Chapter 179: Chapter 179: The Confession
Jacob reached inside Littlefinger’s clothes and pulled out a dagger. He drew the blade, examined it briefly, then sheathed it and turned around. He walked back to Sansa and Arya and tossed the dagger to Arya.
"Here," he said. "It’s a Valyrian steel dagger called the Catspaw dagger. The same one used in the attempt to kill your brother Bran."
Arya caught the dagger, turned it over in her hands, and nodded. "Thanks." She tucked it into her belt.
Jacob sat back down in his chair, interlaced his fingers, and stared at Littlefinger with cold amusement. The stone chair held the master manipulator tight, his wrists and ankles bound by earthen shackles.
"Now, Littlefinger," Jacob said, his voice calm. "Let’s start at the beginning. Tell us everything you did to the Starks. Every. Single. Thing."
Littlefinger’s mouth opened. His lips twitched. He tried to form a lie—he could feel it, the familiar taste of deception on his tongue.
Instead, the truth came out.
"I poisoned Jon Arryn."
Brienne, Podrick, and the Vale knights stared in shock.
Sansa went rigid. "What?"
Littlefinger’s face contorted. He tried to stop, tried to lie, but the truth kept coming. "I had a long affair with Lysa Arryn. Her son Robin is mine—not Jon Arryn’s. But I hate that weak little bastard and his mother. I manipulated Lysa into poisoning her own husband. Then I had her send a letter to Catelyn, falsely claiming the Lannisters were responsible." His voice cracked with desperation. "This isn’t me! He’s a sorcerer, Sansa! He’s using magic to make me say things I don’t want to say!"
The Vale knights were even more shocked now.
"Keep going," Jacob interrupted.
Littlefinger tried to close his mouth, but the words spilled out like blood from a wound. "The dagger. The Valyrian steel dagger you just took—it was mine from the beginning. I’m the one who gave it to the assassin to use in the attempt on Bran Stark’s life. Then I lied to Catelyn. I told her it belonged to Tyrion Lannister. I knew it would trigger a war between the Starks and the Lannisters."
Arya’s hands curled into fists. Her knuckles went white.
"I wanted chaos," Littlefinger continued, his voice rising in panic even as he confessed. "Chaos is a ladder. I needed the great houses to tear each other apart so I could climb."
Sansa’s voice was shaking. "You started the war. My father. My mother. Robb. Bran and Rickon. All those people who died... all of them... because of you."
Littlefinger tried to deny it. "No! I loved Catelyn! I never wanted her to die..."
Jacob said coldly. "Continue."
Littlefinger’s face was slick with sweat. "Ned Stark. After Robert Baratheon died, I pretended to help him secure the City Watch. But I had already taken Cersei’s gold. I bribed the Watch to turn on him. In the throne room..." He swallowed hard. "I held a knife to his throat. I told him, ’I did warn you not to trust me.’"
Arya shot to her feet. Her breathing turned ragged. Her hand went to her new dagger. "I’m going to kill you."
Jacob grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. "Not yet."
"Keep going," Jacob said. "What was your plan in bringing Sansa back to Winterfell?"
Littlefinger was desperate. He looked at Sansa, searching her face for mercy, but saw only sadness. "I arranged a marriage for her with Ramsay Bolton. I knew Roose Bolton murdered her brother. I knew Ramsay was a monster. But I needed the Boltons to control the North through her."
Sansa’s face was pale. Tears streamed down her cheeks—but her eyes were no longer soft. They were hardening into something cold and sharp.
"Joffrey," Jacob prompted. "Tell them about Joffrey."
Littlefinger’s voice dropped to a desperate whisper. "I was the one who whispered in Joffrey’s ear and convinced him to execute Ned Stark. Later, I conspired with Olenna Tyrell. We poisoned Joffrey at his own wedding. I framed Tyrion and Sansa for the murder. Then I played the hero and took Sansa away from King’s Landing."
Sansa’s voice cracked. "You ruined my life. You used me. You killed people I loved. You started a war that butchered my family. And you did it all so you could climb your ugly ladder."
