lord!"
Petyr snorted, nose nearly pointing at the ceiling, and sat with Catelyn.
He'd wanted to pull her onto his lap—but even pretending had limits for an unmarried girl. Feeling her resistance, he reluctantly stopped.
"Garbage."
He looked at the simple dishes, kicked bowls and plates off the table, then flung back his fur cloak dramatically.
"Wine! Food! The best you've got!"
"Don't try to pass off peasant slop to Lord Hans!"
The innkeeper nearly tripped over himself hurrying off.
---
Soon, real dishes arrived:
Rich onion-and-beef stew, sizzling roast lamb, fresh soft bread.
At the next table, Quinta's corn stew suddenly seemed like pig feed.
Then Petyr's guard uncorked a leather wineskin.
Deep red liquid flowed.
Summerwine from Dorne.
The aroma alone told Quinta—it was top quality.
A sharp pang of poverty stabbed through him.
He grabbed a passing server. "That short rich bastard—recognize his crest?"
"Sorry, sir… heard them say they're from the Vale."
The Vale?
Quinta relaxed slightly.
Still… what kind of Vale noble reeked this much of gold?
Even Catelyn Tully couldn't help whispering, "Aren't we being a little… too flashy, Littlefinger?"
Petyr waved dismissively and shouted loudly:
"Flashy? This is nothing! Lord Hans is rich and does as he pleases!"
"When we leave, I'm buying those tools on the wall that the Regent used too!"
He laughed wildly—
—but his eyes flicked sideways toward Quinta's table, calculating.
How to start trouble without making them suspicious…
Moments later, a bowl of freshly prepared beef stew was placed before him, still steaming.
Petyr's eyes lit up.
He stirred it twice—
Then suddenly grabbed the bowl and hurled it straight toward Quinta's table.
"BASTARD...I DON'T EAT BEEF!" he roared in fury.