"It was him, that bastard." Tyrion Lannister watched Petyr Baelish's departing figure cast a shadow across the doorway.
Tyrion was now all but certain that Lady Catelyn Stark, fool that she was, had likely been persuaded by Littlefinger before deciding to abduct him at the Inn at the crossroads.
Littlefinger. A liar, slick and seemingly harmless. Tyrion was certain Littlefinger had framed him for the attempt on Bran Stark, though he had not yet thought any deeper than that. Jon Arryn's death had still not occurred to him. He was not omniscient, after all.
Littlefinger was a master of sleight of hand, as though born for a spendthrift like King Robert. Compared with the frantic days of the previous Master of Coin, the royal revenues were now fully ten times what they had once been. The royal debts, naturally, had risen just as sharply. Tyrion knew Littlefinger was skilled at making money beget money, but he did not fully trust those flashy financial tricks. It would take time to uncover the trick behind the performance.
By now, nearly the entire financial system had been filled with men Petyr had appointed, trusted men Petyr had cultivated. The Four Keepers of the Keys were all his people, as were the King's Counter and the King's Scales. Even the officials in charge of the three mints had been nominated by him. Beyond them, the Harbormaster, Tax Farmers, Customs Sergeants, wool factors, Toll Collectors, Purser, Wine Factors, and the rest, nine out of ten were Littlefinger's men. Most of them came from ordinary backgrounds, sons of merchants, minor nobles, even foreigners, but in terms of actual results, they far surpassed the aristocratic officers who had held those posts before.
"Can I kill him, even if he is a traitor?" Tyrion thought, then shook his head. With war raging everywhere, removing a man without roots like Janos the Toad, Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, had already been troublesome enough, and he had only managed it with Varys's help. Removing someone as established as Littlefinger would be far harder. King's Landing could not afford more chaos. For now, he could only cooperate and keep his guard up. The Master of Coin was vital, especially with Littlefinger's special ties to the Vale.
"Do you think one Harrenhal is enough to fool me? Imp, arrogance is never a virtue, and neither is underestimating your enemies, my old friend." Lord Petyr, the Master of Coin, pinched the hem of his robe and strode out of the reception hall in the Tower of the Hand.
Petyr thought back on their meeting. The Imp certainly had many strengths, but Littlefinger and Varys had also grasped his weaknesses. They had to understand the Imp better than the Imp understood himself. His occasional kindness and sympathy, his arrogance, his tendency to underestimate his enemies' malice, and his excessive fondness for that little whore Shae were all obvious flaws.
Harrenhal was only a rung on the ladder. Petyr would not pour a single soldier into it. Even if he gained the title of Great Lord of Harrenhal, would the lords of the Riverlands obey him? Could he call up an army?
The Imp was far too presumptuous. He had underestimated Petyr's ambition. A man who dared poison a Great Lord would surely want more.
Petyr swept through the courtyard and saw the little king practicing at shooting rabbits. King Joffrey Baratheon wore red brocade embroidered with a lion and a stag facing each other, and the king's golden hair gleamed all the brighter beneath his golden crown.
What a pretty lion. King Joffrey was certainly beloved, Petyr thought, remembering the arrogance with which the king had shot down a poor man the night before.
"Drive the rabbit for me, you fool!" the king shouted at Dontos, the jester riding a broomstick horse.
Dontos dropped the broomstick horse and clumsily took the rabbit from the huntsman's hands. The white rabbit bolted at once.
The king pulled hard on the crossbow trigger, only to miss by a full two feet. The rabbit rose on its hind legs and twitched its nose at the king. Joff cursed as he cranked the bowstring tight, but the rabbit quickly vanished from sight.
"Another rabbit!" the king roared.
Dontos released a brown one from the cage, but the king was too impatient again, and the bolt nearly struck Dontos between the legs.
"Fool, fool!" the king shouted at the jester. Dontos shrank back submissively and did not dare speak.
Littlefinger watched, smiled, and said nothing, merely bowing respectfully to the king. Joffrey had no patience for them and told them not to disturb his pleasure.
"Perform well, jester. Lure that poor little girl into your hands." With quiet anticipation, Petyr slipped past them.
Petyr glanced over the Red Keep in passing. Everything was as usual, apart from the guards, who were somewhat tense after the fury of the mob. Still, no one had discovered his greatest secret. Petyr knew of a hidden passage in and out of the Red Keep. It was very well concealed. Petyr had once led Eddard through it, and now it seemed Eddard's daughter could make use of it as well. One first entered a tower in the Red Keep, descended a winding stair, crossed a sunken little courtyard, and followed an abandoned gallery.
