Climbing to the top of the tower, Tyrion was gasping for breath.
This body clearly hadn't done any real exercise. If he ever had the time, he'd need to start working on that.
It would be best if there were some kind of magic potion that built muscle without causing acne—or shrinking anything important.
Lord Petyr sat by the tower window, dressed in a deep purple velvet coat and a yellow satin cloak, gloves on his hands, one resting casually on his knee. He looked elegant and relaxed.
It seemed that refinement didn't come from noble birth, but from wealth.
"The King is waging war on rabbits with his crossbow," Littlefinger said. "Come see—the rabbits are winning so far."
Tyrion joined him at the window.
In the courtyard below lay a dead rabbit, while another, pierced by a bolt, twitched its long ears and legs in its final moments.
Countless arrows were scattered across the packed dirt, jutting out at odd angles like branches broken by a storm.
"Loose!" Joffrey shouted. The huntsman released the rabbit in his hands, and it darted away. Joffrey pulled the trigger but missed by a good two feet.
The rabbit reared up on its hind legs and twitched its nose at the King. Little Joffrey cursed, twisting the bowstring tighter, but before he could reload, the rabbit had vanished.
"Another!" The huntsman reached into the hutch and pulled out a brown one. This time, Joffrey was so eager to fire that he nearly shot the huntsman in the thigh.
"If Renly and Stannis's armies were made of rabbits—or worms, or whatever else—our King would sweep them aside," Tyrion said.
"How sad to hear you say that," Littlefinger replied. "I think our King trains quite diligently."
"No need to flatter him on my account," Tyrion said with disdain. "Is that a new suit?"
"You are his uncle, after all," Littlefinger said lightly. "Yes, your eye is as sharp as ever."
"Plum and gold—are those your house colors?" Tyrion asked. "I thought your sigil was a Titan's head?"
"No. A sigil is like clothing. Wear the same colors too long and it grows dull. You have to change them now and then, don't you think?"
"I adore my golden lion," Tyrion said. "Your dagger's fine work too."
"Is it?" A sly glint flashed in Littlefinger's eyes. He drew the dagger and glanced at it carelessly, as though seeing it for the first time. "Valyrian steel, dragonbone hilt. A shame the design's rather plain. If it interests you, it's yours."
He masked himself well, Tyrion had to admit. At least he didn't show his emotions.
If anyone in this world could truly arm himself with gold, it was Petyr Baelish—not the Lannisters.
At first, Petyr had been placed by Jon Arryn in some minor customs post meant to keep him out of the way. Yet he'd ended up earning three times more than any other tax collector.
With King Robert spending faster than a leaking barrel, the gold in Petyr Baelish's hands multiplied like rabbits—doubling within months. Talent like that was impossible to ignore.
So Littlefinger rose quickly. Within three years of entering the Red Keep, he had become Master of Coin and taken his seat on the Small Council.
Compared to those chaotic days, the royal treasury now earned ten times what it once had—though the crown's debts had grown just as much. Still, Petyr Baelish wasn't just good with numbers; he was genuinely brilliant.
He didn't merely collect taxes and lock them away like an ordinary steward. His schemes were far more inventive.
He borrowed against promises made in the king's name, then set the treasury's funds into motion. He bought warehouses, shops, ships, and houses; purchased grain cheaply after harvest, then sold bread at a premium during shortages. He bought wool from the North, linen from the South, and furs from Lys—storing them or sending them out for trade, having them dyed, worked, and stitched before selling them again.
Gold dragons seemed to multiply on their own, swelling endlessly. In the end, Littlefinger lent money himself, reclaiming it later with interest.
At the same time, he built his own loyal network. The treasurer was his man, as were the royal accountants and the royal surveyors. Even the head of the mint owed his post to him.
Beyond them, nine out of ten harbor masters, tax collectors, customs clerks, trade agents, road tollmen, merchant captains, and wine dealers were his people.
Most came from humble families—sons of merchants, minor nobles, even foreigners—but their competence far surpassed that of the noble bureaucrats they replaced.
No one ever questioned these appointments. Why would they? Littlefinger was no threat to anyone.
He was clever, ever smiling, pleasant to all, everyone's friend, and no one's enemy. Whatever the king or the Hand required, he always provided. And with his low birth—barely above that of a hedge knight—he hardly seemed worth noticing.
He had no bannermen, no army of servants, no mighty castle, no ancestral lands, and no fortune fit for a great marriage.
Can I afford to move against him? Tyrion wondered, unsure—especially with war raging.
Military lords he had in abundance.
But the civil officers? In time, his own men could replace Littlefinger's in the key posts, but for now...
Perhaps it was better to keep him alive until the war's end. Move too soon, and the whole of King's Landing might collapse. For now, this ally was still necessary.
From the square below came a shout. "Ha! His Grace has slain a rabbit," Lord Baelish narrated.
"His Grace is indeed wise and valiant," Tyrion said. "My lord, I heard you were fostered at Riverrun when young—that you were close to the Tullys."
"You could say that," Littlefinger replied. "Especially with the girls."
"How close?"
"I took both their maidenheads. Close enough?"
Utter nonsense. The finest lies were half true, and Littlefinger wielded that art with ease.
"In that case, I have just the task for you," Tyrion said.
"What sort of task?" Littlefinger asked. "You know I never risk myself, my lord. Best not give me anything too dangerous."
"It's hardly dangerous," Tyrion explained. "Lord Eddard's body is still here in King's Landing. I've had it properly prepared, but it needs to be delivered to the Northmen."
"You know I dislike dealing with those rough Northern types," Littlefinger cut in. "Especially the Starks."
"You won't be dealing with Starks," Tyrion said. "You'll be dealing with Tully—Catelyn Tully. Escorting her husband's remains home will be an honor. She's bound to look on you more favorably for it."