Gawen Crabb dragged a chair over, sat facing Eddard Stark, then swung his big boots up onto the table.
Folding his arms, he said, "Lord Stark, the queen bids me quit this place and keep the bluecloaks waiting outside the Red Keep."
Ned assumed he meant Gawen's two hundred bluecloaks.
"Go to Riverrun, Gawen. You'll be safe."
Janos Slynt had just left, having solved Ned's most pressing problem. The Commander of the City Watch had come bearing the king's "last commands"; with six thousand gold cloaks, he would assist the Hand in securing the castle. Even if Cersei meant to resist, three hundred redcloaks alone could never overturn Ned's hold on the Red Keep.
Gawen scrubbed at his hair. "My lord, I see you in danger, and you would send me away. At the least, tell me why—or forgive me, I must refuse… any such order. I am staying to guard you."
Ned felt the boy's resolve and rubbed his brow, weariness pressing at his temples. Silence pooled in the solar.
Gawen did not yield. Moved, helpless, Ned chose to tell him the truth.
"After Robert's death there is no trueborn son to inherit the Iron Throne. Those three children are the bastard issue of Jaime and Cersei Lannister."
Gawen straightened at once, eyes widening as he searched Ned's solemn face for any hint of jest.
At length, seeing none, he worked his lips and found no words.
"So Stannis is the lawful heir," Ned said with a sigh. "That is why I would have you leave King's Landing for a time. I will see this set in order and make sure none of Cersei's sins stain you. When you return, you may serve the new king with an easy heart."
Ned was not a man of many words, but he spent them freely now for the boy's sake.
Gawen let out a breath. "So that's why…" He lowered his boots, sat straighter. "A cruel truth—and hard to accept."
The telling reopened Ned's grief for Robert. At least his friend had died before this cruelty reached him; perhaps that was mercy.
Gawen rose, paced a time, and came back to the table.
"Forgive my boldness, my lord—but let me speak plain."
Ned nodded.
"If Lord Stannis takes the Iron Throne, the realm will drown in blood."
Ned frowned and cut him short. "Stannis is Robert's elder brother. The throne is lawfully his. Do not speak folly."
"Then hear me out," Gawen said, unflinching. "We both know Stannis—unyielding and implacable. If he sits the throne, he cannot rest while Cersei and her bastards live.
"Robert forgave those who served Aerys, so long as they bent the knee. Stannis will not. He will remember the siege of Storm's End; the Tyrells and Redwynes will remember as well.
"Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock will raise his banners, and he will not stand alone. Fear will seize the Seven Kingdoms. Let any man lift the Targaryen standard, and the Reach, the Westerlands, the Ironborn—aye, perhaps even the Stormlands—will flock to it."
Ned said nothing, brows drawn tight.
Gawen pressed on: "Across the Narrow Sea, the Mad King's second son, Viserys, is of age. To such men, you and Robert are usurpers. They will do as you once did upon the Iron Islands—come to the North, march on Winterfell, fawn on their new king by bathing the Starks in blood. The Targaryen tragedy will be played again—upon your house."
At the mention of that tragedy, Ned hesitated—but only a heartbeat.
"Stannis is the rightful heir," he said, steady as stone. "I will make no other choice."
Gawen sighed. "Sansa. Arya. Jon. What of them?"
Ned, relieved the argument had passed, answered more easily. The boy's tongue had almost shaken his honor.
"I have sent to hire a ship. I will see my children away from King's Landing at once."
Gawen held up three fingers. "Three questions, then, my lord."
Ned inclined his head.
"First—are you certain you mean Jon Snow to return to Winterfell?"
Ned thought of Catelyn and fell silent.
Gawen opened his hands. "It seems you had not weighed Jon's… difficulties."
"I cannot deny my carelessness," Ned admitted.
"If you permit it," said Gawen, smiling faintly, "let Jon be my squire. His character and sword-work are strong. With effort, he may yet win his spurs upon the Crab Claw Peninsula."
Ned knew the boy's prowess and could not deny this was a good path for Jon—perhaps the best.
"I will speak to him at first light. My thanks, child."
Gawen bowed his head, then continued. "Second—do you truly believe Sansa and Arya can leave safely?"
Gawen was young but steady; he did not ask idly.
"You fear for them?"
"Beyond doubt. By naming Stannis, you've made enemies on every side. The Red Keep keeps no secrets. Until a king is named—or a winner found—men will watch your daughters. If need be, they will be used as hostages."
Ned's silence conceded the point. He had thought his plans sufficient; now he saw how thin they were.
