The Small Council had long since ended, yet two men lingered as the others departed the Great Hall.
As was his habit, Tywin Lannister dismissed the other councillors first, keeping his sons behind for a private talk.
The Master of Laws, Tyrion Lannister.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister.
"Brother, you look like you haven't slept," Tyrion said, knowing full well his brother and sister had likely spent the night tangled together.
"You look no better," Jaime replied. He wore new gilded armor, a fresh sword at his hip, and a spotless white cloak over his shoulders.
Tyrion hadn't slept at all. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of Sansa and Arya Stark.
"I shouldn't say this, but I owe you thanks," Jaime said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. His grip was as strong as ever. "Cersei wanted me to thank you as well."
The queen, as usual, had not attended the council that morning.
"She would thank me?"
"Of course, Tyrion," Jaime said. "You know how Cersei can be… difficult at times. But she's still your sister."
"I know. She's always hated me," Tyrion said. "She killed our mother, behaves like a whore, and stole your inheritance."
"I've taken the white, Tyrion," Jaime reminded him. "It doesn't matter. Someday she'll understand—blood is thicker than water."
"Blood is thicker than water," Tyrion echoed softly. "Brother, it isn't only Cersei who needs you. I need you too."
"You need me?" Jaime laughed. "If Father hadn't returned to King's Landing, I'd wager half the Red Keep would already be under your command."
"There's one thing I can't trust anyone else with," Tyrion said, leaning in.
"Not even Father?"
"I trust him," Tyrion said quietly, "but he doesn't always trust me. This matter must stay between us. No one else can know. No one."
He led Jaime down into the lower levels of the Red Keep. "Promise me this: when I ask for your help, you'll help me first—ask your questions later. Remember that. It's important."
Jaime frowned, clearly puzzled, but nodded all the same.
At the next corner, Podrick Payne stood waiting. Jaime recognized him—Tyrion's squire, and kin to Ilyn Payne.
"My lord," Podrick said with a bow. "He's been waiting here for some time."
My lord? What lord? Jaime wondered, following Tyrion around the bend.
Two men stood there.
Petyr Baelish leaned against a windowsill, dressed in rich silks and embroidery. As always, he and Varys were the most finely dressed in the council.
Jaime remembered him well—Father had just named him Lord of Harrenhal, lord over the Riverlands, and he was soon to depart for the Vale to court Lysa Tully, seeking to end the rift between the Vale and the Iron Throne.
Behind him stood a knight—Ser Osney Kettleblack.
"My lord, pleased?" Tyrion said with a grin, slapping Petyr on the back.
It was a familiar gesture, almost friendly. Too friendly. Jaime found it strange—since when had his brother grown so close to Lord Baelish? Even with him, Tyrion never behaved so… casually.
Littlefinger drew out a heavy pouch—gold coins, by the sound of it—and pressed it into Tyrion's hand. "My thanks, my lord. I know you care little for fame or profit, yet you are unfailingly generous to your friends."
Tyrion accepted the pouch with a grin and turned to Jaime. "Trading the Stark girl for you was my idea. But I gave all the credit to Lord Baelish. After all, Harrenhal is of no use to me."
"My lord is the noble Lord of Casterly Rock," Littlefinger said smoothly, his face full of flattery. "Harrenhal is nothing but a heap of broken stones. What could it offer you?"
"Exactly," Tyrion nodded. "A black castle for a red-haired bride—it suits perfectly. I'm sure you and Lady Lysa will fill those halls with four or five heirs in no time."
"I've chosen the Eyrie for the wedding," Littlefinger replied. "But don't worry, there'll be no shortage of heirs. The widow's wails will echo through the Vale."
"Ha!" Tyrion laughed heartily. "Among the Small Council, you're the one I get along with best. You conjure gold from between your fingers, while I pray one day to pass it like Father."
"You certainly will," Littlefinger chuckled. "Gulltown will become the richest port in the realm—King's Landing's greatest source of tax."
"Let's hope so. Once the first shipment of gold dragons arrives, I'll arrange the betrothal between Sansa Stark and Robert Arryn."
"My deepest gratitude, my lord."
They continued exchanging jests as they descended into the lower levels of the Red Keep.
"Strange coincidence," Tyrion said lightly. "My mountain clansmen caught a Stannis spy in the Kingswood—claimed he'd had dealings with Lord Baelish."
The gates of the dungeon loomed ahead.
"Of course, the interrogation found no trace of truth in it. Well… he did say he owed you money, which is why he slandered you."
"Since Lord Tyrion became Master of Laws, discipline has been as strict as if Lord Tywin were thirty years younger," Littlefinger praised. "If I may, I'd name my firstborn Tyrion, in your honor."
"Lord Baelish, you flatter me." Tyrion laughed, his voice echoing through the stone corridor.
A foul, damp chill crept through the air, seeping past their clothes and into their bones.
The dungeon was almost completely dark, lit only by a few flickering oil lamps that threw trembling shadows across the walls. The dim, amber light painted everything in a sickly hue, making it hard to tell what was real and what was imagined.
Water dripped steadily from the walls—drip, drip, drip—each drop echoing in the silence like the tick of a clock. The sound reverberated through the passageway, as if unseen eyes watched from the dark. Now and then came faint moans or low sobs, the helpless cries of prisoners deeper within.
"So far down?" Littlefinger asked uneasily. "You know I never come to places like this."
"My apologies, Lord Baelish," Tyrion said. "My maester practices anatomy—dissection, really. The bodies of the executed are brought here for him to work on. His chambers are in the deepest part of the dungeons."
The floor was slick and uneven, coated with moss and standing water. Each step had to be taken with care to avoid slipping or stepping on something unspeakable.
The iron-barred cells stretched along both sides, rusted and pitted with age, as if whispering the stories of countless doomed souls. Through the bars, shadows of empty cells flickered faintly—further in, there was nothing but filth and weeds.
"Lord Baelish, we're here," Tyrion said. "This is the interrogation chamber."
Inside were two chairs. One was occupied by a man in shackles, a black hood covering his head.
Petyr Baelish followed Tyrion into the room, with Kettleblack behind him. Jaime Lannister came last.
Podrick closed the door from outside.
"My lord, would you mind removing his hood?" Littlefinger asked. "I'd rather not touch it myself."
"No need, Lord Petyr Baelish," Tyrion said evenly, fixing him with a look. "You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him. As Master of Laws, I arrest you for treason."