Outside the tavern, Gawen Crabb swung onto his horse. His gaze lingered for a moment on a corner not far away, where the Gold Cloaks were surrounding a group under inspection: one boy, ten Red Cloaks, and twelve horses.
"Let's go." Gawen drew back his eyes and gave his mount a light kick.
Podrick Payne blinked in confusion when the Gold Cloaks who had been harshly questioning them suddenly dispersed. Then realization struck—his pupils shrank, and he rushed toward the tavern.
He nearly collided with Tyrion Lannister as the dwarf stepped outside.
"My… l-lord, you… you're… unharmed?" Podrick stammered more than ever in his panic.
Tyrion mimicked his squire's stammer, grinning: "Un… harmed."
Though Tyrion knew that Gawen was no senseless killer, the sight of his squire alive and well lifted his spirits considerably.
Podrick, however, failed to understand Tyrion's humor. He remained restless, his face full of guilt and self-reproach.
The dwarf's heart was sensitive. Looking at the timid, cowering boy, Tyrion began to suspect his uncle Kevan had deliberately foisted such a useless child on him as squire, just to humiliate his dwarf nephew.
But he quickly set aside that bitter thought. With some sympathy, Tyrion patted the boy on the shoulder. Strictly speaking, the lad was a victim too.
"Chin up. Square your shoulders. Don't forget—you serve the Lion."
"Forgive me, my lord," Podrick whispered, and immediately straightened as ordered.
Tyrion pressed his lips together, fighting back laughter, and said sternly: "Pod, what happened?"
Podrick reported everything in halting words: in short, they had been suddenly surrounded by dozens of Gold Cloaks.
"Only dozens? And you let them pen you in? Just now I was surrounded by a hundred."
Inwardly, Tyrion amended: Well, one Gawen is worth a hundred men.
Podrick's shame deepened. He had failed to stand by his lord in danger. He was useless. Thankfully the gods had spared them all.
"My lord, I… I'll avenge you!" Podrick's hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.
Tyrion studied him with a curious gaze. The boy didn't seem to be acting. Both timid and brave at once?
Perhaps his little squire was not merely a toy to jest with—perhaps he was someone Tyrion could place a little faith in.
"Podrick Payne, it was only a hundred men. Never forget the Lannister gift—one lion's roar, and all our enemies piss themselves as they flee."
He clapped his squire's arm and sighed. "And why do you think those Gold Cloaks slipped away on their own? It was I who saved you."
The Red Cloaks behind them exchanged silent looks.
Podrick's eyes shone with admiration. "M-my lord, you're incredible. Thank you for rescuing us. I… I'm ashamed."
Tyrion basked in the boy's reaction. Warmth filled him. He decided to reward such devotion.
"Pod, tonight I'll let you taste a woman's charms. Hm? What's that look? You would spurn my generosity? Do you not fear the Lion's roar?"
That evening, on the road back to the Red Keep, Gawen Crabb halted his horse. He signaled for his guards to remain behind and beckoned forward one of his tall clansmen, who bore the greatsword Ice across his back. Together, they walked toward a more secluded house.
When Gawen pushed open the door, Varys greeted him with a warm smile. The two men exchanged courtesies.
After they sat, the Spider personally poured a cup of wine, setting it before Gawen.
"Lord Crabb, Myrish smokeberry brown."
He sipped from his own cup, eyes half-closed in enjoyment.
Gawen raised the cup, tasting the smooth, mellow vintage.
"Well?" Varys asked with a smile.
Gawen's lips curved faintly. "Balanced sweetness, balanced aftertaste. A fine indulgence, Lord Varys."
The eunuch chuckled, his laughter covering a hint of smugness. "A new pleasure, a new life. I never dreamed my despised little birds would prove so useful at last."
He sighed. "Wine, delicacies—things I once overlooked—now they soothe me to sleep."
Gawen lifted his cup in salute. "My congratulations."
Varys only shook his head lightly. "But we did not meet merely to discuss my hobbies."
"My little birds overheard something amusing."
At that, Gawen lowered his cup, fixing Varys with a steady look.
"A bastard."
The Spider's smile deepened.
Gawen murmured: "A bastard…" Then softly: "Joffrey?"
Varys flinched, his smile faltering. He leaned forward, glancing about nervously. "You… you know?"
