Gawen Crabb stood upon the rocks and watched the skiff bearing Petyr Baelish slip away.
Not far off, a figure emerged from the dark—Varys, light on his feet, came to stand beside him.
Hands folded, he sighed as if in lament. "How sad. I wonder if I shall ever have the chance to work with Lord Petyr again."
Gawen tilted his head back with a laugh. "A pity he couldn't hear that. He would have been very moved."
Varys shook his head, smiling; then, after a pause, his face turned solemn. "Lord Crabb, as agreed—now we wait to see who prevails."
Gawen's brow quirked. "You sound already certain the victor will be Queen Cersei."
Varys's eyes glinted. "You are the only variable, Lord Crabb."
A flicker of doubt crossed Gawen's face before he exhaled. "I've tried. But Lord Eddard's sense of honor cannot be shaken."
Varys sighed as well. "No one doubts the wolf's virtue. But good men fare poorly at the game of thrones—because they will not do what bad men will."
Gawen held his tongue, though the thought tugged at him: once you sit at that table, are there truly good men and bad?
…
He drew a steadier breath. "As agreed, whatever the outcome—you will see Eddard Stark safely back to Winterfell."
Varys's eyes danced. "So—you've guessed the end."
"Perhaps all men respect Stannis in their hearts," Gawen said. "But they do not like him—and they fear him. The moment Lord Eddard named Stannis his heir, he lost."
"We cannot seat Stannis," Varys murmured. "One man would make all the Seven Kingdoms forget their quarrels."
Gawen gave a thin smile. "They would indeed. A common enemy—and grudges sleep, if only for a time. Perhaps that is Lord Stannis's… charm."
Varys actually laughed.
They walked on, quietly plotting—two "loyal servants" of Viserys, working harder for him than Viserys did for himself.
…
Before they parted, Gawen glanced up at the towering Red Keep, weariness in his voice. "This place is too tangled. If I can, I'll leave it soon. I'm spent."
Varys's gaze warmed. He patted Gawen's shoulder in silent comfort.
…
…
A blush of pink crept over the eastern sky.
King's Landing, the Iron Gate.
Gawen checked his mount and surveyed his busy bluecloaks.
Before long Ser Per Pellit strode up and bowed.
From the saddle, Gawen looked down at his grave-faced knight. "My most loyal Ser Per—well?"
"My lord, we hold the Iron Gate. But the former gate-captain refuses to yield the keys. He swears he will not surrender them without Lord Janos Slynt's order."
The Iron Gate was one of the seven great gates—its garrison quarter a small fortress of its own, with armory, stables, granaries, wine cellars, and cells. The keys Ser Per meant were to those storehouses.
Gawen's brow lifted. "And now?"
"He has a dozen goldcloaks holed up in the armory, the door braced with heavy timbers. The rest are disarmed."
Per had waited near the gate; at Gawen's order, he'd marched in under the Hand's fresh writ appointing Gawen Captain of the Iron Gate. The quarter was large, a city within the city; in peacetime some two hundred goldcloaks were posted there. By striking at night—and with the Hand's seal—Per had seized all save the armory.
"Monton," Gawen called.
Mondon Waters urged his horse forward, large eyes blinking at his lord.
"Send them to meet the Stranger."
As Mondon rode off with a file of bluecloaks, Gawen swung down from the saddle.
"Per, no strangers remain. Have the survey troop search every stone. We leave no chink for an enemy."
Per bowed his head. "I'll remember it, my lord: the enemy is everywhere."
There were better men for fortress-work—Mason Beck in the Crabb lands, for one—but only three captains could hold a command alone. Beck guarded their home marches; Empajo closed out operations to the west of the peninsula. Per, skilled at attack, was the only choice—and attack taught a man how to defend.
Gawen clapped his arm. "Walk the lines with me—"
A brazen blare split the dawn from the tower above.
Gawen started despite himself. The alarm? Who dares test us the very hour I take command?
…
To pass out through the Iron Gate, one first came to a great inner portal like that of the Red Keep itself.
Now, beyond that portal, scores of riders had gathered. Voices rang out: "In the king's name—open the gate!"
With a groan of iron, the doors swung wide—only for the proud riders to fall silent.
Rank on rank of bluecloaks waited within, dawn's first light hard upon their mail. Along the inner wall archers stood with bows bent, and here and there the squat silhouettes of cocked scorpions glinted.
Gawen's horse stepped out with a measured clop. He recognized Renly's guard.
