Gawen had not expected to encounter such an important "story character" on his very first day in King's Landing.
A thought crossed his mind—there were no such things as coincidences. The Lannisters were still a "loving family" at this point in time. Was Tyrion here to sound him out on Cersei's behalf?
Tyrion's declaration that he would cover everyone's tab was met with loud cheers throughout the tavern.
One of his attendants tossed a bulging purse of gold dragons into the arms of the innkeep.
From where he sat, Gawen watched Tyrion bask in the crowd's gratitude, straightening his small frame and offering replies with affected composure.
It was now the ninth month of the year 297 AC. Across the Narrow Sea in Essos, the maiden Daenerys Targaryen should still be living under the roof of Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos, alongside her brother.
The future Hand of the Queen was, at this moment, spending lavishly in Westeros without a care—merely enjoying himself.
Life was curious indeed.
Tyrion hopped onto the chair opposite Gawen's. His manservant set two empty goblets before them, then filled each from a wine jug.
Tyrion raised his cup toward Gawen, took a sip, and sighed appreciatively."Summerwine from Dorne. Rich with the scent of fruit, sweet on the tongue—my favorite…"
He grinned."Every mouthful is like tasting the fragrance of a maiden—lingering and irresistible."
Gawen smiled faintly, placing a hand over his chest and inclining his head."Good evening, Lord Tyrion Lannister."
Leaning back with his cup in hand, Tyrion smirked."My fame has spread across the peninsula already? I am flattered—if a little surprised."
Gawen took a sip of the summerwine—this time without a frown. The flavor was good.
"When I was a boy, if I refused to sleep, my mother would invoke your name to frighten me. You were the shadow of my childhood. As I grew, I learned it had been a kind lie on her part. So, recognizing you is no surprise."
"Ah, that must be a tragic memory!"
"My home is far away," Gawen said, with a trace of nostalgia.
Tyrion reached across, grabbed a slice of roast meat, and bit into it."Not worried about the Hand of the King?"
Gawen shook his head."Great men do not concern themselves with small ones."
Tyrion lifted his goblet again in salute."When I was your age, I often dreamed of having a dragon of my own. Your troubles are those of an heir, I take it?"
"My legs are too short, my head too big—but my head suits me well enough. I know exactly what I can and cannot do, and it is my weapon. Jaime has his sword, King Robert his warhammer… and I have my wits. And you, little baron?"
His last words carried a faint note of mockery.
Yet Gawen, unexpectedly, heard the ring of friendly advice in them.
Tyrion drank, eyes flicking upward to study Gawen's impassive expression. Then he set down his cup and regarded him with interest.
A small smile touched Gawen's lips."A heart that yearns for peace? I cannot imagine anyone would wish to stand in the way of such a heart."
Tyrion was taken aback by the reply. After a pause, he laughed aloud."Yes—everyone loves peace. A toast to peace!"
When his laughter faded, his tone grew more serious."Were I you, I might choose the same path. But, young man, I must warn you—our queen can be willful. Not the kind of willfulness most people imagine. My advice: take Jaime with you in such times. He is the only one who can sway her."
"I will remember, Lord Tyrion."
Tyrion leaned forward until his small frame nearly sprawled across the table, his gaze turning grave."Then tell me, Lord Gawen… are you still a virgin?"
As expected—Gawen had sensed the jest coming.
Faced with Tyrion's mischievous grin, Gawen's expression was complicated, but he shook his head firmly in denial.
Tyrion's laughter rang out even louder.
Gawen propped his cheek on one hand. Perhaps he ought to visit a brothel tonight to hear some music… the music being the important part.
The Next Morning – Hookport – Temporary Residence
Gawen woke, rubbing his temples.
Drunken wine was like loving the wrong person—when the haze lifted, sobriety returned… and with it regret for the gold dragons spent.
Tyrion's head brimmed with Westerosi secrets, and his tongue was sharp. Listening as he drank, Gawen had not realized how much he was putting away until the drink took hold.
Still not satisfied, the two of them had gone off to hear music together, Gawen tossing coin about with abandon.
He groaned inwardly and swore to himself: just this once.
The Reach – Horn Hill – At Sunrise
Samwell Tarly, struggling to move his massive frame quietly, came before his father—Randyll Tarly.
Samwell was grossly overweight, with dark hair, a huge round face, and gray eyes.
Balding and severe, Randyll sat at the head of the breakfast table with his family. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery and murmured conversation.
Samwell's arrival shattered the quiet warmth. Randyll glanced at him from the corner of his eye and ignored the careful, hesitant look in his son's gaze.
Only Randyll's younger son, Dickon, Samwell's brother, offered him a quiet greeting.
"F-father… forgive me for intruding. I…"
Samwell wiped at the nervous sweat on his brow.
Bang!Randyll set down his knife and fork. The rest of the table fell silent.
"Fool. If you know you're intruding, why come now? Look at you—nothing but useless fat!"
Samwell hunched his shoulders in fright.
"Weak, soft… your head buried in books, reading of greater men's deeds all day."
"You are near grown, yet unfit to inherit my lands or title."
Melissa Florent, Randyll's wife, could listen no more—but unwilling to quarrel before the children, she rose in anger and left the table.
Her departure had its effect; Randyll ended his tirade.
Samwell cast a guilty glance toward his mother's retreating back.
Born the first son, he had carried his father's hopes from birth. In his earliest years, Randyll had doted on him. But as Sam grew, it became clear he would never match his father's expectations.
Despite all of Randyll's efforts to mold him, Sam remained unfit in his eyes.
When those hopes broke, bit by bit, Randyll's pride and rigidity turned to bitter disappointment—and even hatred.
"F-father… I've been studying the Crabb family's methods of war…"
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