Osney Kettleblack instantly reached for his sword, but Jaime's blade was faster, flashing up to rest cold against his throat.
"My lord, you must be joking?" Littlefinger forced a calm expression, his eyes giving away no fear. "My lord, I—"
"Shut up." Tyrion kicked him hard. "Sit." He pointed to the chair.
"My lord, I can explain—"
Before Littlefinger could finish, Tyrion shoved a rag into his mouth.
"Enough, Lord Baelish," Tyrion said as he tightened the ropes around him. "I know you have a thousand excuses, but I don't want to hear a single one. Ser Osney?"
Kettleblack froze. "My lord, I only did as I was paid to do…"
"If my brother weren't here, I doubt you'd hesitate to kill me," Tyrion said, picking up a pair of iron tongs from the corner. "Brother, will you do it? Or shall I bash his head in myself?"
Jaime didn't hesitate. His sword flashed once, sending the poor knight to the Stranger.
Congratulations, brother, Tyrion thought. You just killed a man who would've one day bedded your precious Cersei.
"Qyburn?" Tyrion pulled a black hood over Littlefinger's head and called, "You may come in."
The door creaked open. Maester Qyburn entered, arms full of bottles and jars. "My lord, is everything taken care of?"
"Tied up tight." Tyrion gestured at Littlefinger. "This is the man."
"You warned me to be cautious, my lord." Qyburn set the jars on the table, crouched beside Littlefinger's feet, and picked up several iron chains. "Rest assured, I'll do exactly as you ordered." He locked the chains around Littlefinger's ankles.
"What about this one?" Jaime knelt beside Kettleblack's corpse, checking for any sign of life. "How do we deal with him?"
"Leave him to me, my lord," Qyburn said, bowing slightly. "His clothes will go into the furnace; his armor will rust in the corner of the dungeon; as for the body… heh heh…"
Jaime stood and left the cell. A moment later, Tyrion followed, leaving behind only the muffled sounds of Littlefinger struggling in his bonds.
"Podrick, go up first. See if anyone's outside," Tyrion ordered.
"Yes, my lord."
Once Podrick was gone, Jaime turned to him. "Why did you take him?"
"Because he's a treacherous schemer," Tyrion said. "He's no ally of ours. The sooner we deal with him, the better."
"What if Father finds out?" Jaime asked. "He's the Master of Coin."
"He won't," Tyrion said. "At the council meeting, Littlefinger claimed he was leaving at once for the Vale. I know he was lying, but Father doesn't. He'll assume Littlefinger's already gone."
"And the money?" Jaime pressed. "If Baelish is rotting in a cell, how does the treasury keep running?"
"That's why I won't kill him yet," Tyrion thought, though the temptation was strong. "Qyburn will interrogate him—his properties, his ledgers, his hidden vaults. Trust me, Qyburn's good at this. He practiced plenty when he rode with the Brave Companions."
"Can't he be bribed?"
"Qyburn doesn't care for money," Tyrion replied. "I told him Littlefinger's clever—don't believe a word he says. And I added that a mind that clever must have three times as many folds in the brain as a normal man. Ha! Qyburn looked as delighted as Pycelle spotting a whore."
Jaime had no idea what folds were.
"What about Kettleblack? They're three brothers. One's missing. Someone will notice soon."
"That is a problem." Tyrion paused, thinking. "I'll send his other two brothers to deliver the message to Dragonstone. If Lord Stannis is displeased, burning them would suit him. If they come back alive, any traces will already be gone."
The two men walked toward the dungeon exit.
Jaime followed his brother, tempted to ask more, but he held back.
"Brother, everyone has a desire. Learn their desire and you learn them. Then you can manipulate them." Tyrion spoke as if answering Jaime's thoughts. "Littlefinger's carrot is Sansa."
Right, my carrot is Casterly Rock, Jaime thought.
"Brother, what is your desire?"
Cersei? Jaime thought. Tyrion had changed. This brother, who once cared only for feasts and pleasures, now kept everything in order.
...
The sunlight at the dungeon exit stabbed the eyes. It felt like a beam of hope from another world, cutting through the thick stone and shattering the dungeon's long darkness and silence. Warm and alive, the light fell across Jaime like a small redemption.
He squinted as his eyes adjusted. Sunlight filtered through their fingers and splashed the ground in mottled patterns, as if cheering his rebirth. The air smelled of earth and flowers, a sharp contrast to the damp rot below. It cleansed him in a way he'd never known.
He was saved.
Responsibilities, duties, vows—all of them faded. Tyrion was there. His brother.
Father could no longer scold him. He could be with Cersei forever.
"Brother?" Tyrion looked back at him.
Outside, no one else stood nearby. Podrick waited to one side.
"Oh, the sunlight's a bit harsh," Jaime said. "Anything else?"
"Yes, brother." Tyrion grinned. "I have so many things I want to do. New inventions. New creations. My head's full of schemes."
"You don't expect me to help, do you?" Jaime laughed. "I only have this sword."
"The war is still on. It's too soon to think of such things," Tyrion said. "Everything must wait until the war is over."
"The war is nearly over," Jaime said. "Father intends to win."
"And you? When the war ends, what will you do with that sword?"
"I don't know."
"What about our sister? Cersei? I doubt she'll remain a widow long. Father won't allow it," Tyrion said.
"Father wants to marry Cersei off." Jaime's face cleared. "I should have seen it. Did he send you to sound me out? No, Father doesn't know."
"But Father does intend it," Tyrion said. "I only wanted you to know. You know as well as I do that none of us can stop it."
"I won't let that happen." Jaime's voice was flat. "Tyrion, whoever comes for Cersei, you tell him this: my sword gets first say."