Apologies for the delay on this. I was very busy at work and then we went away to stay with my parents for Christmas.

Jon Arryn
Gods, but he felt every one of his years today. He paused for a moment and then looked about the Red Keep. He was starting to realise just how much he hated this place. And yet he had to do his duty. Because there was no-one else available.

Sighing, he strode down the stairs to the cells, doing his best to hide how weary he felt. Oh, he was tired. Lysa had reacted to the news of Baelish's arrest with first shock and then an almost insane anger that had led to a tearful tirade that he was ruining her life by destroying – and then she'd broken off into incoherent mumbling and screeching and pulling at her hair. He'd had to call Pycelle in, who had promptly dosed her with some concoction that had left her grey-faced and asleep.

At some point he'd have to question her about Robert's medicine. He wasn't looking forwards to that. He was starting to suspect that the balance of her mind was gone.

Hearing the sound of low voices ahead he peered down the corridor. Bronn was talking to Quill and as he approached they both turned and bowed to him. He acknowledged their respect and then jerked a head at the cells. "He is secure then?"

Quill looked at Bronn, who nodded curtly. "He is, My Lord Hand. We cleared the others out of the cells around him and we've been making sure that the guards don't go near him too often."

"Oh? Why so?"

"Lord Baelish has been trying to bribe them with large sums of coin that he doesn't actually have," Bronn said dryly. "We've had to remind people about that point."

"He keeps trying though, My Lord," Quill said in an equally dry tone. "And he's mentioned that he can call on gold from Pentos."

"The man's a thieving magpie," Jon said with a frown. "I wonder what else he's got hidden away in places… very well. Quill please go back to the Tower of the Hand and arrange to have a raven sent to Pentos."

The man nodded tersely and then moved off down the corridor. Jon watched him go and then looked back at Bronn. The sellsword looked as serious as he ever had to his knowledge. "My Lord Hand, I need a word with you."

"On what matter?"

"Baelish." The sellsword sighed and then glared at the door to the cells. "When is his trial?"

"A good question," Jon muttered. "Tomorrow. We have enough evidence to have him executed a dozen times over. The Iron Bank wants him dead as well."

Bronn stared at him in shock. "He crossed the Iron Bank?"

"He, erm, apparently lied to the Iron Bank. And 'diverted' part of one of their loans. Which makes him either more stupid than he appears to be, or more arrogant to think that he could get away with it. That said, he was the Master of Coin and had access to all the records he could alter. The real books in his possession were quite specific however, and the Iron Bank's representative here in King's Landing was most annoyed. He sent a raven to Braavos and I have little doubt that when a response comes it'll be to demand Baelish's head. If, that is, there isn't another message heading to a Faceless Man somewhere in the area."

Bronn's eyes widened and then they hardened. "That should solve a few things then. Lord Arryn, that man's a weasel. Worse, he's a weasel with a long memory for grudges. Given that I'm the one who captured him I won't rest easy until he's dead, because he'll want to settle accounts with me some day."

"What kind of grudges?"

The sellsword sighed a little. "I talk to the smallfolk, my Lord. You'd be surprised what they know at times. People notice things around them – things that lords and ladies might ignore. Did you know that Baelish smirks a little whenever he passes the spot where Brandon Stark died in the throne room? He still remembers the man who wounded him and he still smirks at the thought of the way he died. And Brandon Stark died a horrible death."

Jon thought of all the tales he had heard of that terrible day in the throne room, the day that Ned's father and brother had both died and in the doing had broken the realm by finally proving that Aerys Targaryen was insane beyond words. "And Baelish smirks, still?"

"When he thinks that people aren't watching him." Bronn shook his head. "No, to call him a weasel is to be cruel to weasels. Man's a devious little shit and frankly my Lord Hand, the world will be a better place once Baelish is removed from it."

Jon nodded shortly. "Keep a close eye out then Bronn. You will be well-rewarded for it." He paused. "May I ask what your fondest ambition is in life?"

Bronn tilted his head and looked at him, obviously assessing his answer. "My own land," he said eventually, his voice wistful. "A small place, perhaps a title, a wife, a son and no more sleeping in shithole taverns and risking my life." Then he smiled bitterly. "Problem with that of course is that I tend to find trouble around every corner."

Jon smiled back. "You should try being Hand of the King," he replied in tones as dry as Dornish stone and then chuckled at Bronn's exaggerated shudder. "It might be that I can help you with your own plot of land. A city filled with Goldcloaks and my own men all searching for Baelish, yet you were the one to find him in a place that no-one thought to look. And you found his books. Yes, you'll be well-rewarded."

Bronn nodded respectfully at him and then when Jon turned to the door he reached out and opened it. "Good luck against that one, my Lord."