Littlefinger looked at her and for the first time, he saw no naive little girl. He saw an angry wolf.
"Sansa, please," he begged. "I never meant to hurt you or your mother. I loved Catelyn—"
"Don’t," Sansa said, her voice like ice. "Don’t you dare say her name."
Jacob leaned back, satisfied. "Now, Sansa. Do you have any questions for him? Anything specific you want to ask?"
Sansa was silent for a long moment. Her tears had stopped. She looked at Littlefinger with hatred and disgust.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I have one question."
She stood and walked toward Littlefinger. She stopped a few feet away, her blue eyes boring into his.
"Did you know that my aunt Lysa was there that day? When you kissed me?"
Littlefinger’s mouth opened. He tried to say no. He tried to lie. But the Compulsion held.
"I did know. I wanted her to see," Littlefinger continued, his voice mechanical, stripped of all charm. "I knew it would drive Lysa into a jealous rage. I knew she would try to hurt you. Maybe even kill you. I planned to show up at the right moment, save you by killing her, and then you would help me cover it up. That way, I could smoothly take over the Vale." He paused, then added with horrifying honesty, "And just as I thought, she tried to push you through the Moon Door. I saved you by pushing her instead."
Sansa staggered back and collapsed onto her chair as if she had been slapped.
"You planned that too," she said. "My aunt’s death. My near death. All of it. Just another step up your ladder."
Littlefinger said nothing. He couldn’t deny it.
Jacob’s expression shifted. His easy humor drained away, replaced by something darker.
He turned to Sansa. "He kissed you?"
Sansa’s eyes went wide. She saw the cold fury building in Jacob’s face and panicked.
"He forced me," she said quickly. "I swear, Jacob. I didn’t want to kiss him. I never—"
Jacob caught her hand and kissed it gently. "Relax," he said softly. "I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at him."
He stood up slowly and walked toward Littlefinger.
"You forced yourself on my woman," Jacob said, his voice low and dangerous.
Littlefinger’s eyes went wide with terror. "I only kissed her! I swear! She is still a virgin! I never—"
"It doesn’t matter," Jacob interrupted. His smirk was evil now, cruel. "You still forced yourself on my woman." He crouched down to Littlefinger’s eye level. "Did you like that? Did you enjoy kissing a scared seventeen-year-old girl, you creepy old bastard?"
Littlefinger wanted to lie. He tried to lie.
He couldn’t.
"She is beautiful," he confessed, his voice cracking. "I like her. So why wouldn’t I enjoy kissing her?" He swallowed hard. "But as enjoyable as the kiss was, it was only part of my plan. Although I wanted to sleep with her very badly, I couldn’t. Not for my grand plan. I had to deliver her as a virgin to the Boltons so she could marry Ramsay. That way, the Boltons would have more northern houses join them, and Stannis Baratheon would go to war with them. I needed both sides to bleed each other dry. Then I would swoop in with the Knights of the Vale, destroy the weakened victor, and rescue Sansa." He met Jacob’s eyes, helpless to stop. "That way, I would control the North and earn Sansa’s love."
Sansa’s face was no longer pale. It was red—with rage.
Jacob smiled. It was not a happy smile.
"I’m going to enjoy what I’m about to do to you."
He pulled back his fist and punched Littlefinger square in the face.
The crack of bone echoed across the mountain. Littlefinger’s head snapped back. Blood sprayed from his nose. But Jacob had held back, using only a fraction of his true strength. Enough to hurt. Not enough to kill.
Jacob punched him again. And again. And again.
Each blow landed with a wet, sickening crunch. Littlefinger’s nose broke. His lips split. His teeth loosened. Blood dripped down his chin and stained his fine clothes.
Then Jacob stepped back and kicked him in the chest.
The stone chair shattered. The rock shackles crumbled. Littlefinger flew backward, rolling across the ground before coming to a stop several meters away. The kick had broken several of his ribs.
Littlefinger lay on his side, coughing. Blood bubbled from his lips. He was choking on his own blood, gasping for air.
