Chapter 102: Is There Such a Possibility?
"Good morning, good afternoon, good evening — whichever it is, it's all good, Lord Baelish."
Podrick closed the cell door behind him, set the torch into an iron bracket in the wall, then crouched in front of Littlefinger with a bright, almost cheerful smile.
"Who would've thought we'd meet again like this?"
"Life really is full of surprises."
The dungeon was dark and damp, thick with the smell of mold and rot — the kind of place that made you wonder if staying too long might cause mushrooms to sprout from your skin.
In the flickering torchlight, Podrick Payne's face looked almost demonic. The fire burned behind him, throwing a huge shadow across the wall — a looming giant over the small, shivering figure of Lord Petyr Baelish, who looked like a cat cornered and toyed with.
Littlefinger swallowed hard, fear swelling in his chest.
From the moment Podrick laid hands on him to the moment he was dragged down here, Baelish's sharp mind had been working furiously. One thing was clear: this was not going to be easily resolved.
But who had truly ordered this?
Before striking, Podrick had claimed he acted on Queen Cersei Lannister's command — arresting a man who had "brought chaos to the capital."
Chaos in the capital?
Baelish almost scoffed, even through the pain.
Would that brainless woman truly care about such a thing? And at a time like this, with enemies inside and out, would she really move against him?
She was foolish — but not that foolish.
If it were the Imp… then why all the theatrics beforehand? Why talk so much? Why stage it like this? That would be pointless.
And this didn't feel like a mere scare tactic. Podrick's tone, his expression, the weight of those blows — it had all been real. Baelish knew the difference. The numb, throbbing pain in his swollen face made sure of that.
Most importantly, he knew something else.
Tyrion needed him.
Cersei needed him.
Everyone in King's Landing needed him.
That was precisely why the Imp had always pretended ignorance, even cooperating with him. They had just concluded a deal.
So where had it gone wrong?
Head spinning, cheek burning, curled against the icy stone wall, Baelish tried to think. The harder he searched, the thicker the fog in his mind became.
He simply could not see the mistake.
He could not imagine who would strike at him from the shadows — or for what reason. He posed no immediate threat.
Unless…
Unless Podrick Payne had simply grown bored… and decided on a whim that tormenting — even killing — Petyr Baelish would be entertaining.
But if he really did this, then leaving aside whether the small council would let him off, just Podrick Payne's conduct — with Baelish as the example — would be enough to make every minister nervous and on edge.
Which meant that Podrick, Tyrion's de facto spokesman, had no reason to move against him either.
Even if the boy were mad or stupid, could the Imp truly be brainless too?
Unable to understand why he had fallen into this disaster, Littlefinger shook his head hard, trying to clear the fog. His eyes lifted toward Podrick.
"Po… Po-drick… d-do you know what you're doing?"
With missing teeth, a swollen face, and a tongue that wouldn't cooperate, the once silver-tongued Master of Coin could barely speak.
Podrick understood. And even if he hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered.
"Of course I do, my dear lord."
Still crouching, Podrick smiled gently and ran a hand through Baelish's hair as if stroking a pet dog.
He answered without the slightest hesitation.
"After all, you made the first move against me, didn't you?"
"I'm a lazy man. If no one messes with me, I don't mess with them. So why'd you have to go poking around? Thought I'd be easy to bully like Tyrion?"
"Or that I'd be as foolish as Lord and Lady Stark?"
"Just wave a finger from the shadows, whisper a few words, and fools start smashing each other's heads in?"
Podrick spoke plainly, openly admitting it was his hand behind all this, still smiling.
The casual tone — as if discussing breakfast — made Littlefinger's heart plunge into cold terror. A wave of despair followed.
If this were someone else's scheme, he still believed he could walk out of this dungeon alive.
But if this was truly Podrick Payne's own decision…
A heavy weight settled in his chest.
"I… I don't know what you mean, my lord," Baelish stammered, shrinking deeper into the boy's shadow.
"There must be some misunderstanding… Payne, my lord…"
"You said this was the Queen's order — let me see Her Grace. I can explain—"
Even now, he kept acting.
Podrick laughed outright.
"Save it, Lord Baelish. I told you from the start — this is the Queen's will."
"If that still confuses you…"
"Then let me be clear. My will is also the Queen's will."
"Understand?"
He lifted Baelish's chin with a finger, voice edged with faint contempt.
When that failed, Littlefinger changed tactics again.
"I can explain! There must be a mistake!"
"You still need me! You must need me! The Iron Throne owes millions of gold dragons — only I can fix that!"
"Without me, the crown's debts will explode!"
He clung to Podrick's leg, crying, pleading — wrapping a hard threat inside soft desperation.
Podrick only smiled.
"But didn't you just say that's the Iron Throne's debt? What does that have to do with me?"
"Why should small folk like me wipe the king's backside?"
Baelish fell silent.
For the first time, his brilliant mind felt insufficient.
Was Podrick aware of the danger — or completely oblivious?
Or was he simply a boy who did whatever pleased him…
Just like Joffrey?
Under the torchlight, Littlefinger's gray-green eyes slowly lost their shine.
Seeing he had nothing left to say, Podrick's smile faded. He shook his leg, kicked Baelish aside, and stood.
"Well, since you're here, make yourself at home, Lord Baelish."
"But if you still dream of seeing sunlight again… that's difficult. I have no intention of letting you live."
"And I doubt you'd enjoy wearing black and opening a brothel on the Wall."
Baelish dropped the act. Cold fury replaced fear.
"Podrick Payne… have you thought about this? The king won't allow it. Your master Tyrion won't allow it. Even Lord Tywin Lannister won't allow you to run wild."
"Let me go now, and I'll call this a bad joke."
"But if I'm harmed, you won't keep your head. Ned Stark also believed power meant authority. Where did that lead him?"
Podrick looked almost puzzled.
"What they think… what does that have to do with me?"
"Because you seized me publicly, in the Hand's tower. All of King's Landing knows!"
Podrick turned back, torch in hand. The fire threw a monstrous shadow.
"Lord Baelish, you still don't understand."
"I just want to mess with you. Mess with you until you're dead."
"As for the problems you're worried about…"
"They're not problems to me."
"I can't solve problems. I only solve the people who raise them."
With that final notice, he turned to leave.
Littlefinger panicked.
"Wait! Where are you going?!"
Darkness closed in. Terror took hold.
"I'll tell you anything! I have money — I can make you rich!"
"I'll obey! I don't want anything anymore!"
"My relationship with Lysa Arryn — I admit it! I can make the Vale move!"
"I can stop Stannis! Even attack Riverrun!"
He was truly afraid of being left to rot in darkness, to die and be reported as "fever in prison."
As he raved, his thoughts sharpened.
Tyrion offered Harrenhal. Podrick dragged him here before he could accept.
Was this good cop, bad cop?
Was Tyrion behind this all along?
Podrick stood with the torch, smiling coldly.
"Seems you do know when to be sensible."
"Then here's a reminder."
"If your memory's good, you and the guest joining you later can have a long talk… about you, Jon Arryn, and his widow Lysa."
"Should be a fascinating story."
Baelish's eyes flew wide.
Podrick gave a small bow…
…and left.