He nodded back and then walked through the door and grasped a torch from the wall next to the entrance. "If I need you I'll call."

The other cells were all empty. There had been two people in them, a thief who had thought that the Red Keep offered richer pickings than the city and a madman who claimed that the Seven Hells were about to open and then everyone was about to die, hence his need to get to the Iron Throne and then declaim from it. He'd been grabbed before he'd gotten anywhere near the main gates. Both were now in other cells. Petyr Baelish deserved to be alone. The man was also too damn dangerous to have others near him.

Alone, that is, apart from the smell. It was… a presence all of its own. It spoke of rot, of death and excrement. It was a smell that did not waft, it assaulted the nose.

Baelish heard him coming, because he was on his feet by the time that Jon approached the door to his cell and peered through the barred hatch.

"My Lord Hand! Welcome to my new… abode!" Baelish spread his hands to gesture at the expanse of the cell around him, as if he was welcoming him to some sumptuous new quarters. He looked terrible, dressed in rough clothing and with a bruise to the side of his head, but his eyes were still sharp. "What do I owe the pleasure of your company to?"

He looked the man up and down for a long moment, repressing the need to pull out his sword and then finish the job that Brandon Stark had begun. "Your trial will be tomorrow."

"On what possible charges? Have I not been a loyal subject of good King Robert?" Baelish sounded wounded and almost exaggeratedly offended.

"You stole the King's coin, you lied to all and sundry, you bought properties in this city and many others with your ill-gotten gains, and you betrayed me. And that," Jon said between gritted teeth as he glared through the bars, "Is just the beginning of it! You tried to have my son kidnapped Baelish. I will not forget that easily."

"You wound me, my Lord." Baelish said the words so lightly, as if he was indeed innocent. "And the proof for all this?"

Ah. Jon narrowed his eyes and then studied the wretched little man. "We have your books."

"Obviously planted by my enemies."

"Written in your hand?"

"My enemies have many resources. Which obviously include forgers."

"And presumably people who look just like you? We have uncovered your network."

Ah, there it was. The slight uncertainty in the eyes, the quick lick of the lips. He was uncertain.

"Network?"

"From your books," Jon said with a smile and with hate in his heart. "You should have chosen a better cypher for them. My man cracked them on the third try. We know exactly what you owned here in Kings Landing. And, of course, elsewhere. You don't seem to have inspired much loyalty from your people. Once they knew that your supply of money was denied to them, they talked."

And such people! He finally had what he needed to send Janos bloody Slynt to the Wall on charges of bribery, corruption and a host of other things.

"But these people are nothing more but liars, my Lord Hand! Debasing my good name."

"Your name," Jon said with a smile. "What name? That of a thief and a scoundrel. A man who owns whorehouses and who gets his whores from some very interesting places. A man who bribes Goldcloaks to look the other way again and again. Well – no more. Your filthy little network is no more."

Baelish was staring at him now, staring at him as if he wasn't sure what he was. Time to push one more knife in. "And we have the man you sent to kidnap my son. Mikon, by name."

"And why," Baelish said with a slight start, as if he was forcing himself into action, "Would I do that?"

"I don't know," Jon admitted. "Why would you? And why was it that my wife was so agitated when I sent young Robert away to Winterfell, but then calmed down after you talked to her? Did you tell her that you planned to snatch my boy? Did you, you whoreson?"

Baelish looked at him for a long moment and then he actually smirked for an instant. "Can I be faulted for wishing to reunite a devoted mother with her only child?"

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Don't lie to me Baelish. You sent your man to try and get my son on the day that I sent him North. How did you know?"

This time the smirk was an open and wide one. "Why my Lord Hand, how very naïve of you. This is King's Landing. Everyone can be bought here – for the right price of course. And you'd be surprised what you could find out. Some of the secrets out there are… deliciously surprising."

A faint warning bell rang at the back of his mind and he looked at the wretched little man again. "Why did you poison my son?"

Something flickered in the eyes of Baelish. "Poison?"

"The medicine that my son had for his so-called shaking sickness. No medicine at all. A slow poison that made him shake more. Where did Lysa get it from?"

"Why, my Lord Hand, if you do not know then-"

"It was you wasn't it? I know my wife, I know how she dotes on him, I know how she likes to nurse him. Did you recommend the apothecary? To have a hold on her?"

This time the emotion behind the eyes of the other man was more clear. Surprise. And a little fear. "Lady Arryn wanted me to recommend an apothecary. I did so."

Jon stared at Baelish, who stared back defiantly. There was something about him, something defiant, something almost jubilant. As if Baelish knew something that he did not. "As I said, your trial will be in the morning," he said eventually. "So I suggest you try and prepare what little defence you have. Oh – and you are no longer Lord of the smallest of the Fingers. You are attainted. You are a lord no more."

