Matil spoke up:"Jefferis has been pleading with me, hoping for a chance to meet with you."
Gawen halted mid-stride, his brown eyes narrowing slightly."Do you know his purpose?"
Matil first shook his head, then gave a hesitant nod."My lord, I can only guess. He likely wishes it for his son. Jefferis was blessed with a child in his later years—he has only a boy of five. Once he dies, that merchant's son, left without protection, will face a grim future. That is my assumption."
Gawen said nothing. Recently, Jefferis had dealt frequently with Whispering Hall through leather trade, though always via Steward Herschel. Their only direct exchange was a few words on the voyage aboard his ship, hardly enough for familiarity.
And without familiarity, there could be no trust.
If Matil's guess was right, would a dying father truly entrust his only child to a man he barely knew?
Suddenly, Gawen shook his head at himself with a wry smile. Too much time dealing with schemers had left him overly suspicious.
Matters had to be weighed in scale. Without more intelligence, it was foolish to see conspiracy in everything—paranoia led only to sickness of the mind.
"Where is he now?" Gawen asked at last.
Matil scratched his head with a finger, lowering his eyes."His carriage is nearby. Jefferis keeps stressing the friendship his trade has forged with Whispering Hall, and his admiration for you. I could not shake him off. His wounds are grave—I felt it cruel to turn him away with the sword."
As he spoke, Matil cast Gawen a furtive glance.
Every boon bore its burden. Because of his family's traditions—sequestered until he produced an heir—Matil lacked the seasoning of real experience.
Merchants, by contrast, sparred daily with all manner of men; Jefferis's eyes had long since pierced Matil's naïveté, or he would not have clung to him so boldly.
Still, Matil was the heir of sworn Crabb knights. Gawen would need to teach him patiently.
"Go and bring him in," Gawen ordered curtly.
Matil, ashamed of his poor handling, drooped his head and went.
The afternoon sun was harsh. Gawen had Mondon fetch him a chair, and settled in a patch of shade.
His thoughts drifted back to the hidden passage discovered in the Hand's Tower earlier that day. Lord Jon Arryn had seemed unshaken, yet no man could remain truly calm facing such a revelation. The aftermath of the Hand's solar incident was now unpredictable.
Then Gawen remembered Stannis Baratheon, Robert's grim second brother.
Had Matil not mentioned pirates and the royal fleet, he might have overlooked him again. Stannis bore, it seemed, the very attribute of being easily ignored.
But what if word reached that iron-willed Duke of Dragonstone—that the venerable Hand of the King, without proof, sought to condemn a baron based only on a song?
Gawen also recalled well that Stannis despised his office as Master of Ships. He had never forgiven Robert for passing him over—granting Storm's End and the office of Master of Laws to the youngest brother, Renly.
Stannis had bled for Robert in the Rebellion, yet was granted only bleak Dragonstone, while the family's ancestral seat went to a brother who had done nothing.
With Stannis's nature, dissatisfaction had long since festered into hatred.
In Gawen's mind, the calculations formed. Could Jon Arryn be broken without Gawen lifting his own hand?
If not slain by anger, then confined to bed. The Hand was stubborn—he would never forgive Gawen lightly.
In the game of thrones, there were no eternal enemies, only eternal interests. On this board, Gawen glimpsed a natural ally.
The sound of hooves approached, mingled with the creak of wheels. A carriage rolled through the gate and halted before him.
Matil, scratching his head, grimaced."My lord, Jefferis cannot descend."
Gawen waved dismissively."Then leave him be. Open the door."
Before Matil could move, a gaunt, dark-skinned middle-aged man—the one who had been sitting with the driver—hurried down to open the carriage.
As the door swung wide, the stench of rot drifted to Gawen.
Jefferis, once ruddy-faced, now sat pale and slumped within.
Upon glimpsing Gawen, he forced his lips to move."Noble ser, forgive my intrusion."
His voice was frail."Since the arrow struck, I know my end is near. All men must die—I fear not death. But I cannot leave my son unguarded."
He paused, summoning strength."In my torment, I thought of every friend and kin… only to despair that none could be trusted. By the grace of the Seven, I had the fortune to know you."
His eyes pleaded."Your name is spoken with honor, beloved by your people. Our time together was brief, yet I sensed your compassion for the weak. Forgive a dying father's desperate plea."
Groaning, Jefferis slid from the seat, half-collapsing onto the carriage floor. Cold sweat drenched his face.
"I will place all my wealth in your hands, if only you will shield my boy."
Gawen sighed inwardly."Where is your son?"
The dark-skinned man led out a chubby little boy from behind the carriage, clutching his hand.
The child's small eyes were red and swollen, as if he had just wept.
Gawen ruffled his hair gently."What is your name?"
The boy shrank, too timid to speak.
The attendant quickly answered, bowing."Noble lord, his name is Darius."
Gawen stroked the child's head again, then turned to Jefferis."Your steadfast love has moved me. Your son, Darius, shall be taken in as the foster-son of Ser Mason Beck of House Crabb's sworn knights."
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