The midday sun was blinding.
Kevan Lannister was eating lunch.
Simple fare: roasted chicken breast, boiled beans, black bread, and a cup of water.
He ate fast and focused, like he was completing a mission.
"Lord Baelish." He swallowed, finally looking up, brow furrowed. "Is there something you need?"
"I'm sorry to interrupt your meal, Ser Kevan," Petyr Baelish said without a hint of apology. He sat down at the table like he owned the place. "But I heard some news I felt I had to bring to you immediately as Master of Laws. It concerns the attack on the king this morning…"
Kevan set down his knife and fork at once and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"Ser Addam has already reported. Rioters attacked. The Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs, Vito Corleone, arrived in time. His Grace and the Queen Regent are unharmed. Lady Margaery was frightened but otherwise fine."
"Ser Meryn Trant died in the line of duty. Almost no other casualties."
"Do you have anything else to add?"
Kevan's voice was deep and serious, carrying the quiet confidence of a man who had run Casterly Rock smoothly for decades as his brother's right hand.
"Very thorough report," Baelish said with a smile. "But don't you think… it's a little too thorough?"
He pulled a rolled parchment from his tunic and spread it on the table.
Kevan leaned in. It was a crude hand-drawn map of King's Landing marked with symbols.
"I sent men to the scene," Baelish said, no longer pretending to hide anything. He pointed at the map. "The attack happened on Pickled Meat Street, middle section. Here—" he tapped a red dot "—is where the carriage stopped. And here…" He moved his finger to another mark. "Is where Corleone appeared."
Kevan stared. The two points formed a straight line.
"From the Hall of Order to the middle of Pickled Meat Street, even riding at full speed takes at least ten minutes. But according to Ser Addam's report, only four minutes passed between the attack starting and Corleone arriving."
Baelish looked up, smiling faintly. "Don't you find that strange, Ser Kevan? How could Vito Corleone have known about the attack in advance and reached the scene in such a short time?"
Kevan's brow furrowed deeper.
"Coincidence," he said after a moment. "Perhaps they were simply on that street."
"Perhaps…" Baelish's smile widened as he produced a second parchment. "This is the morning log from the Hall of Order. At four in the morning, twenty-three men left. At five-thirty, thirty-one more departed."
"None of them returned before noon. And the alleys they headed toward lead directly to the site of the attack on Pickled Meat Street."
Kevan stared at the two documents, fingers drumming the table. Then he looked up. "What exactly are you trying to say, Baelish?"
"I'm not trying to say anything, my lord." Baelish leaned forward, voice low. "But the king has faced two riots in a very short time since taking the throne. Isn't that a bit too convenient? Perhaps… you should have Ser Addam investigate."
Kevan was silent for a long time.
"Do you have evidence?"
"I'm only raising questions, my lord."
Baelish smiled as he rolled up the parchments and tucked them away. "As a loyal vassal, I believe the Iron Throne's honor should not be tarnished. It's best to look into these things."
He stood and bowed slightly. "Good day, Ser Kevan."
He turned to leave.
One step. Two steps. Three.
"Wait."
Baelish stopped, smiling, and turned back. "My lord?"
Kevan had risen as well. His expression was cold and stern. "The Iron Throne will not be deceived by anyone."
"It is the realm's good fortune to have you as Master of Laws," Baelish replied with another slight bow.
But as he turned to go again, Kevan spoke once more.
"Tywin told you to leave King's Landing, didn't he?"
Baelish's smile froze.
He looked back. Kevan's face was hard as stone. "Then… leave."
---
The next morning.
Morning light poured through the massive stained-glass windows of the Great Sept of Baelor, painting the nave in brilliant colors.
Nearly every noble in King's Landing had gathered, standing on either side of the central aisle.
Queen Regent Cersei Lannister stood in the front row, closest to the altar, in a deep crimson gown embroidered with gold. Her high collar and faint smile gave her a faintly disdainful air.
King Joffrey stood beside her, his heavy crown constantly slipping. He adjusted it every few minutes, tapping his leather boots impatiently against the marble floor.
"How much longer?" he muttered to his mother, eyes fixed on the sept door where a squire held a fancy box containing his new Valyrian steel arrowheads.
He couldn't wait. He'd already tested them—they punched through three layers of oak—and was deciding which disobedient servant to test them on after the ceremony.
"Patience, Your Grace," Margaery Tyrell said softly beside him. "The Seven like to watch people wait."
"Today is a good day. The brave are finally rewarded."
She spoke patiently, but her eyes kept drifting toward the side door where her seven guards stood, hands resting on their sword hilts.
After yesterday's riot, Margaery had learned the value of keeping bodyguards close.
Joffrey huffed and tugged at his robes. Beside him, Lord Commander Jaime Lannister stood tall in gleaming new white armor, freshly shaved and with his graying golden hair neatly combed. He wore a rare, genuine smile.
Though he guarded the king, Jaime's eyes were locked on the door, waiting for a familiar figure. He was more excited than the day he himself had been knighted by the Sword of the Morning.
This was his big day, after all.
Jaime's younger brother Tyrion stood a little farther back in a deep purple velvet doublet that was far too long for him, making him look like a child playing dress-up. He wore a thin, humorless smile with zero warmth in his eyes.
Ever since marrying Sansa Stark, Shae hadn't let him touch her. Both women stared at him with black faces these days. Tyrion felt utterly drained.
All thanks to his father's brilliant arrangements.
"The reward of the brave is always a pleasure, isn't it?"
A voice spoke beside him.
Tyrion turned to find Petyr Baelish had appeared, dressed in an outrageously ornate dark-green doublet embroidered with silver vines and a mockingbird pin that sparkled brighter than the one he'd worn when he was named Lord of Harrenhal.
