Lancel's drunken rambling became unbearable.
At last Tyrion waved for Lancel's retainers to carry him off. The world was suddenly quiet—and much improved.
Tyrion tossed a few logs onto the fire. "Cersei may have you oversee the royal hunt in two days' time."
Gawen leaned back in his chair, looking at ease.
Sipping his summerwine, he turned his gaze on Tyrion.
The dwarf shrugged. "My sister feels everything too strongly—love or hate. When she favors you, she'd give you everything.
But when she hates, she'll want you dead—and the crueler the better."
He refilled his cup, voice serious for once. "You'll be busy, my friend. My sister loves you more than anyone in King's Landing."
His solemnity lasted no more than three heartbeats. Then he smirked again.
Gawen curved his lips faintly. "Lord Tyrion, I'll strive not to falter—if only to prolong Her Grace's favor. Thank you sincerely for your counsel."
Tyrion grinned. "Yes—prolong it, endure it. Last longer, like a man's—ah, Seven save me, I nearly made a jest about my dear sister's bed sport."
He lifted his cup toward the looming Red Keep. "Forgive me, sweetest sister!"
Gawen could not help but laugh aloud.
Elsewhere in the courtyard, Mondon and Anguy—one broad and hulking, the other tall and lean—sat by another fire.
Anguy sipped his ale contentedly, though his eyes often strayed toward where Gawen and Tyrion sat.
Mondon tore into a hunk of beef, chewed, and swallowed. "Anguy, stop nursing your cup. The smoked meat tonight is fine stuff."
Anguy tore a strip of meat from the platter and ate. "Not bad. But I prefer the ale."
"This stuff is ordinary," Mondon replied. "The marigold malt from home is better."
"Marigold? I've never heard of it."
Mondon nodded. "From our own lands. Used to have other names, but Steward Herschel oversaw the brewing and gave it that one. You won't taste it yet."
Anguy stretched, scanning the shadows with sharp eyes that glimmered even in darkness. Then he exhaled softly. "Thank the Seven, and thank Lord Gawen. At last I have a home. I love Whisper City."
He drank deep, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "When I return, I'll take a wife. Have a son. Teach him archery with all my heart. Once I never dared dream of such things."
Mondon chuckled. "Kill enough foes, earn enough merit, and Lord Gawen will grant you land."
Anguy nodded fiercely. "I wonder if the women of Whisper City will even like me."
Mondon thought a moment, then grunted. "The women there fight as fiercely as men. You're handsome enough, but be careful. If one fancies you, she'll throw you over her shoulder. If you can't best her, you'll be hers forever."
Why resist? Why fight back? Anguy thought, dazzled. By the Seven—Whisper City must be heaven itself!
"Truth be told, I don't mind being taken."
His grin turned sly. Mondon caught it and laughed with him.
But suddenly both fell silent, eyes fixed on the same spot.
Petyr Baelish's servant had just entered the courtyard under escort. He froze at once, spine prickling, as though caught in the gaze of wild beasts ready to tear out his throat.
The sensation passed, but cold sweat drenched the man's back.
He dared not lift his head. Prompted again by Gawen's servants, he shuffled forward with careful breaths, until at last he stood before the young baron.
There he bowed low—lower, he swore, than ever before even to his own master.
Tyrion watched him with keen amusement.
The servant bent nearly double, hands raised high with a folded letter of invitation.
To Gawen, it seemed Baelish trained his men in courtesy until it became absurd.
He gestured for his own man to take the letter.
When the servant had scurried off, Tyrion clutched his belly, laughing until tears welled.
Gawen's lips twitched. "I too was surprised by the man's overdone courtesy. You seem to know something of it?"
Tyrion waved a hand, dabbing his eyes. "You're a beast-lord, long accustomed to the predators at your side. Had I not already met the Mountain, your guards might have made me wet myself. He was terrified."
(Gregor Clegane—called the Mountain, sworn to House Lannister. Colossal, bloodthirsty, a butcher in steel.)
Tyrion laughed at his own expense.
Meanwhile, Gawen read the letter, his brow furrowing. "It seems Lord Jon Arryn wishes to meet me."
Tyrion took the parchment, scanning closely. "A proxy wrote this. Far too polite in tone. Of course—Baelish's hand."
He slapped his thigh. "I've drunk too much, else I'd have seen it at once."
He stroked his chin, muttering: "Odd, isn't it? You're but a baron. For the Hand to summon you, and for the Master of Coin to play errand boy—the courtesy is overdone. It reeks of design."
Gawen nodded. "It leaves me no chance to refuse."
"Exactly," Tyrion agreed.
He fell thoughtful, his eyes darting.
Gawen asked suddenly: "Has Baelish always been so bold?"
Tyrion frowned. "He clothes himself in elegance, but beneath he is cautious—" He broke off, meeting Gawen's steady gaze, realization dawning. "Yes… he appears bold, but in truth hides in plain sight. Ever just visible, yet overlooked."
Gawen murmured, "Like a shadow in the crowd."
Tyrion finished the thought. "Urgent timing, lofty summons, the Hand's authority behind it—Littlefinger is cunning indeed."
Gawen wondered: Was I underestimated? Or is there something more?
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