Cersei Lannister only gave a cold snort.
Tyrion Lannister grinned. "One last question."
His tone stayed mild. "How did you kill Robert?"
Cersei's laugh was icy, almost boastful. "He asked for it. We merely hastened his journey. When Lancel saw Robert wouldn't quit chasing that boar, he brought him strongwine. I arranged it—three times the strength of his usual. It became the drunkard's new delight. Had he wished, he could have stopped drinking at any time; instead he drained a skin and bid Lancel bring another… The boar took care of the rest."
Her voice turned cheerful. "Tyrion, you should have been at the feast. I've never tasted finer boar in my life—victory on the tongue."
Tyrion: "…"
Much as he'd guessed. Tyrion had rather liked rough, roaring Robert Baratheon—if only because the man reliably made his overproud sister eat humble pie.
He shrugged. "Dear sister, you were clearly born to widowhood."
Before she could snap back, he bowed with a smirk. "I'll take my leave."
"Don't," Cersei frowned. "I want your next steps."
"Sweet queen," Tyrion spread his hands, "I've just taken the chair. Plots are like fruit; they need time to ripen."
He turned, strolling off, and lifted his right hand to waggle it behind him as he went.
…
…
King's Landing, the Iron Gate—Captain's Hall.
Gawen Crabb set the letter down and raked a hand through his ink-black hair.
Davos Seaworth's reply… a courteous refusal to Gawen's invitation that one of his sons serve as admiral of the Crabb fleet.
The invitations had gone out when Eddard Stark still wore the Hand's brooch.
More than a month had passed.
Gawen re-read it. One fifth polite demurral, four fifths praise for Lord Stannis's wisdom.
He drummed slender fingers on the table. The timing and the content were both… pointed.
Stannis would soon proclaim himself King of the Seven Kingdoms. This was his camp's probe. They'd marked the Claw's strength and meant to woo him.
Clumsy—no, arrogant—diplomacy.
Gawen put the letter back down.
The red priestess… his right thumb brushed his forefinger.
…
Knock-knock. The door opened and Jeoffry stepped in.
"My lord, fresh intelligence: Tyrion Lannister has been appointed to act as Hand in Lord Tywin's stead."
So Tyrion had been named interim Hand. They'd be dealing often enough. Gawen reviewed the face the dwarf liked to wear before him… mm. Not vital. In the end, naked interests were all that mattered.
Once Ser Emparro's knighting was done, he could set the northern march in motion—Gawen's eyes flicked; the corner of his mouth twitched.
A small figure slid through the window soundlessly.
Jeoffry glanced over, tensed—then relaxed at once. He met Gawen's eyes and only shrugged, helpless.
Gawen cleared his throat lightly. "You may go."
Arya Stark crept in like a kitten, grey eyes bright with excitement.
Closer, closer. She dragged her mouth down, trying very hard to look calm.
I'm about to— She'd barely drawn breath to whoop when Gawen's big hand landed atop her head.
He laughed and ruffled her wild hair. "Good day, Lady Arya."
Arya's eyes went wide. She scowled. "Lord Gawen, how did you spot me again?!"
Her cheeks puffed. "Swift as deer, quiet as shadow, quick as a snake, still as water, strong as a bear, fierce as a wolf—Syrio says I did all of it!"
Gawen smiled. "Your breathing."
Arya's face scrunched. "I was too happy, so it went all funny."
"Been practicing surprise attacks?"
She shook her head. "Uh-uh. Syrio's teaching me to thrust fast."
Gawen's brow arched. "Ser Syrio's a fine teacher—and a fine foe. Try surprising him."
Another headshake. "Lord Gawen, you're my friend—but you're my foe."
"My foe?"
Sadness flashed over her little face, then excitement returned.
"Syrio says if I beat you, I can protect anyone I want. I want to protect Father!"
Gawen patted her head. The sight of Lord Stark, weak and wan, had frightened the little wolf—and made her braver.
He stood, looking down at small, stubborn Arya, and said solemnly, "Warrior Arya, I'll be waiting."
She lifted her chin, eyes shining. She nodded hard.
Then she hugged his leg. "We're leaving tonight. I'm so sad."
"I'll come see you soon," Gawen said, smiling. "Lord Stark and I have a hunt in the Wolfswood to keep."
A girl's joy is simple. "Really? Great! I'll show you everything!"
"Good," he chuckled.
"I'm going to find Syrio!"
She scampered off—and hurried back.
"Heh, I forgot. Father said he needs to see you."
"…"
…
In the room, Lord Eddard Stark and Jon Snow faced each other in heavy silence.
Gawen entered. Weariness lined Lord Stark's face, but a faint smile rose.
Gawen bowed first to Eddard, then stayed Jon from rising.
He clapped Jon's shoulder. "That leg of yours has mended at last."
On the day Joffrey judged Lord Stark, Jon had tried to slip out—alone—to rescue his father.
