A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

armor was but

gilded steel, but Littlefinger, ah . . . Tyrion had learned a
few things about sweet Petyr, to his growing disquiet.
    Ten years ago, Jon Arryn had given him a minor sinecure in customs, where Lord
Petyr had soon distinguished himself by bringing in three times as much as any
of the king’s other collectors. King Robert had been a prodigious spender. A
man like Petyr Baelish, who had a gift for rubbing two golden dragons together
to breed a third, was invaluable to his Hand. Littlefinger’s rise had been
arrow-swift. Within three years of his coming to court, he was master of coin
and a member of the small council, and today the crown’s revenues were ten
times what they had been under his beleaguered
predecessor . . . though the crown’s debts had grown vast as
well. A master juggler was Petyr Baelish.
    Oh, he was clever. He did not simply collect the gold and lock it in a treasure
vault, no. He paid the king’s debts in promises, and put the king’s gold to
work. He bought wagons, shops, ships, houses. He bought grain when it was
plentiful and sold bread when it was scarce. He bought wool from the north and
linen from the south and lace from Lys, stored it, moved it, dyed it, sold it.
The golden dragons bred and multiplied, and Littlefinger lent them out and
brought them home with hatchlings.
    And in the process, he moved his own men into place. The Keepers of the Keys
were his, all four. The King’s Counter and the King’s Scales were men he’d
named. The officers in charge of all three mints. Harbormasters, tax farmers,
customs sergeants, wool factors, toll collectors, pursers, wine factors; nine
of

every ten belonged to Littlefinger. They were men of middling birth, by and
large; merchants’ sons, lesser lordlings, sometimes even foreigners, but
judging from their results, far more able than their highborn
predecessors.
    No one had ever thought to question the appointments, and why should they?
Littlefinger was no threat to anyone. A clever, smiling, genial man, everyone’s
friend, always able to find whatever gold the king or his Hand required, and
yet of such undistinguished birth, one step up from a hedge knight, he was not
a man to fear. He had no banners to call, no army of retainers, no great
stronghold, no holdings to speak of, no prospects of a great
marriage.
    But do I dare touch him?
Tyrion wondered.
Even if he is a
traitor?
He was not at all certain he could, least of all now, while the
war raged. Given time, he could replace Littlefinger’s men with his own in key
positions, but . . .
    A shout rang up from the yard. “Ah, His Grace has killed a hare,” Lord
Baelish observed.
    â€œNo doubt a slow one,” Tyrion said. “My lord, you were fostered at
Riverrun. I’ve heard it said that you grew close to the Tullys.”
    â€œYou might say so. The girls especially.”
    â€œHow close?”
    â€œI had their maidenhoods. Is that close enough?”
    The lie—Tyrion was fairly certain it was a lie—was delivered with
such an air of nonchalance that one could almost

believe it. Could it have been Catelyn Stark who lied? About her defloration,
and the dagger as well? The longer he lived, the more Tyrion realized that
nothing was simple and little was true. “Lord Hoster’s daughters do not love
me,” he confessed. “I doubt they would listen to any proposal I might make.
Yet coming from you, the same words might fall more sweetly on their
ears.”
    â€œThat would depend on the words. If you mean to offer Sansa in return for your
brother, waste someone else’s time. Joffrey will never surrender his plaything,
and Lady Catelyn is not so great a fool as to barter the Kingslayer for a slip
of a girl.”
    â€œI mean to have Arya as well. I have men searching.”
    â€œSearching is not finding.”
    â€œI’ll keep that in mind, my lord. In any case, it was Lady Lysa I hoped you
might sway. For her, I have a sweeter offer.”
    â€œLysa is more tractable than Catelyn, true . . . but also more
fearful, and I understand she hates you.”
    â€œShe believes she has good reason. When I was her guest in the Eyrie, she
insisted that I’d murdered her husband, and was not inclined to listen to
denials.” He leaned forward. “If I gave her Jon Arryn’s true killer, she
might think