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"Lord Cole." She curtsied with dignity, already dressed as befitted a noble lady.
Cole had personally attended her wedding as a witness.
"Lady Lannister," Cole responded with a smile.
Sansa sighed inwardly: he had even changed his form of address, just as they had called her Lannister at Joffrey's wedding, though her name remained Sansa Stark.
This man is a liar, she thought angrily.
But considering it further, he had never actually promised her anything—merely offered verbal comfort.
In this castle, she couldn't trust anyone's words. As Ser Dontos had told her, they all sought to exploit her identity.
Whether Lannister or Tyrell.
He departed without another word, not even offering comfort this time. Did he truly see her as a Lannister now?
Cole hadn't realized his words might bring hope to a girl in despair. At the time, he had genuinely meant to comfort her, but the sentiment hadn't lingered in his mind.
Not long after, she was spirited away by Littlefinger, proving what he'd suspected might happen.
Of course, Cole hadn't been entirely certain this would occur.
Yet this encounter gave him much to consider.
He held a strip of parchment in his hand. He had nearly forgotten about it. Had it not fallen to the ground, Cole might never have remembered.
What did Varys want him to retrieve?
Cole led Podrick and Bronn out of the Red Keep, unaware of countless eyes watching their departure.
They rode to the Street of Steel, following the map to a shop hidden in a corner at the foot of Visenya's Hill. It stood near Muddy Way, bustling with pedestrians.
The sound of hooves startled those inside the smithy. A short blacksmith emerged—stout with a thick beard and bright, attentive eyes.
"My lord, welcome." He glanced at the emblem on Jon's clothes, then at the two knights behind him, quickly assessing his visitor's status.
The number of dignitaries in King's Landing had more than doubled of late.
"Are you the blacksmith here?" Cole inquired.
He dismounted smoothly, handed the reins to Bronn, produced the note bearing the address, and asked, "Is this the place indicated here?"
The blacksmith wiped his broad, soot-darkened palms on his apron before taking the parchment. "Aye, my lord. This is my shop."
"Do you need armor or weapons forged?" the blacksmith asked.
"Someone sent me to collect something," Cole stated directly, while surveying the shop.
It stood at the edge of the Street of Steel—the finest smithies in King's Landing would be deeper within the district.
Judging by the common iron tools and farming implements displayed, this blacksmith didn't even craft weapons or armor.
Doubt flickered in the smith's eyes.
"Lord Varys sent me," Cole continued. "The king's Master of Whisperers."
The blacksmith still appeared puzzled.
"Forgive me, m'lord. My memory fails me. Someone did leave something in my keeping. He didn't give his name, but mentioned a silver-haired knight would claim it." He paused momentarily.
The silver-haired knight had indeed arrived.
The blacksmith slapped his forehead. "Gods be good! One moment, m'lord. I'll fetch it straightaway."
With that, he retreated into the shop.
Shortly after, he returned with something tightly wrapped.
The bundle was swathed in gray woolen cloth, concealing a long, narrow object.
Cole took it, feeling an immediate and familiar weight.
Slowly unwrapping the covering, he revealed a plain hilt beneath. His heart quickened at the sight.
Longclaw!
Cole didn't draw the blade, but rewrapped it carefully.
Besides Longclaw, there were also gifts he'd brought from the Wall.
These were what Varys had mentioned. Cole had assumed Longclaw remained in Lannister hands and had considered discussing its recovery with Tyrion.
If the blade was truly Valyrian steel, he hadn't expected to reclaim it any time soon.
Yet now the sword rested in his hands, delivered through Varys's machinations, along with his other possessions.
What was the Spider's purpose in returning the sword? Simply restoring property to its rightful owner?
When had the eunuch become so generous?
Though Cole couldn't fathom Varys's intentions, he couldn't help feeling pleased to recover these items.
His joy proved short-lived.
A sudden commotion erupted from Muddy Way beside the smithy—the unmistakable sound of armed conflict.
Cole looked over to see a crowd surging toward them.
He heard someone shouting, "There are more of them!"
"Kill them! Kill them!"
Countless voices quickly filled the air above Muddy Way.
Cole saw armed smallfolk surrounding them from all sides.
They brandished farming tools and sticks—some even carried knives and swords.
"Lord Snow!" Podrick called out, the stout squire visibly frightened by the scene.
Several gold cloaks had been knocked to the ground by the mob, their fate uncertain. Now the crowd's rage seemed directed toward Jon's party.
Surveying the mass that filled the entire street, Cole counted nearly a hundred people.
Their shouts and curses were deafening. Jon's group numbered only three, and only Bronn wore armor.
"The refugees are rioting," Podrick said, moving closer to Jon.
Ignoring Bronn's armored presence and Jon's sword, the angry mob rushed toward them from all directions.
Soon the first wave reached them, raising makeshift weapons against Cole and his companions.
Seeing this, Cole abandoned any thought of understanding the refugees' grievances and drew Longclaw.
The familiar blade felt lighter than the two longswords at his hip. Its cold gleam resembled moonlight as it sliced through the cloth wrapping.
With one swift stroke, he struck the face of the nearest attacker, the blade cutting half the man's face in a bloody, terrible wound.
The sight shocked the mob, causing those surrounding them to hesitate. The sword's deadly speed was terrifying—they were, after all, merely civilians.
Cole could see the fear in their eyes.
Someone in the crowd shouted, "There are only three of them! We have nothing to fear!"
The response was immediate.
The momentarily hesitant refugees found renewed courage.
Indeed, they faced only three opponents.
Cole and his companions stood back-to-back, swords drawn. He scanned the faces in the crowd, doubts and suspicions forming in his mind.
The mob surged forward once more.
Then came the thunder of hoofbeats.