Arya jumped to her feet and started running toward Jacob. She wanted to stop him. She wanted to kill Littlefinger herself. It was her revenge.
Jacob turned to her.
His eyes were glowing bright red.
"Don’t worry," he said, his voice deeper than normal, almost monstrous. "I will not kill him. But I need to vent my anger first."
Arya stopped. She looked at his eyes—those terrifying, glowing eyes—and nodded once. Without a word, she turned and walked back to her chair.
She sat down.
Sansa leaned toward her, her voice trembling. "What’s wrong with Jacob’s voice and eyes?"
Arya shrugged, though her own heart was still racing. "It’s part of his abilities. He didn’t tell me about it."
Sansa stared at her new husband—at the monster wearing a handsome face—and said nothing.
Jacob walked to Littlefinger, who was still coughing, still bleeding, still gasping. He waved his hand.
White light enveloped Littlefinger’s broken body. Bones knitted. Flesh mended. Cuts sealed. Within seconds, Littlefinger was whole again.
He sat up, patting his chest, his face, his nose. All healed.
He looked at Jacob with desperate, pleading eyes. "Please," he whispered. "Please have mercy." He turned to Sansa. "Sansa, please hel—"
Jacob waved his hand again.
Littlefinger flew forward as if yanked by an invisible rope. Jacob caught him by the throat and lifted him off the ground.
"I’m a very jealous man," Jacob growled, his voice deep and terrifying. "You not only forcibly kissed my woman. You planned to sell her to the Boltons." He smiled. "So I’m going to make you wish you were dead."
He raised his free hand and curled his fingers into a claw.
Littlefinger’s fingers—all ten of them—snapped at once.
Littlefinger screamed. A high, wet, awful sound.
Jacob dropped him.
Littlefinger fell to the ground, cradling his broken hands, sobbing.
Then Jacob raised his boot and brought it down on Littlefinger’s groin.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Littlefinger’s screams turned into a choked, gasping wheeze.
Jacob raised his boot one more time and stomped down hard.
Littlefinger’s testicles and pelvis shattered. His body went into shock. His eyes rolled back. He stopped screaming—he couldn’t anymore. He just lay there, twitching, tears streaming down his face.
Podrick winced. He closed his legs so tightly his thighs ached.
Every single Knight of the Vale did the same.
Brienne swallowed hard. She leaned toward Podrick and whispered, "Never look at Lady Sansa the wrong way. Do you hear me? If you do, I won’t be able to help you."
Podrick whispered back, his voice barely audible, "Not only will I not look at her the wrong way—I won’t look at her at all."
Jacob waved his hand. White light enveloped Littlefinger again. His fingers straightened. His testicles and pelvis healed. He was whole.
Then Jacob stomped on his groin again.
Littlefinger’s scream returned—raw, hoarse, broken.
Jacob healed him.
And stomped again.
And healed him.
And stomped again.
Each time, Littlefinger lost consciousness from the pain. Jacob zapped him with a bolt of electricity from his fingertips until he woke up screaming again.
After the tenth cycle, Littlefinger stopped screaming. He stopped begging. He just lay there, sobbing like a child, tears, snot, and blood mixing on his face.
He looked at Sansa—not with calculation, not with manipulation, but with genuine, broken desperation.
"Sansa," he wept. "Please. Please help me. Please."
Sansa looked at him.
Her face was cold. She said nothing.
Littlefinger sobbed harder.
Arya watched with a small, satisfied smile. She wasn’t smiling because she was cruel. She was smiling because she had waited years for this—years of running, of hiding, of reciting names before bed. And now, one of those names was weeping on the ground.
’I should beat the others from my list near death and ask Jacob to help me heal them so I can beat them again and again,’ she thought. ’Like he just did to Littlefinger.’
After finally venting his anger, Jacob healed Littlefinger one last time and stepped back. He left him lying on the ground—physically whole, but utterly broken.
To be continued... 😊
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35 Chapters ahead of webnovel
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