Red Keep, Tower of the Hand, second-floor study.
Jon Arryn bore a litany of titles: Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, and Hand of King Robert Baratheon.
In his youth he had been fair of hair and face, with sandy-gold locks, blue eyes, and a sharp aquiline nose.
Now, in the year 297 AC, Jon Arryn was seventy-two. His once-bright, thick hair was gone to gray and sparse, his face deeply lined, most of his teeth lost. His back stooped, his body wracked by illness.
Yet still, behind his clouded eyes, there gleamed a light that proved he held the reins of the Red Keep tightly in his frail hands.
Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, lifted a letter from the desk, its seal already broken, as though by chance. "Lord Jon, this appears to be from your kin in Gulltown."
Baelish, born of the Vale himself, enjoyed Jon Arryn's trust and patronage.
At first, it had been Lady Lysa Tully—Jon's wife and hopelessly smitten with Petyr—who persuaded her husband to advance him as tax collector at Gulltown.
Petyr's instinct for coin and commerce proved uncanny. Within a year, Gulltown's revenues had increased tenfold. From there, Jon Arryn promoted him step by step, until at last he sat on Robert Baratheon's Small Council as Master of Coin.
Jon looked up from his pile of documents. "Ah, that letter. I have not yet read it."
"They say many have died in Gulltown."
Petyr's tone was artfully vague, drawing attention only to the deaths.
As expected, mention of death roused Jon's concern. He set aside his parchments.
Baelish bowed his head respectfully as he offered the letter into the Hand's trembling fingers.
Jon narrowed his eyes and read, then frowned. "Crabb… a noble from the Crab Claw Peninsula?"
He pondered a moment before setting it down. "Hot-blooded, reckless. Likely the culprit is Baron Crabb himself. More than twenty slain in a single night. The half-savage cares little for lives."
"But, my lord," Petyr answered smoothly, "as the letter makes plain, we hold no proof. A song from the Crab Claw is not evidence enough to persuade Lord Renly Baratheon in his capacity as Master of Laws."
(Renly Baratheon, Robert's youngest brother, Lord of Storm's End and Master of Laws on the council.)
Jon's worn features hardened. "Any man with eyes can see it—he apes the old lion Tywin! Send a raven at once to the Crab Claw. He is to come before me here in the Red Keep without delay. If he has a shred of honor as a nobleman, he will not dare refuse!"
Petyr bowed his head slightly, lips curving in the faintest smile. "My lord, Baron Crabb is already in King's Landing."
Jon's eyes flickered. "Oh? A coincidence?"
"He took the Queen's road. He now serves as the Queen's officer. It is said that Queen Cersei looks kindly upon him, my lord."
Jon's brows knit. "Kindly?"
And with that single word, Baelish had achieved his aim. Through half-truths and careful emphasis, he had planted the seed of distaste in the Hand's mind.
Jon Arryn, who had not yet met the boy, now already harbored a dislike for him.
Petyr tilted his head gently. "One might also say Her Grace holds him in esteem. Few indeed win such favor."
With such a dagger in Cersei's grasp, Baelish could not help but smile inwardly at the conflict he foresaw between the Queen and the Hand.
Jon rose with effort, peering out the window. Night was falling.
"See to it, then. Tomorrow morning—I shall meet this guest from afar."
"As you command, my lord. I will arrange it myself."
King's Landing, Hookport, Gawen's residence. Night.
Returning home from his labors, Gawen found eight heavy sacks embroidered with golden lions—the sigil of House Lannister.
Eight hundred golden dragons, delivered by one of Queen Cersei's attendants as reward.
Was the Queen in high spirits?
The impoverished lord could not help but feel his own mood lifted.
Yet the thought stirred a strange fancy within him. For a moment he wondered if he might abandon toil altogether, and let himself be kept by a wealthy patroness.
He shook his head, chuckling. Not for me. Best keep striving.
After washing and changing, he made his way into the rear courtyard.
There, Tyrion and Lancel were already deep in their cups.
Tyrion raised his chin in greeting, then turned to his cousin. "So you see, you must support me. When I inherit Casterly Rock, my first decree shall be to restore the lord's right of the first night! Hah!"
Lancel, flushed with wine, giggled. "Ah, great Cousin Tyrion. I adore you, but I can only support you in private. Else the mob will drag you from the Rock in pieces, and I'll not be dragged down with you."
Gawen poured himself a cup, laughing. "We shall all remember him then—Lord Tyrion, sacrificing himself for the good of mankind."
Tyrion roared with laughter. "Exactly! The truth of men's hearts. I am only honest enough to say it aloud."
Lancel raised his cup. "At last you're here, Baron Crabb. I must tell you, today was cursed. Utterly cursed."
Ah yes—drunkards' tongues.
His words tumbled out half-coherent, yet Gawen pieced together the tale.
He raised his own cup toward Tyrion. "To you, mighty Lord Tyrion."
Grinning, Tyrion drained his wine, shrugged off Lancel's clutching hand, and dragged his chair closer to Gawen. "You seem utterly unconcerned on my behalf?"
Gawen sipped, one brow arched. "You are a Lannister. And princes who do not inherit the throne cannot harm you."
Tyrion smiled crookedly, then sighed. "In truth, I did hope to teach Joffrey well. He is hard to like, but I never thought him other than family."
His voice lowered. "Once, when he was small, Joffrey killed a pregnant cat. Do you know why? Curiosity. He wished to see the unborn kittens within, so he cut the poor beast open with a knife.
He lacks any reverence for life, any regard for others. If he cannot be corrected, then in time he will be another Mad King."
Should he be telling me this? Gawen thought, glancing at the muttering Lancel.
Aloud he said: "Best you counsel Lancel to secure a post early as royal attendant. The sooner, the better."
Tyrion nodded gravely. "Joffrey already sees him as weak. And the weaker a man is, the more Joffrey delights in tormenting him. If he believes you unyielding, he hesitates. That is my nephew—the heir to the Iron Throne."
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