His mother rarely spoke to him when he was a boy, but he remembered one lesson that had been hissed to him through the closet door he had hid behind, sniffling and wiping tears from his ugly, reddened eyes.
"Either pick the weeds or eat the thistles, Petyr."
Take care of problem or lie in the mess you've made without complaint.
Trying to take care of the problem had resulted in a rather large scar and afterward he had quietly and humbly feasted upon the thistles, picking the thorns from his teeth and biding his time until he could finally do something worthwhile. Bit by bit he had planned. He had grown, clawed his way up the ladder and slowly replaced his simple clothes with silk and cashmere, all the while depositing himself within the tightest of circles and shaking hands with the men who could, unlike himself, carry out brazen plans and bold political moves.
All the muck Petyr Baelish had chewed through, all the gambles he had taken, all of the work he had done, only to be rewarded by a dusty cathouse, a couple of casinos, an old hotel, and cellar full of booze. True, his pocket had grown significantly fatter since January 1st, 1920, but he wanted more than this shabby boardwalk palace on the outskirts of New Jersey. He lusted for the glistening lights of Manhattan, he wanted to control the highways of booze traveling through Chicago, and he desired the waters of the Mississippi in Minneapolis. He craved the sun of Los Angeles. Petyr even craved the budding business of the incoming drugs from the dry land of Mexico.
But the Starks, Boltons, Lannisters, even the hearty railroad barrens of the Baratheons clutched what he was after, dangling plans and deals in front of him. True, they were filling his pockets, but they only left an addictive taste on his tongue and Littlefinger was left with the idea of what true power felt like.
However, that was quickly changed by an upset in the north. Baelish had been sitting and drinking bootlegged whiskey when the telegram was passed to him by a simple, pie-faced girl who's only gift, in his mind, was a redeeming set of tits. Her name was plain, something from Kansas…like Alma or Betty, but Petyr never cared much to find out. Her hand trailed lazily across his shoulders and as he drank the last of his booze remembered the girl's opium habit.
"Go make money," Littlefinger hissed in place of thanks, the whisky making him suck against his teeth.
She seemed annoyed but slithered away, her round hips sashaying as she approached a drunk sprawled against one of his cushions. Annoyed, Petyr wanted to reach up and undo the clasp of his impossibly high collar, but he had paid good money for this dark green suit, so he stubbornly wore it as deigned. Baelish liked the clean lines and find tailoring of expensive clothes.
The telegram was short, sweet, and to the point. It was an order. He would be going to New York to be part of a meeting that would, without a doubt, be rather terse. Rumor had traveled to his brackish little hideaway next to the sea that tensions were growing between the Starks of Chicago and the Lannisters of New York. A few of Tywin Lannister's Canadian shipments had somehow mysteriously gotten lost along the way through Mormont-controlled Duluth and Bolton-controlled Minneapolis and it took a stubborn fool to deny the clear allegiance that the cities on the river and the north shore held with Chicago.
The northern Midwest was a fickle thing, somewhere that Petyr would rather not visit. Much smaller families hid up there in the ice and snow, each of them quite easy to crush on their own, but all of their added worth fed into the Chicago outfit, making the Starks a family that demanded respect. Even from the big, shiny families out east.
Petyr wondered just how heated the great Ned Stark would get when faced with the lavish penthouse that Tywin conducted most of his meetings in. There had been no request for girls to be sent, which meant that the Lannisters weren't going to be in a hospitable mood. When it was time to impress, Littlefinger was expected to bring his finest women.
Baelish leaned against the bar and snapped his fingers at the kid that he had hired polish glasses while the actual bartender poured the booze.
"Get the car ready."
The youngster nodded and scuttled away. Petyr stood up and adjusted his silk waistcoat and rotated his shoulder to readjust the way his holster sat beneath his arm, the Colt 1911 nestled heavy and lethal near his armpit. Then, he took his suit jacket off the back of his chair and slid it on. Retrieving his hat from the top of the bar, he made his way out to the parlor. Fedoras and boat hats never impressed him much and he almost always opted for a flat cap. It was simple enough to go about unnoticed and Petyr liked the look.
Two of his bouncers were waiting by the door. "Watch the place," he said as he buttoned up his suitcoat. "I will be back tomorrow or Thursday. Make sure the girls make money." Littlefinger expressed the importance of this command with a raise of his eyebrows.
"Yessir."
