Chapter 101 — "Once he's inside, you only need to ask: 'Will you talk?' Just don't kill him."
The oak doors exploded inward under a single kick.
Wooden splinters and clouds of dust blasted into the chamber, filling the air. Both men inside recoiled instinctively, bending low as debris flew past their faces, coughing violently.
"Pod— cough— Podrick, what in the hell are you doing?!"
For once in his life, Tyrion Lannister's small stature worked in his favor. Compared to the flamboyantly dressed Petyr Baelish, he presented a much smaller target.
Tyrion saw it clearly—two flying shards of wood had sliced across Littlefinger's face, drawing thin, bright lines of blood.
Podrick didn't even look at him.
"I am carrying out official duty, my lord Hand," he replied coldly.
His eyes swept the room and found the Master of Coin sprawled across the Myrish carpet.
"By order of the Queen Regent, I am to arrest the traitor who has thrown the capital into chaos—Petyr Baelish."
"Lord Baelish," he said flatly, "you will come with me and give an explanation."
Before anyone could react, Podrick strode forward.
Littlefinger had just managed to push himself up, eyes wide with disbelief.
"I—"
He never got further.
Podrick seized him by the back of the collar and hauled him up with one hand.
Smack!
Smack!
Two thunderous slaps cracked through the room.
Littlefinger's head snapped sideways. Blood burst from the corner of his mouth, and a tear split along his ear. His cheek swelled almost instantly.
Whatever words he had meant to say dissolved into garbled choking sounds. Several teeth clattered onto the carpet.
This wasn't about getting him to talk.
It was about shutting him up.
Tyrion stared, stunned.
What in the Seven Hells was happening?
Podrick had stormed the Hand's Tower, seized the Master of Coin, and beaten him silent—almost as if afraid he might say something dangerous.
Littlefinger's vision swam. He looked dazed, unable to tell where the door even was anymore.
Podrick nodded, satisfied.
Still holding him by the collar with one hand, he tilted his head slightly and looked at Tyrion with an almost innocent expression.
He looked so innocent — like some clueless shepherd boy heading out to buy a cup of instant noodles.
"Mmm. Looks like Lord Petyr Baelish is being very cooperative. That's good. Cooperation saves everyone unnecessary pain."
Podrick said it with a bright, almost childlike expression as he looked at Tyrion.
"You… I…"
Tyrion sat on the floor, pointing at Podrick, then at himself, utterly at a loss for words.
Before he could form a single question, Podrick simply winked, the corner of his mouth lifting — then strode out, still carrying Petyr Baelish by the collar through what remained of the shattered doorway.
Tyrion could only stare, mouth open, as Podrick's figure vanished down the corridor. His voice echoed faintly from outside:
"Oh? What's this knife? Quite pretty… hmm—wait, why does Lord Baelish have my dagger?"
"Ah, he must've picked it up and been safekeeping it for me. My thanks, Lord Baelish."
"Oh, and this cloak? Hah. Ugly color. Here, Shagga — it's yours."
Silence ruled the Hand's Tower.
Tyrion remained seated on the floor, stunned, until Bronn, Shagga, and Timett finally entered, each wearing the same awkward, confused half-smile. Shagga was clutching the cloak.
Tyrion opened his mouth — nothing came out.
Only after Bronn helped him back into his chair did he manage to gather himself.
"So… can anyone tell me what just happened?"
---
The Red Keep's Dungeons
The Red Keep had four dungeon levels.
The upper cells had narrow windows for common criminals.
Below that were smaller chambers for noble captives, torchlight from the hallways spilling between the bars.
The third level — the black cells — were smaller still, sealed with wooden doors that shut out all light. These were for the most dangerous prisoners.
And the lowest level…
The torture chambers.
They said it was best not to bring a torch down there — there were things you didn't want to see.
And that was where Petyr Baelish had been taken.
Podrick had carried him down like a rabbit, one-handed.
He found an empty black cell, tore open the door, and tossed the battered Master of Coin into the darkness. Baelish's clothes were shredded, his face swollen beyond recognition.
A Gold Cloak stood nearby holding a torch, head bowed, trembling.
Vylarr had come as well — but stopped at the entrance to the dungeon, unwilling to step further.
Littlefinger was babbling through blood and broken teeth, trying to speak.
Podrick dug a finger into his ear, then took the torch from the terrified guard.
"Wait outside. Bring the men I told you to find before I return. And more candles."
"Our Master of Coin is probably afraid of the dark."
"And bring the whips too. Wouldn't want Lord Baelish lacking courage."
"Yes… yes, Lord Payne!"
The guard looked as pale as death. After handing over the torch, he cast one fearful, pitying glance into the darkness, then shut the cell door and hurried away.
He had no desire to know what happened inside.
---
Some time later, he returned with the men Podrick had requested — seven or eight rough, hard-faced figures.
Podrick emerged from the cell smiling.
He gestured back over his shoulder with his thumb.
"Once you're inside, do what you're here to do. You understand why I brought you."
The men grinned eagerly.
One bald brute with a forest of black chest hair bowed, hands rubbing together.
"Don't worry, my lord. We'll take good care of him."
"Good."
Podrick nodded.
"One instruction."
"While you're working, the only question you ask is: 'Will you talk?' Nothing else."
"What he says will be recorded by others."
"You focus on your part. I'll return in three days to review the results."
He paused at the doorway.
"Just one more thing."
"Don't kill him."