"Entrust Sansa and Arya to me," Gawen said solemnly. "My bluecloaks will guard them. I will deliver them safely to Lady Catelyn. I swear it."
"I believe you," Ned said softly. "And… my thanks."
"Then the last question." Gawen's eyes were frank. "Are you certain you can make all this go smoothly?"
Ned met his gaze, a ghost of a smile at his mouth. "Do not fear. I will set it right."
"Even so—" Gawen slid a blank parchment before him. "Leave yourself a road of retreat. In your name as Protector and Hand, appoint me Captain of the Iron Gate."
Ned shook his head. "You should be gone from the city by dawn."
"We have both seen battle," Gawen said gently. "Only the gods guarantee victory. You must have a way out." He dipped the quill and offered it. "My household knights will hold the Iron Gate. If aught goes amiss, join them and ride straight out."
Ned hesitated.
"If you refuse," Gawen added, "then we all remain—and share your fate. Arya believes her swordplay has greatly improved…"
Ned could not help but smile at the "threat," and took the quill. Winter is coming. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
…
Gawen tucked the writ away. "At first light I'll collect your daughters."
Ned nodded. "You have my thanks." A thought struck him. "How did you know I was named Protector?"
Gawen shrugged. "A hint from Varys. As I said—the Red Keep keeps no secrets. Be wary."
"Seven hells," Ned muttered.
Gawen turned to go, but Ned called him back, came forward, and clapped his arm.
"Good lad. The North remembers."
A small smile touched Gawen's face. He set a hand to his breast.
"Crabb remembers."
…
…
On the rocks below the Red Keep, by the dark sea.
Gawen glanced at the night sky—an hour or two until dawn. A busy night indeed.
A sound behind him; he turned with a mild smile. "Good even, Lord Petyr."
Petyr Baelish looked gaunt and ragged from his time in the black cells.
"And to you, Lord Crabb. I never thought it would truly be you," he rasped.
Gawen took a wineskin from Mondon Waters and waved the others back.
"I keep my word, my lord. You'll be away soon enough."
Littlefinger pulled the stopper and drank deep. "Ahhh."
"The taste of Summer Red," he murmured with wry delight. "I thought never to savor it again."
Gawen's eyes flickered. "The more one has, the more tasteless it grows."
"Lose it, and it becomes precious," Petyr said, drinking again.
Though thinner, his grey-green eyes still gleamed as he peered back toward the way they'd come.
"You even know the secret way to the Black Cells," he said.
"A pity," Gawen answered, "we shan't use it after tonight."
Petyr studied him. "When did you and Varys become such friends?"
Gawen spread his hands. "He must see some use in me. I've yet to learn what."
"An unsurprising answer," Petyr said with a shrug.
Gawen pointed down the shore. "There's a skiff. The men are sellsails of good repute. They'll see you safe to the Eyrie." He paused. "They are at your command."
After a silence, Petyr's eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Lord Crabb—what has been happening of late?"
Gawen nodded and spoke slowly. "The Vale stirs, thanks to the Hand's ravens. They say Lady Anya Waynwood of Ironoaks, Lords Belmore, Redfort, and Hunter, and Ser Symond Templeton of Nine Stars have formed a Justiciars' Alliance—sworn to bring the traitor, Lysa Tully, to justice by any means. Bronze Yohn still lingers in the city; once he returns to the Vale, he'll likely join them."
Petyr's mouth quirked. "Lively indeed." He glanced back. "And by 'lively,' you mean only this alliance?"
"And Lysa herself," Gawen said. "As guardian in the Eyrie's name, she's branded them rebels and commanded all other Vale lords to form a True Justiciars' Alliance to put them down."
Petyr snorted. "The True Justiciars?"
Gawen shrugged. "As when she insists the boy be styled the true Warden of the East. Much the same."
"Tell me, Lord Crabb," Petyr asked lightly as they walked toward the skiff, "has the Hand stripped me of my title and lands?"
"Not yet," Gawen said, pointing ahead. "He waits to try Lysa Tully in King's Landing. Your charges have not been proclaimed, so your titles remain."
"Not proclaimed?" Petyr's tone was dry. "I daresay all the realm knows."
"Lady Lysa has shuttered the Eyrie," Gawen replied with a smile. "There's little others can do—unless…"
"Unless force is used," Petyr finished. "Soon enough the Justiciars will mass beneath the Eyrie."
Gawen glanced at his eased expression. "Then Lady Lysa needs you more than ever. I think she will support you—heart and hand, Lord Petyr."
.
.
.
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