Gavin soon found Margaery waiting in the garden and gently broke the news.
"I'm leaving today," he said softly.
Margaery's expression fell, and for a moment, her composure wavered. "So soon?" she asked, voice tinged with sorrow. "Then at least let me see you off."
Gavin hesitated, but seeing the earnest look in her eyes, he gave a faint nod. "All right."
The two of them made their way to the secluded woods outside Highgarden once more. A cool breeze stirred the leaves, brushing their hair as they stood facing each other.
Margaery's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Gavin, promise me you'll be careful."
He stepped forward, wrapping her in a firm embrace. "Don't worry. No one can touch me while I have Syndor."
Margaery nodded, her voice a whisper. "I'll be waiting for you at Highgarden."
Gavin reluctantly let her go and turned to where Syndor—his great black dragon—awaited. With a swift motion, he climbed onto the saddle, and in a rush of wind and wingbeats, they soared into the sky. Margaery stood motionless, watching him vanish into the clouds until he was nothing but a speck against the morning sun.
After leaving Highgarden, Gavin flew eastward, heading for the Narrow Sea. Within half a day, Syndor's massive wings cast shadows once again across the rolling waves below.
The sea was grim and foreboding. Heavy clouds loomed like a black shroud overhead, blotting out the sun. Fierce winds howled across the surface, sending towering waves crashing in every direction. The sea looked like a churning abyss—dark, deep, and merciless.
From high above, Gavin scanned the waters below with a hawk's precision. His eyes were sharp, his mind calculating. He adjusted course, veering slightly north. The rolling crests of the sea clashed against the jagged horizon, their white spray slicing through the gloom.
There were only three maritime routes from Braavos to King's Landing. Gavin was confident that Littlefinger's ship wouldn't deviate from them. Before leaving, he'd ordered Hassan to deploy warships across all three paths. With the sea locked down, Littlefinger would have no way of slipping through.
The storm raged over the Narrow Sea, the dark clouds pressing down like iron. The wind roared as waves smashed against the hulls of ships like enraged beasts. Twenty freshly built warships crested the swells, cutting through the gale in a tight formation. Their sails snapped violently in the wind, drenched but resolute.
Below deck on one of the ships, Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger—sat hunched in the cabin, his complexion pale and sickly. Though accustomed to sea travel, this particular voyage had left him queasy and drained.
Still, his mood was buoyed by success. Sent by Robert to Braavos, he had not only secured a loan of 100,000 gold dragons from the Iron Bank but had also used the full sum to purchase twenty sail warships and hire loyal sailors. It was a move only Littlefinger could conceive—a private navy, disguised as a royal investment.
He believed that once back in King's Landing, these vessels would be quietly folded into the royal fleet—serving the crown, yes, but ultimately loyal to him.
But unease gnawed at him. A letter had reached the capital; Catelyn was already there. Her failure to spark conflict between Ned Stark and the Lannisters was troubling. "Foolish woman," he muttered, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. "I need to get back. I must set things in motion myself."
Just then, the cabin door burst open. A servant stumbled inside, eyes wide with fear.
"My lord—something's wrong! Three ships ahead, blocking the route—they might be pirates!"
Petyr's stomach lurched—not from the seasickness, but from a deeper dread. He grabbed his cloak and followed the servant to the deck.
Outside, the storm had worsened. Rain lashed the ship like whips, the sound of it hammering on wood and sail. In the distance, three warships stood like specters on the sea, barring the path forward.
The ship's captain approached, voice grim."They're not pirates. Pirates don't sail vessels like those—and the one in the center is massive."
Petyr squinted through the sheets of rain, his unease deepening."Is it the royal fleet? What are they doing here? Why block our way...?"
Dozens of scenarios raced through his mind—but before he could act, the three ships began to move.
They turned swiftly and sailed straight toward his convoy.
As they closed the gap, a symbol became visible on their sails—a blazing flame.
Petyr's blood ran cold."No... not him..."
He recognized the sigil at once. Only one man dared fly that flag on the Narrow Sea:
Gavin Bellerys.
Panic gripped him."How did he know? Who told him I was going to Braavos? Has he come for revenge?"
He thought of the failed attempt on Daenerys's life—yes, Robert gave the order, but Gavin might not care who issued it. He was powerful, ruthless... and unpredictable.
Petyr's stomach churned again, and this time it wasn't the waves.
He looked at the twenty warships around him. A mighty force—but against Gavin and his dragon? Worthless. Not long ago, Gavin had incinerated fleets from four city-states. These ships would fare no better.
The enemy vessels drew closer but made no move to attack. Instead, they slowed and approached with calculated precision.
Petyr's knuckles whitened around the rail."Hold position," he instructed the captain. "Let's see what they want. Don't do anything rash."
As the ships pulled alongside one another, ropes were thrown across the gap. Petyr's men dared not resist—they knew resistance would be suicide.
The decks came level. From across the void, a familiar figure stepped into view.
Hassan.
Expression hard as steel, he looked directly at Littlefinger.
"Lord Petyr," he said coolly, "His Majesty requests your presence."