Chapter 148: The Escape

When "Littlefinger" Petyr Baelish regained consciousness, he was surrounded by darkness. The air was thick with the stench of urine and blood, and instead of his soft feather bed, he lay on a cold, straw-covered stone floor.

"Hey..." Petyr croaked, realizing how hoarse his voice was. "Water... give me water..."

No response came.

The painful ache in his left arm, where his hand had once been, brought the events that led him here rushing back into his mind.

"The Red Viper!" he muttered, his teeth clenched with rage, cursing Oberyn Martell's name as if he could bite him to pieces.

"Someone! Is anyone there?" Petyr called again, his voice echoing off the cell's walls.

In the enveloping darkness, he could hardly tell the passage of time. There was no sense of direction, no relief in sight—only the void of blackness around him, his pain, and the haunting memories of what had just happened.

How had things come to this?

Petyr forced himself to breathe evenly, trying to calm his racing mind so he could evaluate the situation.

The Red Viper's sudden, violent assault hadn't been entirely unexpected; after all, Petyr had foreseen the possibility. When he heard those damning rumors circulating through the capital, he knew he'd been exposed. His response was to create chaos, to stir up enough attention to keep everyone distracted, but it wasn't enough—the Red Viper had still managed to single him out.

So close. He had been so close to controlling the city, just one step away from using Cersei's influence to assert his control, one step away from being able to deal with the Red Viper—and anyone backing him from House Tyrell.

Yet, now he was here.

The weight of the darkness pressed on him, reminding him of an older despair. It had been years since Petyr felt so powerless, so helpless. The last time he'd tasted this kind of hopelessness had been in his duel against the lord of the North, a duel he'd foolishly fought for a woman he could never have. Back then, he had been a mere boy, scrawny and half the size of his opponent. But he had fought on, again and again, though each attempt only left him bloodied and broken.

In the end, he lost. And with that loss, he'd nearly lost his life—and certainly lost the one he loved most. From that day forward, he had understood his path: he could never face the highborn nobles in open battle. His only victory would be in the shadows, where his plots and schemes could find their mark, striking unseen and fatal.

He hadn't imagined that one day he would be the one struck down from the shadows.

Then, faint footsteps echoed through the darkness, snapping him out of his thoughts. He raised his voice, calling for anyone who could hear him.

The door creaked open, and light flooded into the cell. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness.

"Water..." he croaked.

A coarse voice responded, "I only have wine." A hand passed him a wineskin.

He seized it, drinking deeply. The liquid soothed his throat, and as his senses returned, he recognized the familiar figure in front of him. The man's face was rough, his stubble thick and dark, dressed as a prison guard. But that voice was unmistakable.

"Varys," Petyr murmured.

Varys's face remained shrouded in stubble, the smell of sweat and stale alcohol clinging to him, wearing the garb of a jailer. Yet Petyr knew it was him—the Spider himself.

"I knew it was you all along," he said, suppressing a flicker of relief. "I always suspected you'd have a spy planted among the jailers."

Varys didn't deny it, and his tone softened to his usual, unassuming demeanor. "Lord Baelish, I never expected you to find yourself here. And cutting off your own arm... that took some nerve."

"It was necessary," Petyr muttered, now grim with understanding.

The implications dawned on him with painful clarity. Oberyn Martell would never have dared to kill him outright. If the Red Viper had struck him fatally, he would face the consequences for murdering the Master of Coin.

The poison must have been non-lethal. It had only been a scare tactic, and he had fallen for it. He had been tricked.

The realization left Petyr trembling, seething with anger. He'd been played.

Sensing his frustration, Varys offered a wry smile. "No need to blame yourself. In that moment, who could have remained calm? Facing the Red Viper, even the bravest might hesitate. So perhaps… losing the arm was for the best."

But Baelish wasn't soothed, suppressing his rage as he instead began thinking through his next steps. "Where am I?"

"Why, in the Red Keep's dungeons, of course," Varys said gently.

"The dungeons?"

