Chaos is a ladder. Petyr Baelish enjoyed—no, excelled at—creating chaos, and then profiting from it.
Every time he stirred disorder, Petyr grew stronger.
But what was his goal this time? Was it deliberate design, or just a casual move?
Ordinarily, when summoned by Lord Jon Arryn—the steadfast Targaryen loyalist who had long suppressed the old loyal houses—someone like Gawen, a descendant of those very loyalists, should have been alarmed, rushing at once to Queen Cersei for protection.
And Cersei Lannister, ever resentful of Jon Arryn's near-absolute authority, would likely seize upon such an event as her opportunity to lash out.
Her thought would be: You dare lay hands on one of mine? At last, I've caught you in a mistake! Such a chance cannot be wasted.
Given Cersei's shallow political instincts, even if she later discovered that it was Petyr's doing, she might still thank him in private.
Cersei could certainly make a scene, but she would win nothing from Jon Arryn.
She was no match for him, and she would never examine her own errors. Instead, she would heap blame upon those nearest her—especially Gawen.
As Tyrion had analyzed for him: when Cersei loves you, she loves you fiercely. But once she turns against you, she despises you all the more.
Gawen's favor in her eyes might well be erased entirely.
His life would not be in danger, but the likely outcome was banishment from King's Landing—reduced to a laughingstock.
At such a time, Cersei could not be relied upon.
This was the weakness of Gawen's low station in the political order.
From Petyr's perspective, even if his maneuver were exposed, what could a mere country baron do in retaliation? He lacked both the courage and the means.
Petyr likely believed he could slip back into the shadows, safe whichever way the tide turned.
Had he truly understood Gawen, he would have been more cautious, his plots more subtle.
He would not have acted so rashly—perhaps even kept himself completely detached.
Instead, he had dismissed Gawen as an insignificant pawn, one that could be sacrificed without consequence.
He had underestimated him.
Gawen broke off his thoughts."My sincere friend, Lord Tyrion, I require your help."
Tyrion's expression turned grave. "And what exactly do you intend?"
First, Gawen offered thanks. "I have no information network of my own in King's Landing. I need Lannister intelligence. Tonight, I intend to see Petyr Baelish."
Without the slightest hesitation, Tyrion nodded his assent, then asked:"Will there be blood? If matters get out of hand, it may only worsen things for you. My advice would be…"
He paused a moment, then continued:"You could find some excuse to step aside for now. With the queen's hunt in the kingswood, you may soon be charged with its arrangements. At dawn I'll speak with Jaime and settle the matter."
Gawen shook his head slightly. "I will not deny it is sound advice. Perhaps, given time, the great lords would forget such a small man as myself."
He took a slow sip of summerwine before adding:"But even if I escape this once, as long as I serve as the queen's officer, there will always be someone scheming against me."
A faint sigh, then a cold gleam passed through his eyes."Lord Jon Arryn must still be met. House Crabb will not forget the care he once showed us."
The mood grew heavy, so Tyrion lightened it with a grin."Ah, yes, that phrase you taught me—right, I remember now! Petyr has kicked an iron plate this time."
Gawen smiled. "At worst, you'll only ever see me in my own lands. But there you'll find marigold ale and mermaids—both of which, I assure you, you'll enjoy."
"Baron Crabb, I confess I doubt the part about the mermaids…"
That night, King's Landing slept.
Clad in black leather, Gawen leaned against an outer wall, gazing up at the stars.
Within the courtyard, Anguy crept soundlessly upon a sentry. In a sudden motion, he clamped a hand over the guard's mouth and twisted his neck. The man slumped wordlessly to the ground.
It was the fifth guard Anguy had dispatched.
Finished, the archer mimicked a birdcall—a signal for Gawen outside.
Hearing it, Gawen vaulted the high wall and slipped into the yard.
Anguy hurried to him and whispered:"My lord, three sentries in the open and two hidden—already dealt with. Our men have taken their places."
House Crabb's soldiers were ill-suited for such silent work. Fortunately, Anguy's natural skill with stealth and the bow made him invaluable; otherwise, Gawen would have needed to dirty his own hands.
He resolved to summon another unit of scouts in the future—men suited for such missions.
Anguy continued: "Inside the house it will be harder. Too much noise, and we'll wake them all. I suggest we climb directly through the window…"
Gawen raised his eyes to the third floor."So Petyr sleeps here tonight? Ever cautious."
It was not that Petyr had anticipated a "visit," but rather habit, born of temperament. A man who thrived on chaos would never keep a fixed dwelling.
"Just you and I," Gawen murmured. "The rest will stand guard."
On the bed, Petyr Baelish stirred at the touch of a breeze.
His lashes fluttered, then his eyes snapped open.
Two silhouettes stood in his chamber. For a heartbeat, confusion clouded his gaze. Then sudden realization struck, and cold sweat prickled down his spine.
Gawen gestured for Anguy to light a candle. Warm light filled the room.
Petyr squinted, adjusting to the glow, then hissed:"You are… it's you!"
Gawen pulled a chair with deliberate noise, dragging it to the bedside.
Anguy silently positioned himself at the door.
Seating himself, Gawen spoke evenly:"I was so delighted by your little gift, Lord Petyr, that I could not resist calling upon you tonight. Surely you're surprised—perhaps even pleased?"
Surprised? More like terrified.
Petyr forced down the surge of panic and conjured his familiar smile, though his voice was rough:"Had Baron Crabb visited me by day, I might have been more welcoming."
He spread his hands. "If you don't object, I should like to put on some clothes."
Gawen was mildly surprised: such a cautious man, yet he slept bare. Men of fragile security rarely did so. Years of smooth success, perhaps, had hardened Petyr's confidence.
With a casual wave, Gawen granted permission.
As Petyr reached for his robe, he froze—Gawen now held a dagger, its edge catching the candlelight.
Donning his black robe, Petyr tried again, lips curling upward:"I have heard of you—a most promising young man. I had long wished for an introduction."
He tilted his head in a smile."And now we are acquainted—friends, even. I would be more than glad to aid a friend."
Gawen's mouth curved faintly."Then sit across from me. There is a chair waiting."
Danger radiated from him. Petyr felt it keenly: this young man was still weighing whether or not to kill him.
And his guards? Gone. How had these two reached his chamber so effortlessly?
Though turmoil gnawed at him within, Petyr maintained outward calm. Smoothly, he dragged over the chair, adjusted his robe, and sat opposite Gawen.
.
.
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