Petyr nodded and pushed his way out of his cathouse, smelling the salty air of Jersey's shore. It was a damp day, chilled, and he was almost relieved to be leaving the gray of the sand in search of the lights of downtown. He hated the shore in the off season. The money from his casinos slowed nearly to a trickle and his girls grew bored with the amount of regulars they had to service. However, the lascivious debauchery of the summer season after dark made it all worthwhile. The help of women and booze kept his pockets satiated throughout the year.
It took a few hours to make it into the city and he had his driver deposit him at the brownstone he kept in the Upper East Side, next to the park. Baelish relished being nestled next to the big money of the city and he routinely reminded himself that he belonged there, surrounded by inheritance and business. By the time he had made his way inside the sky was dark while the city glinted around him, save for the black mass of Central Park that acted as a black hole that gaped in Manhattan's belly.
The next afternoon he made his way to the Lannister's building. It was a long walk, but he didn't mind. He liked the sounds and smells of the city, the baking of bread and rot of the sewer all melded together into the scent of the town, pushing out the brine of the ocean from his lungs.
Baelish pushed through the gilded doors of The Lannister Banking Company and he was pleased that he had worn the shoes that were loud in the heel. As much as the man delighted in being sly and hidden he felt the need to announce himself with the tap of a finely crafted sole. Clicking his way across black and white marble tile he had plenty of time to announce his arrival to the elevator operator. The big man in front of him was obviously a guard that had been put out to greet the attendees of this called upon meeting. The brute nearly half foot taller than Littlefinger but he kept his shoulders squared.
"Top," he said, letting him know what floor to take him to. "Petyr Baelish."
Twenty minutes later he was standing in front of a heavy and decadent billiards table, watching as Tywin Lannister leaned over and sized up a shot. He merely glanced up at Littlefinger before turning his attention back to his game.
"The Starks stole my whiskey," he said before he cracked the cue ball.
There were other men in the room, all of them small time goons that took advantage of the protective shade that the Lannister's provided against the harsh scrutiny of other gangs and the law. They wore loud suits with spats, tying to be flashy with what spare change Tywin had thrown their way.
Baelish shrugged, waiting for him to continue, which he would no doubt do.
"Those Midwest hicks think that they can steal my shipment, I had two clubs close because they didn't have enough booze. Lost nearly fifty thousand."
The sum nearly made Petyr's mouth water, but he knew that it was mere pennies to what the Lannister's were worth. It was more about being tricked, taken advantage of. That's what enraged Tywin, not the money.
However, even in the wake of Tywin's obvious rage, Petyr was confident that the Starks and their allies wouldn't be killed when they got to New York, he had too many ears on the inside and the thought of hitting a family head would be far too risky. However, the weight of his pistol beneath his arm was a comforting one. He preferred the shoulder holster, he thought it was easier to hide.
"I just want to see what he manages to come up with. What sort of lie I'll catch the bastard in."
The hulking form of Gregor "The Mountain" Clegane, clothed in the most ridiculous double-breasted suit Baelish had ever seen, grunted angrily. "You should've let us go out there. We would've solved this."
"While I admire your loyalty," Tywin drawled, "I am not interested in a war. We've only managed to navigate through this law for a little over a year, it's still too early in the game to be making big moves like hitting Ned Stark."
Petyr looked at them and glanced at the pool table. Tywin could sink the three ball if he ricocheted the white one off of the top right corner bumpers.
He watched as Tywin missed. He pursed his lips and propped a hand on his hip, leaning against the cue as if it was a large cane. Petyr met his pale eyes when he finally looked at him.
"I needed you here, Littlefinger, because you are my bookkeeper and also my new checkpoint."
"Checkpoint?"
"Here's what I want," Tywin said, setting down his pool cue and adjusting the red satin bowtie that sat at his Adam' s apple. "You control Jersey, you have one of the last gas stations on the main smuggling route to the city. I'm going to block all other access for my booze and you are going to check the trucks and you are going to make sure that everything is there, understood?"
Baelish blinked, clasped his hands in front of him, and nodded.
"Any shipment that has to go through Chicago will be checked. All of my Canadian whiskey will be checked. All of my shine that's made down south will be checked. I will not be taken advantage of again."
"Consider your point taken," Petyr said. "But with all due respect, how are you going to get them to agree with this plan?"
Tywin smiled, his teeth white and sharp and Littlefinger found himself hating how angular the man's features were. He wondered what type of pomade he used to slick his blonde hair back. Probably something that smelled like petroleum.
