Chapter 104 — Fine, I'll Talk! I'll Tell You Everything!
Podrick's loaded answer made Tyrion's heart skip again. He didn't even have time to process the implications.
This time Tyrion jumped straight off his chair.
"You mean all this is just your speculation — and based on that baseless guess, you did all this?!"
He was so furious he nearly ground his teeth to powder. Honestly, he had never seen — or even heard of — anyone as capable of causing disasters as Podrick Payne.
But Podrick only shook his head, calm and firm.
"Not speculation, Lord Tyrion. These are facts."
He raised a finger and wagged it lightly.
"What I meant was evidence. Hard evidence. We just need a little time to… extract it."
"Don't worry. I hired professionals. They'll make sure Lord Littlefinger is 'taken care of' very comfortably."
"After that, we'll get exactly what we want."
As he spoke, his raised finger slowly opened into a palm, which he flipped over.
"Easy as turning a hand. Isn't it?"
"And what if reality doesn't match your assumptions?" Tyrion pressed. His thoughts were a tangled storm; he barely knew what he was thinking himself.
Podrick only smiled again, lowering his hand and pointing at the feast spread between them.
"Then it's still a simple matter. If you're in a hurry, my lord, I could manufacture something for you right now. Solid proof. Very informative."
"But what you should be thinking about," he continued, "is what you'll do once the truth of this murder is made public."
He lifted his wine, took a small sip, set it down, and stood.
"Take your time, Lord Tyrion. We don't urgently need your answer. Before a storm breaks, there's always a stretch of calm."
"As for me, Her Grace the Queen Regent has summoned me. I still need to report today's work to her — personally."
"She's quite furious too."
Having planted the thoughts he wanted in Tyrion's mind, Podrick turned and left the small hall of the Hand's Tower, heading toward Maegor's Holdfast.
A hundred times… how long would that take?
The thought made him quicken his pace, almost impatient.
Back in the tower, Tyrion sat alone in the dimness, eyes vacant, mind adrift.
And as the deep night carried on — though no one slept — each of them continued with their own affairs.
Deep in the fourth level of the Red Keep's dungeons, a ragged wail of agony and pleas echoed through the open ironwood door.
"No... please... *please*... have mercy..."
"I demand to see the Queen Regent! The king!"
"I've served the realm faithfully—given everything! Spare me, I beg you!"
The burly men, fresh from their rotation and gulping water during a break, exchanged smirks at Lord Petyr Baelish's faint, broken cries.
His head was locked in a custom wooden stocks—a restraint like a neck-and-wrist pillory, but angled forward and bolted to a stone pillar.
The three holes—one large for his neck, two smaller for his arms—held him fast. The height was diabolically precise: he hunched forward, tiptoeing, ass thrust out to breathe.
Flat-footed? The collar choked him.
Numb toes? He'd have to twist, lift a leg, balance on one foot.
So Littlefinger stayed bent, toes straining, rear exposed—just as his tormentors demanded.
A bearded brute grinned at the pleas. "Spill it, Lord Baelish?"
Another chimed in: "Yeah—talk!"
He snatched a thin riding crop from somewhere and lashed it across Littlefinger's bare buttocks.
A shrill scream pierced the air, met with roaring laughter from the bearded crew.
"He's holding out—must've forgotten. Brothers, let's jog his memory!"
The man who'd just finished a round wiped sweat from his flushed face, stubble barely hiding his thrill. Without waiting, he grabbed a half-melted candle and advanced.
Littlefinger's eyes locked on the swelling flame dancing closer, terror like never before.
He'd dreaded light in the gloom—those half-shadowed figures leering, cracking knuckles.
Two rounds already. He couldn't take more.
The dripping wax seared worse than imagined—blistering skin, cooking it raw, then "accidentally" flayed by the crop.
And behind him...
That small rear hatch, once for discreet relief, now swung wide like a brothel door—endless traffic.
The pain, physical and soul-crushing, broke him. Suicide tempted him, but a bone gag—carved from an ox femur, with a hole in the center—foiled even that. No tongue to bite.
The main entrance fared no better—constant parade.
"No... no...!"
Saliva drooled from his gagged mouth as the flame loomed. He thrashed like a madman.
Just as the candle tipped, hot wax poised to pour...
Petyr Baelish shattered.
"I'll talk! *I'll talk!* Waaah—"
"It was me! All of it—I ordered it!"
"Jon Arryn too... I manipulated Lysa into killing him. He uncovered the secret—the *secrets*. He was in my way..."