"You're celebrating another man's knighting? How generous."
"I just find it boring," Tyrion muttered. "These ceremonies are like old cheese—shiny on the outside, moldy underneath."
"Oh, don't be like that, dear Lord Tyrion!" Baelish laughed loudly. "A farmer is about to be knighted by the Master of Laws in front of half the realm. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event. We should all be happy for him!"
"Such things are rare in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Even Ser Duncan the Tall started as a squire."
He sounded genuinely delighted for Corleone.
"Rare things happen all the time," a voice said beside them. "Yesterday was rare. Today is rare. Tomorrow… who knows?"
They turned to see a shiny bald head.
Lord Varys, dressed in a plain gray robe, hands folded in his wide sleeves, wore his usual mournful expression as he quietly stepped between them, forming a small triangle.
"Lord Varys," Baelish said, pupils shrinking slightly before he nodded. "You look well today."
"Do I?" Varys touched his smooth chin. "Perhaps I slept well last night."
"My little birds tell me some people didn't sleep well at all. They were busy packing for a long journey."
Baelish's smile stiffened for a second, then returned. "Travel is sometimes necessary. Staying in one place too long makes a man dull, wouldn't you agree?"
"Indeed," Varys nodded. "But sometimes when you leave in a hurry, you leave things behind."
"When I was in Pentos, my teacher always told me: never celebrate too early when things are going well. Otherwise, when disappointment comes, you won't be able to accept it."
"I don't know what you mean," Baelish said.
"You will," Varys smiled, then stepped back and fell silent.
Baelish felt a flicker of unease, but before he could dwell on it, a stir rose at the sept doors.
The crowd parted.
Vito Corleone walked in.
He wore simple dark-gray plate armor that gleamed coldly in the sunlight. No fancy engravings, no extra decoration—except for the white shield with a black hand emblazoned on his chest.
He walked slowly, every step steady and powerful, boots striking the marble floor. His eyes looked straight ahead, straight at the statue of the Father.
[Presence Lv. 3] rolled out like an invisible wave across the entire sept.
The nobles' whispers died instantly. Every eye turned to him.
His back was ramrod straight—no humble posture of a lowborn man before his betters. He walked like a king.
Jaime's smile deepened.
That's it.
As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Jaime could have knighted Corleone himself. He had the right. But he refused.
Because he still carried the stain of "Kingslayer." He didn't care for himself, but he wouldn't drag Corleone down with him.
But now… Uncle Kevan was the most honorable man Jaime knew. For him to perform the ceremony was perfect.
Under the gaze of the entire hall, Corleone reached the altar and stood tall.
The fat High Septon, dressed in his most ornate robes embroidered with the Seven, tried to look imposing.
"Vito Corleone," he boomed. "You bravely saved the king during the attack and defended the honor of the Iron Throne. The Seven bear witness to your courage and loyalty."
"Now, before the Seven and all these lords, you will swear your oath and receive this highest honor!"
The High Septon turned expectantly to Ser Kevan Lannister, who stood nearby in a deep blue doublet, the roaring lion of Casterly Rock on his chest, holding a ruby-encrusted sword.
According to tradition, Kevan should step forward, touch Corleone's shoulders with the sword, and speak the words.
But under the expectant stares of the High Septon and everyone else, Kevan didn't move.
He stood frozen, sword in hand, staring straight ahead like a statue.
"My lord…" the High Septon prompted.
Kevan didn't respond.
The sept fell into an uneasy silence broken only by the High Septon's heavy breathing. He tried again, more urgently. "My lord… please begin the knighting…"
Still nothing.
Cold sweat beaded on the High Septon's forehead.
What the hell was happening?
"My lord, please proceed with the ceremony!"
On the third try, the High Septon's voice was almost frantic.
His own son's illness still needed Corleone's follow-up care!
Finally, Kevan's eyes swept the hall.
"I… will not knight Corleone."
Gasps and murmurs exploded through the sept.
"What?"
"What did he say?"
"He's refusing?"
The High Septon's whole body shook. "My lord… you…"
"What are you doing, Uncle Kevan? Finish the damn ceremony!" Joffrey shouted, pointing at him. "Corleone saved the king! He deserves a reward!"
"Yeah!"
"Saying you'll knight him and then backing out? Are you playing us?"
"Even the Master of Laws can't just do whatever he wants!"
As the protests grew louder, Kevan looked straight at the king, voice icy.
"Procedure can be changed, Your Grace."
"Given what Corleone has done… I cannot knight him."
The hall erupted in shocked whispers.
Jaime's face went white. He started forward to speak up for Corleone, but Tyrion grabbed his pant leg and shook his head.
Tyrion glanced at Baelish. The man was grinning like a cat that had swallowed the canary. He even leaned toward Varys and murmured, "It seems… the brave don't always get rewarded."
Varys said nothing. He simply watched in silence.
At the altar, the High Septon was panicking.
He looked from Kevan to the kneeling Corleone, hands fluttering. "This… this isn't how it's done, my lord! The king already approved! The Faith agreed—"
Baelish's smile grew wider and wider.
It worked.
The seed of doubt had taken root. Now this farmer would be stripped of every bit of glory and sent back to the mud where he belonged. And when that happened, all his businesses…
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed from the sept doors.
Thick boots struck the marble floor, each step like a war drum—powerful and commanding.
Every head turned. Breath caught.
A figure stood in the doorway, backlit by morning light, forming a golden silhouette.
He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Posture straight and imposing. In one hand he carried a drawn sword.
Emerald eyes swept the hall like a lion surveying its territory.