"We have something of his that we are going to keep with you."
Petyr's eyebrows furrowed. This whole thing reeked of misinformation and that made him uneasy. He had grown quite accustomed to the predictability of the world and Tywin was dangerously close to surprising him. Tywin snapped at Clegane and motioned for him to go towards the set of double doors that blocked off the rest of the suite from the main living area. The giant stomped off. He came out lugging a small form, downright miniature compared to his massive frame. Very obviously female, her body clothed in a simple cotton dress, very unlike the styles of New York. The dress clashed horribly with the burlap sack that was over her head and she was pushed rather unceremoniously into an armchair.
Tywin neared her and reached out, his spindly fingered hand yanking off the sack like some sort of magician's reveal.
Baelish saw the hair and he knew. Sansa Stark, her eyes wide and wild, but her mouth pressed shut. No doubt she had been threatened to stay quiet.
Tywin smugly looked at Petyr, very obviously pleased with the plan he had come up with. "She is going with you, to Atlantic City. You are going to keep her there, maybe even with your girls, and that's where she will stay until the rest of the Starks can learn how to play ball."
Anger filled him, but not the moral kind.
"This is a death wish."
"No." Tywin growled. "This is leverage."
"They're going to burn down my city," Baelish spat, pointing at her. "My boardwalk, my casinos, my bars."
Everything he had won, every cliff he had managed to scale, every gamble he had made was now being put at risk by someone else, someone who could freely afford to spare another man's hard work.
Tywin was looking at him angrily, chin dipped, eyebrows furrowed.
"Like it or not, Baelish, you are my best liar. You are also my best bookkeeper, and you are relatively unknown to the Starks. This is why you're going to take her." He came around the table. "I will be giving you extra security with plenty of guns. Don't think that I am a foolish man ignoring the risks."
Littlefinger looked past Tywin Lannister and could only stare at the terrified form of Sansa Stark. Sunlight for the large windows poured in and there was no denying the Tully blood in her. She reminded him of the lush forests and green moss of her mother's land.
But she was a time bomb. Ticking and volatile and his empire, no matter how ambitious it was, would surely be destroyed by his cooperation.
"You will be getting ten percent. I am also withholding my cuts from your casinos until this is over," Tywin said. The plush and decadent room around them had grown quiet, the other men watching and waiting for Petyr's reaction.
Tywin spoke again, turning to give his back to Littlefinger, almost dismissively. "Otherwise, I will be asking for my loan back. In full and with interest. And you can consider yourself an enemy… just like Chicago."
Littlefinger's bright eyes darkened. He wasn't even given the option to turn down the undeniably huge offer that Tywin provided. His choice was rewarded cooperation or complete ruin. Either way he knew that all of his hard work would be crushed. Whether it was from the Chicago mob or from New York didn't really seem to matter.
"Ten percent and a withholding of all profits?" Baelish finally asked as he watched Tywin lazily pick up his pool cue and rub the tip with chalk.
"That's right."
Petyr glared at the Stark girl. She looked like a wounded little bird, staring down at her feet, a long red braid draped over her shoulder. He found himself suddenly hating the situation she had put him in. For the first time in many years he was feeling like the pawn in someone else's game and that sickened him. Fury flared in his belly, hot and nauseating like smog and suddenly the suite felt small and suffocating, but he hid it well.
"Deal," he finally managed to spit out.
Tywin smiled at his response and strode over. Towering above Petyr he stuck out his hand. "You'll take her back tonight. I want her out of the city by the time the Starks get into town."
Littlefinger took it and shook, firmly squeezing to show Tywin that he wasn't agreeing out of his own free will.
"A car will follow with her and your security. You will leave from here. I have the first shipment scheduled for Thursday, you already have the numbers comparison."
Petyr nodded, still not trusting his emotions to speak. All of Tywin's orders were cataloged in a leather backed ledger that Petyr kept diligently. All of the numbers referring to booze, gambling, and women were catalogued and cooked to the point where only he could navigate through the numbers and code.
Clegane bent over the girl and murmured something in her ear. Judging by the way she recoiled it was probably something malicious and threatening. Then he grabbed her arm and ushered her out of the room, down to the car no doubt.
Tywin waved him off. "Have a safe trip back to Jersey," he offered casually and Petyr Baelish's index finger twitched with the desire to pull the trigger and send a bullet cleanly through Tywin Lannister's skull.