Varys clasped his hands before his belly, turning toward Gawen with a plump, smiling face.
"Lord Crabb, the Duke of Winterfell is now the Hand of the King. As Master of Whisperers, I am obliged to keep the Hand's whereabouts confidential."
Petyr cast Varys a brief glance, the gray-green of his eyes flickering before his lips curved slightly. He looked back at Gawen.
"True enough."
Gawen nodded in agreement. "Lord Varys, forgive my forwardness."
The young baron's earnest apology made Varys's smile stiffen almost imperceptibly.
Petyr seemed to think of something and said suddenly, "Lord Crabb, are you intending to meet the Stark duke on his arrival?"
"Lord Petyr, your wisdom is truly admirable!"
Gawen offered the compliment before explaining, "After the war more than ten years ago, it was thanks to Lord Eddard's honest counsel that His Grace King Robert agreed to pardon my mother—while she was heavy with child. House Crabb owes him a great debt, one we shall never forget."
At his words, Petyr's pupils contracted slightly, and a trace of his smile faded.
Every courtier in the Red Keep now knew this young baron could influence the Queen's decisions; he was, in truth, her favored confidant.
So when Gawen had just offered to help persuade Queen Cersei, Petyr had never doubted his ability to do so.
Petyr now wondered if Gawen might act as a go-between, easing the tensions between the Queen and Lord Eddard.
A clash between the Direwolf and the Lion was the very ladder Petyr had been carefully building for his own rise—he would tolerate no unforeseen obstacles.
A cold prickle touched his chest as he recalled that night in King's Landing. Then he smirked inwardly. When real interests collided, no court favorite could change the outcome of such a struggle.
Still, this "wild" young baron, harmless most days, could be dangerously impulsive. He was not to be ignored.
Petyr's smile bloomed once more. "Lord Crabb, this is more than gratitude—allow me to offer my congratulations!"
Varys added with a polite nod, "The Seven Kingdoms know of Lord Stark's honor. Our new Hand will be pleased to meet you."
Gawen replied humbly, "The Duke of Winterfell's renown is far-reaching. I can hardly wait to pay my respects to Hand Eddard."
Varys chuckled, shaking his head. "It seems I must betray our Hand's location at least once. Oh dear, my heart flutters."
Petyr said with a smirk, "A gold coin has two faces; matters are never so simple."
Gawen blinked at him. "Lord Petyr, do you also take an interest?"
Petyr's expression flickered with faint curiosity.
"I happened to learn of your youthful exploits in Riverrun," Gawen said with a smile.
"That was long ago…" Petyr's tone carried a note of self-mockery. "Even now, it remains a bitter memory."
He sighed and gazed into the distance. "Catelyn…"
Petyr had begun to weave the image of a man devoted to love. Gawen understood at once—this was familiar territory to him. With Lord Eddard's nature, the more honest you appeared, the more easily you earned his trust.
From the moment Eddard Stark was named Hand, Petyr would, in public and private alike, openly acknowledge his love for Catelyn Stark.
The Master of Coin was nothing if not attentive to detail.
Varys raised his brows. "Lord Petyr, you and Lady Stark…?"
Petyr's smile turned bitter as he shook his head, offering no reply.
Varys glanced at Gawen.
Gawen spread his hands and shrugged. "Lord Petyr is a man of deep affections. His character is worthy of trust."
In the future—whether ally or opponent—Petyr would have all the justification he needed to choose the side most advantageous to himself.
Such nimble maneuvering suited his cunning nature.
Littlefinger's climb was about to begin: first to claim the title of Lord of Harrenhal, then to wed Lysa Tully to secure his place in the Vale.
Gawen had brought up Catelyn deliberately; he felt Petyr's romance had been too understated, so he fanned the flames a bit.
"Indeed," Varys agreed smoothly. "Lord Petyr's abilities are the most trustworthy in the realm."
Petyr's eye twitched; he ignored the veiled barb from the rootless eunuch.
Gawen nodded inwardly. In this game of thrones, they would love and kill each other in equal measure.
It was time to take his leave—too much time in the company of these two shadowed minds left his own sunny disposition ill at ease.
He placed a hand over his chest. "Lord Petyr, Lord Varys, if you will excuse me."
Varys glided closer, and Gawen caught the scent of lilacs.
"Lord Crabb, at sunrise today, my little birds told me the Stark party was on the Kingsroad, two or three days from King's Landing."
Gawen was about to thank him when a tall figure strode swiftly from the doors of the council chamber.
It was Lord Stannis Baratheon.
Even at a distance, Gawen could feel the heat of his anger. He thought at once of the royal decree naming Lord Eddard as Hand of the King.
Petyr watched Stannis's departing back and said with dry amusement, "Not long after the royal decree, and Lord Stannis is already bound for Dragonstone."
Varys's smile was faint. "It seems we won't see him for some time. A pity."
Gawen glanced between them. "I take it Lord Stannis is in no pleasant mood?"
Varys nodded, then shook his head, lips moving without words until his thoughts escaped as a sigh.
He had recently taken to playing the part of a minister concerned for the realm in Gawen's presence, which did not surprise the baron.
Petyr sensed something odd, cutting him a sidelong glance, but thought no more of it.
Varys had acted strangely before him for so long that even the sharp-eyed Master of Coin found it unremarkable.
Petyr smiled faintly. "His Grace is busy, and it is easy for him to neglect his younger brother. Such things cannot be helped."
Varys sighed again. "Perhaps our new Hand can persuade Lord Stannis to return."
Petyr's tone turned mocking. "Lord Mace Tyrell should count himself fortunate Stannis did not become Hand. If he had, he would surely have dredged up the crimes committed during the siege of Storm's End."
Varys widened his eyes in surprise. "But the Seven praise Lord Stannis's sense of justice. That was years ago, and His Grace pardoned them, did he not?"
Petyr said coldly, "Justice admits no pardon. That is Lord Stannis's way."
Seeing Gawen's curious look, Petyr shrugged. "Some things happened in the past. If not for an old lord's intervention, I might have been cast out of Westeros."
Gawen did not press. He guessed it likely involved the brothels.
His thoughts strayed to Daenerys—if Petyr had truly been exiled to Essos, he would likely have thrown in with the Targaryens and become a valuable tool in reclaiming the Iron Throne.
Petyr was sworn to the Vale, not Dragonstone; Stannis could not deal with him directly, only through the Small Council or King Robert.
It had come to nothing, but the affair had been a deep humiliation for Petyr.
Gawen mused that, with his iron nature, Lord Stannis had no shortage of potential enemies. At present, the Crab Claw Peninsula might be his only potential ally.
Varys folded his hands. "I recall you were serving in the Tower of the Hand then, raising funds. Time does fly."
Gawen smiled. "Lord Petyr, time has proven your innocence. You are now one of His Grace's chief councillors."
Varys cast Gawen a sidelong glance. The baron's honeyed tongue was making him feel the slightest pressure.
Petyr clapped Gawen on the shoulder. "Quite so. Time proves all things."
Parting from Varys and Petyr, the ever-industrious Gawen went straight to Maegor's Holdfast to see Queen Cersei.
Time was short; to be safe, he meant to secure those forty thousand gold dragons before Lord Eddard arrived at the Red Keep.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: www.patreon.com/DrManhattanEN
👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.