Consequently, her army would land in the most convenient places: either in Dorne at Broken Arm, or in the Stormlands at Cape Wrath. The second option was a little more complicated, but more promising — in that case, it would be much easier for her to reach King's Landing.
True, there was one option for preventing such a frightening future — to hire the Faceless Men to eliminate the Stormborn. But it wasn't that simple, and I wasn't ready to suggest such a thing yet. Somehow, I had never "ordered" other people before; I had no experience with this, and it was not so easy to go against my own moral principles. Perhaps the good of the state stood above all this conscientious nonsense, but, I repeat, one still needed to grow into such a way of thinking.
Petyr Baelish had safely reached the Vale and was now carrying out his suspicious business there. According to the latest information, Lysa Arryn had announced her upcoming wedding to Baelish, and now all the vassals and bannermen were preparing for this fateful event for the Vale. It seemed that the absence of Sansa with Littlefinger — as well as the fact that King Joffrey had not died at the wedding — had nudged history in a different direction.
I promised myself that sooner or later, once I had gained enough experience, I would try to deal with Petyr Baelish.
The Council was also concerned that the self-proclaimed Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands, Balon Greyjoy, was clearly up to something. Rumor had it that new ships were being built on Pyke, Great Wyk, Orkmont, and other islands. Apparently, the ironborn were preparing for another campaign, and this made everyone nervous. No one could predict where the arrow shot into the sky would fall, or what target the pirates would choose. Although the chances of the western lands being plundered were the highest — meaning the entire coast of Westeros from the Banefort to the island of Arbor. Where to set up a barrier and gather forces was unclear.
However, right now the most unpleasant fact was that the Kingdom's debt amounted to a monstrous sum of six million five hundred and sixty thousand gold dragons. Three million one hundred thousand were owed to the Iron Bank of Braavos; Two million two hundred thousand to the Lannisters; eight hundred thousand to the Tyrells; four hundred and sixty thousand to the Church of the Seven.
I had thought the debt was somewhat smaller and estimated it to be somewhere around the amount Ned Stark had heard at his first meeting as Hand of the King.
Unfortunately, recent events had only exacerbated the situation: Robert's death and funeral, the royal wedding, the tournament held in her honor, the sluggish war, and the construction of the fleet continued to drain money from the country like a colossal pump.
It was simply frightening to think about such a sum. The state was in a very difficult position. And then there was the interest on the debt. Something had to be done about this urgently.
Tyrion and I spent hours poring over financial books and reports, trying to make sense of Littlefinger's cunning and suspicious actions. The more I spoke with my uncle, the more convinced I became of how sharp his mind was and how easily he grasped the most complex issues. His memory and analytical abilities were simply astonishing! I'll say just one thing — without his help, I wouldn't have understood a damn thing in all these reports, debits, credits, and balances.
At first, Tyrion reacted to my desire to delve into finance with quite justified skepticism. But over time, I managed to convince him that the whole point was really that I needed to know how much the state earned and where that money went.
"Listen, don't you think everything here is designed so that an outsider wouldn't understand a damn thing?" I yawned, got up from the table, and stretched.
That evening, my uncle and I had been sorting through these documents for a couple of hours and were quite tired.
"It does seem that way. Oh, fuck, my long-suffering back…" Tyrion glanced at what I was doing, laughed involuntarily, but nevertheless followed my example — stood up and began to squat and twist his torso in different directions. He looked funny.
"Listen, I didn't notice you had a penchant for exercise before," Tyrion remarked as he continued stretching. "Where did that come from?"
"Herald suggested it. Says you need to stretch your body periodically and showed me a couple of good exercises," I lied without blinking. "By the way, what did you do with Tallad?"
"That idiot?" Tyrion interlaced his fingers and stretched his arms with a crack. "He was on his knees begging for forgiveness. When I got tired of his whining, Bronn challenged him to a duel and beat him up good. I think he even broke a few bones… Then I ordered him to leave the Harbor. What, are you feeling sorry for him already?"
"Not at all. To hell with him," I said, satisfied now that I had learned everything I wanted. I returned to the more important question. "So what do you think about Littlefinger?"
"I think he's a damn cunning and devious son of a bitch," Tyrion admitted. "He reminds me of a juggler — only he juggles money instead of daggers, skillfully shifting it from one pocket to another."
"How can we find out how much he's made from all this?" I asked thoughtfully.
"Don't be so naive! Even if there's something fishy about him — and I'm certain there is — Littlefinger is no fool. He covers his tracks well. Besides, everyone is convinced that the main source of his fortune is his prostitutes and his network of brothels."
"Could you discreetly look into this?" I asked.
"What exactly?"
"How much he earns from his brothels per year. And how much he spends — although the latter is much more difficult."