By the time Tyrion woke the next day, evening had already fallen.
He met Petyr Baelish at the Counting House, a brothel on the Street of Silk.
Littlefinger sat in a velvet-upholstered chair. Incense burned in the room, its cloying sweetness enough to make a man dizzy. He wore a gray coat embroidered with a Silver Mockingbird, his hair impeccably combed, and looked every inch the shrewd merchant.
"Lord Tyrion." Littlefinger smiled and rose when he saw him enter. "What brings you here? I hear you haven't had a proper rest. I'll arrange for a few of my finest girls to keep you company."
Tyrion did not sit down. He simply stood there, watching him. Inwardly, he grumbled about how everyone seemed to know everything he did the moment he arrived in King's Landing.
Still, he did not dwell on it. That was practically a tradition in King's Landing. He went straight to the point. "Lord Petyr, I want to know what you think of this war."
Littlefinger raised an eyebrow and answered casually, "What I think? What could I possibly think? I'm the Master of Coin. My only concern is finding gold dragons for the king to spend-and for you, his Hand of the King, of course."
"Don't play dumb," Tyrion said. "You're an even better schemer than Varys, that spider. Tell me, do you have an escape route?"
Littlefinger watched him, the smile slowly fading from his face. He walked to the window and pushed it open. The street outside was deserted. With the war upon them, wealthy merchants with the means to leave had long since fled King's Landing, and business here had been scarce lately.
"Lord Tyrion," he said, his back to Tyrion, "do you know that I've always envied you?"
"Envied me for what?" Tyrion