"Rumors do not come from nothing," Gawen replied calmly.
"Be cautious. Rumors are dangerous. Best not to believe them."
"I understand. We are allies—so I do not hide my suspicions from you, Lord Varys."
The eunuch nodded with kindly expression. Then he added quietly: "I meant the bastard in the North."
"Eddard Stark's boy. Jon Snow?"
Varys's eyes glimmered. "With your wit, you've never questioned him?"
"A bastard, nothing more… what—" Gawen stopped himself, then frowned. "What have you heard?"
Varys leaned closer. "That boy left King's Landing this morning. His destination: Essos."
"I know," Gawen nodded. "Lord Stark arranged it—he thought the boy safer across the Narrow Sea. A pity. Jon's swordplay is excellent. I had thought to make him my squire."
Varys poured more wine, saying softly: "They did it to protect you."
"Protect me? How so?"
"That boy behaved oddly before leaving. He haunted taverns, questioning drunk old men about ancient matters. Generous with coin, too. Like a child searching for long-lost parents."
Gawen's eyes narrowed. "He seeks his mother?"
"Indeed. And among the many names he asked after, two stood out."
"Which?"
"Lyanna Stark. And…" Varys held his gaze, enunciating each syllable: "Rhaegar Targaryen."
The words made Gawen draw in a sharp breath. "Impossible…" he muttered.
Varys studied his wine. "Unlikely. And yet…"
Gawen turned toward the round window, where the setting sun gilded the frame.
"Lyanna. Rhaegar. A bastard."
"An ill-starred spring. The Tower of Joy. A bastard."
Gawen placed a hand over his chest. "Your candor honors me, Lord Varys."
"Only small tricks of intelligence gathering. We are allies—we must watch for one another."
Outside, Gawen tilted his head toward his sworn clansman and walked on. Evening clouds painted the sky gold, crimson, and purple.
Since the riot, Varys had taken to offering him exotic wines each time they met: Ghiscar yellow, Meereenese apricot, Volantene sweet.
Was the Spider easing him into a moment of trust—preparing, one day, to offer poison instead?
A faint smile touched Gawen's lips. And one day, this place will make a fine grave.
When he rejoined his men and mounted his horse, the stars were already pricking the night sky.
"Forward."
From the saddle, he gazed at the distant outline of the Red Keep. Varys's birds had taken note of Jon Snow—he would not easily slip the Spider's grasp.
Four Targaryen heirs gathering at once? The thought made Gawen's eyes flicker.
He tugged the reins, adjusting his mount. King's Landing's food crisis worsened by the day. Soon only repression might keep order.
King's Landing… Essos… the Targaryens… the Vale…
His loyalty to Robert remained unbroken. He would not forget the charge left to him by his king.
The Vale. The Eyrie.
Catelyn Tully arrived at the Eyrie under the high sun.
The frail, long-necked Maester Colemon, sweating and anxious, helped her from the basket.
"My lady, what a joy your arrival brings. Your sister is delighted by the news of your visit."
Catelyn glanced back at the basket. "I never thought I'd ascend a mountain like a turnip in a sack."
Then to Colemon: "And my sister Lysa, so eager to see me?"
"She ordered that you be brought to her chambers the instant you arrived."
Catelyn tightened her brown cloak. "I trust she slept soundly last night."
As they left the winch-house and approached the spiral stair, Catelyn froze.
Blinking in disbelief, she wondered if her eyes deceived her.
Ahead stood Petyr Baelish, hands clasped behind his back, his sharp features softened by a gentle smile.
"Littlefinger?"
He waved to Colemon, voice smooth and rasping. "Maester, I'll take it from here."
Seeing no objection from Catelyn, Colemon bowed and withdrew.
Petyr stepped closer. "Cat… how long has it been? Years and years."
She studied him. The boy she remembered—small and slight—was now a small, slight man, shorter than she. His chin bore a touch of beard, his black hair streaked with silver. But the sharp face and laughing grey-green eyes were unchanged.
Catelyn ignored the warmth in his tone. "What are you doing here?"
"I am Lady Lysa's ally."
Then, with concern: "You look unwell. You should rest."
Petyr gazed longingly at her. She was lovelier than ever, more refined, more radiant.
His hand lifted toward her cheek. She frowned and stepped back. His hand trembled in the air, just shy of touching her.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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