With the leg yet unhealed, he'd hobbled along until Crabb bluecloaks had found him.
The boy was stubborn; Pell Pyry had had to lock him up until the rescue was done.
"My lord, I—" Jon reddened, at a loss.
"You acted to save him," Gawen waved it off. "We all know."
He turned his brown eyes to Eddard. "You sent for me, my lord?"
Lord Stark nodded, fell silent, glanced between Jon and Gawen.
He sighed and spoke slowly. "I'll be leaving. Before I go, I mean to tell Jon… who he is."
Those grey eyes moved to Gawen. "Jon will become your squire. I won't hide this from you."
Jon couldn't hide his excitement; he stared at Eddard without blinking. Gawen only nodded, grave.
This trial had brought Eddard Stark a measure of awakening—of resolve.
Bitterness touched his face. Concealment born of righteousness often wounds the innocent most.
"Jon, I am not your father. You are my sister… Lyanna Stark's son."
Jon reeled, as if he'd heard something no dream could hold.
"That's… impossible," he murmured.
Lord Stark knew nothing of easing one into truth. "Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen."
The air itself seemed to set.
After a long while, Gawen broke the silence. "The False Spring?"
Eddard's sorrow darkened; he nodded.
Gawen sighed. "No wonder you hid it…"
He had sunk wholly into the part—Eddard Stark, who'd bartered his very honor to protect his sister's child.
"I always wondered how a man like you had a bastard. Now I see—you were guarding Jon."
Eddard patted his son-nephew's shoulder. "Lyanna loved you very much."
…
On a bed of blood she had whispered: Ned… promise me…
Ned looked down at his hands… When he gave his word, the fear left Lyanna's eyes. She smiled, fingers locked around his—until her life slipped away.
He swallowed the grief. "She loved flowers. Snowy winter roses most."
Jon turned away, scrubbing at tears that would not stop.
…
Red-eyed, Jon spoke steadily. "My lord, I don't want the Claw. I want to leave Westeros."
"Jon—"
"I want to go see the world."
"You're still a boy—"
"I'm grown," Jon cut him off again. "And I'm not acting on impulse."
Gawen watched Stark-stubbornness in silence; the choice was made.
He began, gentle: "You needn't fear endangering others. The Claw can shelter—"
Lord Stark lifted a hand; Gawen spread his own and held his tongue.
Eddard nodded to him, then faced Jon with reluctant pride. "I believe you've come of age. I'll honor your choice."
Jon bowed his head; his breath hitched as he mastered himself. "Thank you."
Eddard squeezed his shoulder and smiled, warmth breaking through. "My child—Winterfell will always be your home."
…
Night along a hidden strand below King's Landing. Gawen took leave of the Starks.
Arya, on Eddard's left, went first. "I'll miss you, Lord Gawen."
"I'll miss you too, Arya."
"Don't forget our promise!"
"I won't."
On Eddard's right, Sansa gathered her skirts and sank into a perfect curtsey.
"Lord Gawen, I'm sorry—I misread your kindness."
Gawen shook his head slightly. "You're brave, my lady. I'm glad for you."
She smiled, sweet as ever. "Ser Gawen, I'll remember your grace—always."
Joffrey's lies had made the little lady grow in a night, yet the Sansa who loved pretty gowns, sweet songs, tales of heroes and handsome knights—she had not vanished.
Gawen nodded with a smile.
Eddard clapped his shoulder. "Thank you, child."
"Lord Stark," Gawen said softly, "Crabb does not forget."
Stern features eased into a smile. Eddard offered him the greatsword restored to him—Ice. "Take it, child. Let Stark and Crabb be ever friends."
Gawen took the blade with both hands, solemn. "Lord Stark—let our friendship endure."
"Winter is coming."
"As one, we stand."
…
…
The sea was calm. After the skiff left shore, it drew alongside the waiting carrack—the Black Pearl.
She would carry them straight to White Harbor.
On deck, Factor Rossel bowed. "A fair night, Lord Stark. I'm Rossel, factor for the Crabb Trading Company. Under cover of a leather-buying voyage, I'll be escorting you. Command me as you will."
"You have my thanks."
Arya's voice brimmed with excitement. "Father, this ship is huge! Can I fish?"
Eddard smiled, helpless. "You may—but be careful."
Syrio Forel straightened his tunic, grinning. "Girl, fishing is part of the dance."
Arya made a face and darted off. Syrio sighed and followed.
"Lord Stark?"
Eddard turned—and blinked. "Gendry?"
He strode over. Once sure this was Robert's get, surprise became gladness.
"Lad, how come you here?"
Broad-shouldered Gendry Waters scratched his head, shy under the concern. "City guards came to seize me. Lord Gawen got me out… Said the Lannisters mean to kill me, and I should go with you."
Eddard clapped the boy's solid shoulder. "Then I'll see you safe."
Gendry hesitated. "Begging your pardon, my lord… Why are you all so good to me?"
.
.
.
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