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"
Mine
?
"
Tyrion
gave
him
a
long
look
.
"
No
.
I
think
not
.
Never
mine
.
"
He
knows
,
the
insolent
wretch
.
He
knows
and
he
knows
that
I
know
,
and
he
thinks
that
I
cannot
touch
him
.
If
ever
truly
a
man
had
armored
himself
in
gold
,
it
was
Petyr
Baelish
,
not
Jaime
Lannister
.
Jaime
’
s
famous
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
.
