Littlefinger dared not imagine how deep the Black Cells truly ran beneath the Red Keep.
All he knew was what his eyes and nose told him: the walls were a sickly pale red, mottled with damp saltpeter; the air was thick with rot and old despair. The door to his cell was made of splintered grey wood, reinforced with iron bands, at least four feet thick. It looked less like a door and more like a final judgment.
When the guards pushed him inside, the darkness seemed to swallow him whole.
For a fleeting moment, Petyr Baelish felt himself falling back into another memory—Riverrun, years ago, lying helpless on a bed soaked with his own blood after Brandon Stark had cut him down. That same suffocating helplessness. That same gnawing fear.
But fear never ruled him for long.
Even here, in the bowels of the Red Keep, Littlefinger maintained his composure. As long as Eddard Stark remained in King's Landing, and as long as the game continued to shift, he still had a chance.
There was always a way out.
"This place truly is dreadful."
The sudden voice startled him—not because it was unexpected, but because it was female.
The torchlight flared brighter, stabbing at his eyes. As his vision adjusted, he made out the familiar silhouette beneath a hooded cloak.
A smile curled his lips.
"Your Grace," Littlefinger said lightly, inclining his head as much as his chains allowed. "I apologize for receiving you in such accommodations."
The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms studied him with cool disdain. Straw littered the floor, soaked with filth. The stench of urine clung to everything. The Black Cells had no windows, no beds, no mercy. Without the solitary torch burning between them, Petyr would have been blind.
"You look well enough, Lord Petyr," Cersei Lannister said. "Considering your circumstances."
She studied that infuriating smile—the same one that used to liven the Small Council chambers.
"Lord Renly was quick to abandon you," she continued. "Rather heartless, given that you once called each other friends."
"In a storm," Littlefinger replied calmly, "how many friends can one truly count on? I don't blame Lord Renly at all."
Cersei's gaze sharpened.
"The brothel the Old Wolf visited," she said. "If I'm not mistaken, you know it very well."
"I know the madam quite well," Littlefinger said smoothly. "In fact, I once tried to buy the establishment. Sadly, she refused."
Cersei gave a thin smile.
"Then you must know why Lord Eddard went there."
"I can only speculate," Petyr replied. "But I hear Lord Stark has been searching the city for the late king's bastards. A persistent man, our Hand. What he intends to do with them… who can say?"
Cersei's eyes flickered.
"Your little hint caused quite a stir," she said coldly. "Jaime attacked Stark. Both of my brothers have now left King's Landing."
"The Seven preserve us," Littlefinger said softly. "What a scandal."
Cersei studied him for a long moment.
"Good," she said at last. "It seems there's nothing seriously wrong with your mind."
She turned to leave.
"I can't stay long. But rest assured—you won't remain here much longer either."
Petyr's smile deepened.
"I would gladly offer Your Grace my wisdom," he said carefully, "if—if—you are inclined to lend a helping hand."
Cersei snorted.
"You are clever, Lord Baelish," she said. "But counting coppers is where your true talents lie."
Her lips curved cruelly.
"Stark underestimates me. I'll remind him that I am a lion—even if I wear a skirt."
Petyr bowed his head slightly.
"Your words move me deeply, Your Grace. In return for Stark's generosity, perhaps I should share something useful."
Cersei paused.
"What?"
"Watch the docks," Littlefinger said. "The Old Wolf may be looking for a ship north—to Winterfell."
Cersei laughed softly.
"Letting you live was Stark's greatest mistake."
"I intend to live well," Littlefinger replied lightly. "I'd hate to miss the look on Lord Stark's face when he realizes his error."
The Queen turned and left, her torchlight vanishing into the darkness.
Left alone, Petyr Baelish smiled to himself.
Cersei would need time—time to arrange things properly. How much Stark knew no longer mattered. He had already brushed against the truth.
And truths, in King's Landing, had a way of getting people killed.
"King's Landing does not welcome us, Jon."
Eddard Stark sat heavily, exhaustion carved deep into his face.
"I must consider your safety. My Captain of the Guard is dead. And what does the King do? He takes me hunting in the Kingswood."
Jon Snow listened in silence.
"Do we still need to find the fastest ship, my lord?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Eddard replied. "I want you to take Sansa and Arya first."
"And you?" Jon asked.
Eddard hesitated.
"I will remain. My task is unfinished."
Jon frowned.
"With respect, my lord… Arya will obey you. But Sansa won't. She still dreams of courtly splendor—of becoming queen."
Eddard cursed softly.
"I've failed her," he admitted. "I sheltered her too well. King's Landing is already bleeding—and I fear it's only the beginning."
"She cannot stay," he said firmly. "I must take her away."
"I'll speak to Arya first," Jon said. "Quietly. If it comes to it… harsher measures may be needed. Sansa must not know."
Eddard nodded grimly.
"You're right. Joffrey is no prince of legend."
Jon hesitated.
"He doesn't look like a king at all," he said. "More like a lion."
The words struck Eddard like lightning.
A lion.
The pieces fell into place.
His hands trembled.
This was the answer—the truth he had been circling all along.
"You are a good child," Eddard said at last. "I trust you with this."
He sighed.
"Littlefinger is confined within the Red Keep. We may still find ships at the docks. I must send you away quickly."
"I don't want to leave you," Jon said quietly.
Eddard looked at him, words forming—then dying on his lips.
Some truths were too heavy.
"I have a guest," he said finally. "Wait here."
Moments later, Eddard's steward ushered in a travel-worn man.
"Lord Darry," Eddard said in surprise.
Ser Raymund Darry bowed.
"Your Grace, this matter is urgent. Tywin Lannister's men have ravaged the Riverlands—burning villages, slaughtering smallfolk."
Eddard's jaw tightened.
"Are you certain it was Tywin's men?"
"There is no doubt," Raymund said bitterly. "The Mountain leads them."
"Damn him," Eddard muttered.
War was kindling everywhere.
"I will bring this before the King," Eddard said. "Justice must be done."
Raymund shook his head.
"My lord, justice is difficult when the King is Tywin's son-in-law."
"Even so," Eddard said, "the law must stand."
"What of the Riverlands now?" he asked.
"Edmure gathers men at Riverrun," Raymund replied. "But the Mountain has already withdrawn."
Eddard frowned.
Troops spread thin. Defense without offense.
"King's Landing is not safe," Raymund said suddenly. "Gold poisons all it touches."
"You and I swore to the King and the law," Eddard replied.
"And the Riverlands still wait for justice," Raymund said. "If it does not come, they will seek it elsewhere."
Eddard saw both hope and doubt in the man's eyes.
Division was coming.
"You have no friends here," Raymund said quietly. "No soldiers."
Eddard nodded.
"I will remember your words."
"You must," Raymund replied. "Either return to Winterfell… or choose your allies carefully."
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