This widened Baelish's eyes and he took a step forwards with a hiss of hatred. "You cannot!"

"I can. You forget who you are taking to, Baelish. I am not just Hand of the King, but also Warden of the East and Lord Paramount of the Vale. I do not take kindly to being betrayed by one of my bannermen – even from such a pitifully small holdfast. What kind of message would it send if you still had your title at your trial?"

Baelish's mouth worked for a moment – and then quick look of cunning came over him. "Such a petty revenge. And I wonder what might slip out of my mouth as a consequence during my trial?"

"Yes, I thought that you might play that card. I would advise against it."

"Why? What if I mention the King's Great Matter?"

Shock roiled though him and he stared for a moment at a suddenly openly smirking Baelish. "What do you know about that matter?"

"Ha!" Baelish wagged a finger at him. "Why everything, my Lord Hand. It was so amusing – and pitiful – to see you and Stannis Baratheon trying to make your way through the street of Kings Landing as you visited King Robert's bastard children. All so black of hair, I note, and blue of eye. How odd that the King's children look nothing like him. How stupid of you all to not see what I saw the moment I laid eyes on them. They are pure Lannister, every one of them."

There was a gloating note to his voice and Jon thought very fast and very hard. Very well. Littlefinger knew, damn his heart. That was why he was so cheerful, that was why he looked so undefeated. Very well. Time to strike back.

"You will not mention the King's Great Matter at your trial," he said flatly. "Not if you wish to live to attend it."

Baelish smirked slightly again. "Why my Lord Hand, is that a threat? Against a prisoner of the most noble Lord of the Vale?"

"We have your secret records. We have deciphered everything. You look doubtful – but we have even ascertained how you diverted money from the Iron Bank's loan to the King into your purse. And we have informed a representative of the Iron Bank who happened to be here in King's Landing. He was… displeased."

There was just enough light to see the blood drain from the face of Petyr Baelish. "What?"

Now it was Jon's turn to smile. "I believe that you heard my words correctly. The Iron Bank is – or soon will be, depending on how fast that raven gets there and back – most displeased with you. Whatever made you think that divert those funds and not be eventually found out? Ah… such arrogance Baelish."

Baelish lunged suddenly for the bars and gripped them, his knuckles almost as white as his face. "You old fool – don't you know what you've done?! The Iron Bank doesn't have people 'passing through' somewhere like King's Landing on a whim! Like as not their man here has a Faceless Man somewhere nearby, or knows where one is!"

Jon smiled a small, chill, smile. "I know."

There was a long pause as Baelish searched his face with wide and hunted eyes. After a long moment he stepped back from the door, his face ashen and suddenly drawn. "Oh, well played Arryn. Well played. Let me guess, you have me guarded by that bright sellsword of yours? And if I agree not to mention your Lannister problem I might just see another dawn and indeed my trial without dying a horrible death thanks to a Faceless Man?"

"I would take your word for it, but I know that to be worthless. So let me tell you this. I will see you tried fairly. I will even allow a trial by combat at the end of it. But one word, one solitary word about the King's Great Matter and I will have you gagged by your guard and then left on your own in a cell by the quarters occupied by the Iron Bank's man."

Baelish nodded slightly. "You have already decided on my guilt."

"Your guilt is undeniable," Jon replied in a voice like stone. "But you will have your trial."

And then he turned and made his way back out, eventually reaching the door where Bronn still was. The sellsword was sitting by the entrance, a pair of pliers in one hand and what appeared to be some nails in the other. He was twisting one against the other to make –

"Caltrops?"

Bronn looked up with the grim smile. "Oh aye. If I'm to keep yon weasel alive, against a possible Faceless Man, then I'll need every advantage I can get in guarding him."

"A good notion." Jon sighed tiredly. "Keep him alive to see his trial. I would give you his holdfast and title as a reward for it, but the smallest of the Fingers of the Vale is… somewhat barren, apart from a crop of rock."

"My thanks, my Lord Hand, but 'tis also somewhat remote," Bronn grinned as he continued to fashion caltrops. "Although 'tis tempting."

"I will see you rewarded, Bronn. Land and title. Just keep, ah, 'yon weasel', alive."

The sellsword nodded sharply. "I shall my Lord Hand."

Jon nodded at him before striding out. The sun was shining and after the darkness of the Black Cells, the contrast made his head hurt for a long moment. And then he saw Quill hurrying towards him. "Quill – what news?"

"His Grace the King is returning my Lord Hand. And the High Septon wishes to see you as soon as possible, at the Great Sept of Baelor. He says that it is very urgent."