Crime and Punishment

"You're in deep shit, Tarly", said his attorney, seated on the opposite side of the desk. Sam was wearing his prison-issue orange jump suit, the attorney, a hand-tailored navy cashmere three piece that probably cost four thousand dragons.

He didn't need to be told that. The past fortnight had been the worst of his life. "Thank you for that blinding glimpse of the obvious, Mr. Baelish", he sneered.

Petyr Baelish rose, collected his papers, and turned to leave.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Baelish, really I am," he was panicking now. Baelish sat down.

"Frankly, Tarly, I couldn't give a flying fuck, if you spend the next thirty years in Club Fed, having your arse pounded by some eighteen stone, muscle-bound, Summer Islander. But, your father's paying me 1,200 an hour, to represent you. I'd take this seriously, in your shoes."

"Ordinarily, it wouldn't be that much of a problem. We'd say you had mental health issues, a troubled childhood, we'd get a top doctor to give evidence for you, and book you into rehab for a couple of years. Pay up to settle any civil suits. You're white, college educated, upper class, your dad's a billionaire. Well, it won't serve, this time around. Why, in the name of the Seven Hells, did you have to pick on the one woman where it won't serve?"

"I didn't know ..."

"No you didn't. You've heard of Rhaegar Targaryen? " Sam shook his head. "Her older brother."

"That's Viserys, a junkie!"

"No, Rhaegar is much older. Twenty two years older. He owns about a quarter of Tyrosh. And, he's now a member of the government, Deputy Foreign Minister. He's taking a lot of interest in this case. "

"Oh Gods!".

"Oh Gods indeed. Tyrosh isn't a great power really, but it's a big banking centre, and an oil producer, and our government sees it as a useful ally. If Rhaegar Targaryen wants your head on a pole, well they're inclined to give it to him. And then of course, she's marrying Jon Snow."

"But, he's a ..."

"Bastard. Yes, I know. But his father still loves him. Ned Stark, you may recall, is a big man up North. Owns the White Harbour shipping line, coal mines in the Wolfswood, the Trans-Northern Railway, Bank of Barrowtown, farms, woodland, you name it. And his daughter, Sansa, she's Chair of the Northern Independence Party. They're getting a good 20% of the vote up there now. And, they're taking a lot of interest in this case. So much so, that our own District Attorney, Gendry Baratheon, will be prosecuting." Sam felt sick. It was the end, he knew. "You're in the shit."

"I know I am. " Sam started to weep. Baelish handed him a handkerchief.

"If you're found guilty on these charges, you're looking at thirty to fifty years, in a maximum security prison." Sam started weeping in earnest. What madness had possessed him?

"Luckily for you, it's not all bad news. It's why your daddy is paying me twelve hundred an hour." Sam blew his nose, then looked his attorney in the eye.

"We've reason to believe that your "friend" is a police officer, entrapping people online. Legitimate in child sex cases, but illegal otherwise. It renders all the evidence he's obtained unuseable in criminal proceedings." Sam felt immense relief, as if he'd entered a warm bath. "I can make the argument before a judge that every online discussion between the pair of you is inadmissible."

"So, I'll walk free?"

"Don't be ridiculous", replied Baelish, shaking his head.

"There's still the plastic bath, and the bottles of hydrochloric acid in your garage, the sound-proofing, the video cameras. Someone with a suspicious mind might say you intended to film yourself raping Ms. Targaryen, before dissolving her body in acid."

"I never … I used the acid for fireworks, and I wanted to film them." He thought it a clever excuse. Baelish looked at him, stony-faced.

"Go into the witness box and start lying, and Baratheon will take you apart, piece by piece. I've seen him do it. By the end of it, you'll be facing a perjury charge, on top of everything else. The safest course of action is, you don't give evidence at all. You have the right to keep silent. And, then we negotiate a plea. You can be charged with voyeurism and sexual assault, and frankly, they aren't in dispute. We can offer them various online offences, too. With a million dragon fine, you could be out in eight years."

"Eight years?! " Sam was appalled.

"Six, if you're extremely lucky, but don't count on it."

"I was assaulted", said Sam, angry now. "That must count for something."

"Tell me what happened."

There had been eight of them, led by a very masculine looking, female Lieutenant. Yara Greyjoy, he learned she was called, later on. They'd pointed guns at him, then forced him to his knees, one of them cuffing his hands behind his back. He could sense their hate for a man like him. "Out", said the Lieutenant, prodding him in the back with her truncheon. He rose, and shuffled out of the garage, into the night. There were two squad cars, parked outside it, lights flashing. "Bend over the bonnet, Tarly", she commanded "legs apart." He did so, only to feel the most blinding pain, as someone kneed him hard in the bollocks. He couldn't even scream, just wheezed and gasped. Some madness possessed him, and he choked out the words "fucking dyke", to the Lieutenant.

A blow from a truncheon took him behind the knees, causing him to collapse. Then they piled in, striking him with batons and kicking, as he curled up, beneath the blows, begging for mercy.

"Enough", said the lieutenant, finally. "Tell me, Sergeant Botley, what happened just now?"

"The suspect resisted arrest, Lieutenant. We had to use reasonable force to subdue him." The woman nodded. Then she knelt down by Sam, and patted his cheek.

"You think "fucking dyke" is an insult. Well, I am a dyke. I fuck women. I like it. But, I don't hate men, only men like you. Men who think women are their chattels, and they can hurt them as they please. You're a frat boy, aren't you? Well, let me tell you, police forces are fraternities, too, powerful ones, and we have each others' backs. Stick him in the car!"

On arrival, he'd been subjected to a painful and intrusive cavity search. Further intimate searches had followed, before he'd been placed in a holding pen, with several other prisoners. Before she left, the Lieutenant had told the other prisoners;

"He likes little people."

The succeeding days had not been happy ones.