Along both walls of the gallery stood suits of unused armor, like guards keeping watch. They were old relics left behind by House Targaryen, forged of black steel, their helms inlaid with dragon scales, but now they were thick with dust and long forgotten. At the foot of the stairs was a heavy door of oak and iron bands. Once opened, it led to a steep cliff above the river, with handholds carved into the rock so one could climb down and escape the Red Keep. There could be a boat on the river, and beside the cliff's base ran a narrow, muddy waterside path. It was perfect.
Petyr left with Lothor and the others. Only on his own ground did he feel any measure of safety.
Petyr returned to the tottering three-story wooden building, a brothel. Light shone from the windows, especially bright in the darkening twilight. Music and shrill laughter spilled from within and drifted over the river. Beside the door, a heavy chain held up an ornate oil lamp covered by a red glass shade set in lead.
"Are there any ships leaving soon?" Petyr wondered.
"Go find out which ships are due to depart soon," he told Lothor.
"Lord, shouldn't we wait for an official decree, or change to a larger merchant ship?" Lothor asked, puzzled.
"No. Now. Time waits for no one. A Braavos merchant ship would be best." Petyr pinched at his beard. "Because of that bastard Stannis's raids, Braavos trading ships may be the only ones still coming, and King's Landing lies conveniently on the route to Braavos."
"I need to make it look as if I'm leaving, but I'm not leaving just yet," Petyr told Lothor.
"What does that mean?" Lothor asked, slow to understand.
"We still have a precious guest inside the Red Keep of King's Landing. I'm considering whether to take her with us. If I do, I won't be coming back to King's Landing," Petyr said.
"A guest inside the Red Keep?" Lothor's expression did not change. "Taking away a guest like that would certainly be difficult."
"A little difficult," Petyr said playfully. "But if we liven up King's Landing a bit, trouble may give us our chance."
Since King's Landing had already seen one mob, there would be a second and a third. Let them keep coming to the Red Keep to make trouble. All it would take was spreading a few false rumors, telling them the Crownlands had been invaded by wildlings, that everything had been burned to the ground, and that starvation was upon them.
"You should go to the docks."
"Yes, Lord." Lothor bowed and left. "But with war breaking out so often now, are we truly returning to the Vale?"
"Go. The Vale is my home," Petyr ordered. The fact that Lothor had tried to stop him only made Petyr feel the man was loyal.
"I will always trust you, but you should also keep an eye on Oswell and the others," Littlefinger encouraged him. Oswell Kettleblack was a member of House Kettleblack, father to Osmund, Osfryd, and Osney Kettleblack, and had served Petyr for a long time.
"Yes, Lord. I'll watch them."
Petyr stood in the room like a lonely ghost.
"Given the same matter, Lothor would advise me not to go, while Oswell would urge me onward. In time, I will place them in court as well to watch House Lannister," Petyr thought.
"Do you think I haven't seen through your intentions, Imp?" Petyr murmured. "You have already made your final preparations to abandon King's Landing. If that is so, do I have any reason to wait for one last turn of fortune?"
Petyr took a map from a drawer and studied it carefully. "The armies of the Wolf, the Fish, and the Storm now hold the advantage. The Northern army marching south can tie down Lord Tywin's forces. If the Storm fully gathers the strength of House Baratheon, then the Lion's position on this board will all but collapse."
The young man's face flashed before Petyr's eyes, filling him with dread, but he could not retreat.
"So, the Falcon and the Rose are the most important. The Falcon has the protection of the mountains, and the Bloody Gate cannot be breached. In an age without dragons, the Vale is as solid as stone, and Arryn strength has not yet been diminished. And then there is the Rose, still watching from the sidelines. The Rose has a hundred thousand men." Petyr's gaze fixed on the Reach, where the Rose lay, and then on the Vale of Arryn, the domain of House Arryn.
"If, if the Rose could be persuaded to enter the game, then this entire board would come alive. But right now, does the Rose have the courage to step in?" Petyr weighed it over and over. The Rose was the greatest aid to resolving the Lion's predicament, but did the Lion have enough to move them? Did the Rose have the courage to resist the Storm's wrath, or would they wait until the very end?
Petyr paced slowly through the room, his thoughts shifting. The Storm still had the strength of two Free Cities, and had not yet brought it all to bear. Once they did, the game in King's Landing would fall into complete chaos.