Renly would be quitting the city for the Stormlands—why take the northern road? To throw off ambush? A Westerosi echo of the old ruse through the empty granary? Whether so or not, the Lord of Storm's End had ridden into Gawen's hands. Fortune is part of skill.
Behind the riders came a fresh drum of hooves—and a sea of banners embroidered with golden roses.
Gawen reined in and called: "Dismount. Lay down arms. Kneel within five counts—or by the law of disorder at the gate, you die where you stand."
He raised a flat palm toward them. "Five!"
Tension rippled; mounts sidled and tossed.
"Four!"
"You know—" someone began.
"Three!" Gawen cut him off.
"Two," he said, unhurried.
"Wait!"
Two voices—his and Renly's—broke together. Renly's men parted, and the king's younger brother rode out, deep green cloak stirring.
Gawen cocked his head, giving Renly a long cool look.
"Our Master of Laws. Leaving the city?"
Renly's eyes measured the disdain in Gawen's face. "Crabb—why are you here?"
Gawen nudged his horse forward at an easy pace. "By Lord Stark's writ, I am Captain of the Iron Gate."
He halted beside him and spread the parchment.
Renly's gaze flicked over the seal. His smile did not touch his eyes. "Congratulations… Lord Crabb."
He looked again, outwardly calm, inwardly nettled. All knew Gawen served Cersei; now this? And he was surrounded.
Renly had chosen low banners and the least-likely gate to hide his flight—yet someone had betrayed his road. Varys? His eyes slid, sharp as knives, to his own household guard.
…
Gawen cleared his throat. "By the queen's order, Lord Baratheon: from this morning, King's Landing is one-way—in only. None leave."
He meant no deeper harm. This was Baratheon business now: Stannis and Renly were brothers; let Storm's End settle Storm's End.
He glanced at the weathered inner wall. Costly repairs, he thought.
Let Renly blame Cersei for this.
Renly's voice was iron. "Earl Crabb, Queen Cersei has no such authority."
Gawen shrugged. "If you doubt, I can send to the queen for confirmation."
Renly held his tongue. Dawn was breaking; he could not be caught by Lannister hands. He tried another road.
"My brother is dead," he said at last. "The realm needs a king."
His expression eased into easy charm.
"My nephew is but a boy. I will not see the Lannisters seize the Iron Throne. You know their cruelty. The just of the realm will rise, and evil will fall."
He spread his hands. "I hear Ned Stark thinks well of you. A man he favors must love justice. And the gods favor the just."
Renly ignored his guards' protests and rode up until their horses stood head-to-head, facing opposite ways. His smile was bright, his eyes alight.
"No other eyes here," he said softly. "I will not forget a righteous deed. We'll drink together yet. Or…" His gaze lingered on the silent ranks of crack bluecloaks. "Come with us. Be my brother."
Gawen shook his head. "House Crabb owes direct fealty to the queen. It is our custom. I must refuse, my lord."
Save the speeches, he thought. Make me an offer with weight—or go.
Renly's face tightened—is this why Ned liked him? He clings to rules like iron?
Gawen's glance kept straying to the battered stone; Renly was silent, blind to the hint.
…
"Lord Crabb."
Margaery Tyrell's voice. Gawen's brows knit, and he turned.
Hooded in deep green, she eased her palfrey forward from the press.
Gawen inclined his head. "Lady Margaery? Why are you here?"
She lifted her hood. "To see you once before I quit the city, my lord—that is a joy."
The dawn burnished her with a soft gold.
Gawen hesitated, managed a thin smile, and held his tongue.
Margaery hid her urgency well. "My lord… your queen is not fond of—"
Gawen raised a hand to still her. "Convey my respects to Lord Mace," he said at last.
He tugged the reins, turned his horse away, and signaled his men to stand down.
Margaery watched him go, fingers tightening on the leather. Then she smiled, drew up her hood, and masked her face.
…
…
Tower of the Hand.
"Sansa. Arya." Ned Stark's voice was gentle. "In a little while, Gawen will come for you. He will see you safely home to Winterfell."
Arya Stark lit up. "Truly, Father? That's wonderful! I've wanted to go home for ages…" She rolled her eyes. "Can I bring Syrio with us?"
Ned ruffled her wild hair and smiled. "Ask Lord Gawen about that, little one."
.
.
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⚠️ 30 CHAPTERS AHEAD — I'm Not a Cyberpsycho ⚠️
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