"Yes, Lord Baelish. The Hand of the King was greatly disturbed by your street brawl with Prince Oberyn. He was so appalled, in fact, that he ordered both of you to be locked away. And, with the accusations against you in Lord Jon Arryn's death, you'll be standing trial tomorrow. Both you and the Red Viper."

"I had nothing to do with Jon Arryn's death!" Petyr protested sharply.

"Perhaps you should save that for the court," Varys said with a faint shrug, as though the matter were trivial.

Petyr's mind raced. He was acutely aware that tomorrow's trial would be stacked against him. Although Oberyn was the prime suspect, they lacked any true evidence directly tying him to the crime.

The same could be said for the accusations against him. But he knew how these proceedings worked. Given the uncertainty, it was highly likely Oberyn would demand a trial by combat.

Trial by combat was a tradition in Westeros, one that allowed disputes to be settled by physical combat, in the belief that the gods would grant victory to the innocent party.

But Petyr knew how grim the odds were if that happened.

Anyone could hire a champion to stand in their place for trial by combat. But who would be willing to risk their life against the Red Viper, a famed warrior of deadly skill?

Petyr felt his stomach twist. He doubted he could find a single knight willing to challenge the Red Viper for him, much less a knight capable of winning.

Sensing his rising panic, Varys said softly, "If you need a champion, I would suggest reaching out to the Queen. The Lannisters do have their own formidable warriors."

But Petyr's thoughts churned bitterly. Cersei was the last person he could trust in this position, especially if it involved forcing her to expose their schemes. If he pressured her to help, she might send a cup of poisoned wine instead of a champion.

And if he survived the trial, it would still change nothing. He would be a marked man, under suspicion and constantly under scrutiny.

So he resolved then and there. Forget the gods, forget trial by combat. He needed to survive.

"Varys, get me out of here," he said, his voice filled with determination. "Whatever it takes, I need to escape. Name your price."

Varys gave him a sympathetic nod, leaning closer. "Lord Baelish, I suppose I could help. Old friends shouldn't leave each other to die. Here's what I suggest: you'll cross the Narrow Sea. I know of someone in Pentos who would gladly offer you protection. And perhaps, one day, you'll return when the time is right."

"Agreed," Petyr said at once. He knew Varys had contacts across the sea, and he would take his chances there. Remaining in King's Landing was no longer an option, not after today's events.

Satisfied, Varys took hold of his arm, steadying him as he helped him to his feet. His fever was high, his wound raw and painful, but he forced himself forward, knowing each step took him further from that cell.

Together, they slipped through the darkness of the Red Keep's passages. Varys guided him down hidden stairways and corridors, winding their way through the dark. With a torch in hand, Varys moved quickly, navigating the passages with the ease of one who had done so countless times.

At last, they reached a section of the wall that looked like any other. Varys tapped a series of stones in a specific order, and a small door opened into yet another shadowy corridor.

"Be careful, it's slippery here," Varys murmured, as he led Baelish down the darkened passage.

Petyr also climbed in with difficulty.

After passing through a narrow tunnel, the two came to a relatively spacious passage.

Varys walked ahead with a torch in his hand.

Petyr noticed that Varys's steps and posture were different from usual. He looked fierce and impatient, as if he had really become a different person.

How many identities does this eunuch have?

Petyr suppressed his thoughts and followed Varys closely. He turned and twisted in the passage and soon lost his sense of direction.

He couldn't help but think of certain rumors about Maegor the Cruel, who had completed the Red Keep during his tenure and dug a myriad of secret passages in the Red Keep. After the completion of the work, he brutally killed all the craftsmen so that the passages would not be leaked.

After the Rebellion, the House Targaryen was destroyed and the secrets of these secret passages were buried with them.

But now, Petyr discovered that there seemed to be a spider that controlled the secret passages in the Red Castle.

Petyr followed, each step taking him deeper into the heart of the Red Keep's hidden labyrinth, hoping that by morning, he would be far from the capital, and out of the reach of both the Red Viper and the Hand of the King.

(End of Chapter)