Capítulo 3: Chapter 3-Stealing from a Thief!
Chapter 3
CREGAN STARK
Pain. Debilitating and excruciating pain that had been the first thing he had felt as he had first woken up in this world. The cold chill of his room in Winterfell had been next followed by utter confusion.
To this day, he often felt trapped in a dream, waiting to wake up.
Yet as he felt another jolt of pain rip through his leg, he bit his lip as he bent down to avoid the sword that had just passed where his head had been, yet the excruciating pain made it impossible for him to get back up as he found himself crumbling to the ground, as the blunted edge of a sword was brought to his neck.
"I yield," he managed to utter through the pain as he let go of his own blunted blade and reached for the wineskin tied to his side. He opened it quickly as he gulped down a mouthful of diluted milk of poppy.
"Sometimes I question your sanity for pushing yourself like this," uttered the man who had been one of his only companions in this wretched place.
Despite his affliction and much protest, Lord Eddard Stark, his father, had refused to listen to him and had sent him away to the capital to foster with the man he had once called his brother. The capital, which was filled with Lannister men, was run by Lannister gold and armed by Lannister steel.
"I don't, and I believe a barrel of fine wine shall be enough to drown those questions," Cregan answered as he pointed towards the pouch of gold he had given to the plump man of rather good height.
He was an outsider like him, born in the city of Myr across the Narrow Sea, as an eighth son before his father would give him to the temple of the Red God.
"Ahh, and fine wine shall it be," said Thoros of Myr with a chuckle as he pocketed the Gold and helped him to his feet as they found themselves in one of the underground tunnels beneath the Red Keep, away from prying eyes.
Cregan wasn't idiot enough to believe that their rather regular meetings over the last year had gone unnoticed by the likes of Varys or perhaps Baelish, yet there wasn't much to hide in the first place.
The milk of poppy took its effect, and the pain began to dull, as Cregan took in a deep breath as he sat down on the floor beside his teacher, who offered him his wineskin.
"Drink. It will dull the pain," he said, and though Cregan didn't like to drink wine, he would indulge himself sometimes, though in modesty. And given the tribulations of the past few days, he felt that he deserved a sip or two and took the offered wine, much to the surprise of the priest.
"You must be rather troubled to take my offer," muttered the fat priest as Cregan handed him back the wineskin.
"I thought you preferred Arbor to this tasteless swill," Cregan uttered as he forced the tasteless swill down his gullet, he had expected Arbor Gold or perhaps a Dornish vintage.
"I do, but the golds dried up in the past few moons, no tourneys to test my mettle. I have heard its to do something with the hand falling ill," questioned the man as he looked towards him, and Cregan nodded.
"Yes, Lord Arryn's condition has worsened. The Grandmaester isn't certain of his recovery," neither does he wish or work for it.
Though he didn't say that as Thoros of Myr nodded.
"God bless the old man. He certainly had me living a lavish life," said the follower of the Red God, and Cregan chuckled as he recalled how much Jon Arryn would try to convince their King to not waste money on a tourney every other moon.
"Then I believe the Gods shall be blessing the wrong person, for it was the King who insisted on the tourneys. Lord Arryn was often opposed to them," Cregan replied, and the red priest chuckled and raised his wineskin.
"Then may God bless The King and his next Hand who may organize many more such tournaments," said the man as he gulped down a mouthful of wine, his words making Cregan still for a moment, for he knew who was going to be the next hand.
His father. Eddard of House Stark he would come to the capital bound by his duty to his friend and King and would die by treachery.
And he could stop it all. And he would try to, though he often doubted if he could.
Being born as he was, Cregan knew that he had to change things. Yet it was as if the very fates plotted against him, sending him to the capital for a fostering that was useless to him, placing him in the den of snakes where he could do nothing but watch.
And though he may have failed to do much back in Winterfell as well, yet being in the capital had robbed him of his very freedom while putting a massive target on his back.
"Though I have always wondered, the King has the realm's best swords guarding him. You could have any of them train you for free. Then why do you come here in secret and pay me to train you when you could have the likes of Barristan the Bold or even the Kingslayer teach you in the yard of the Redkeep," questioned Thoros, and Cregan looked towards the man.
His face was smooth, and he had shaved his head, his robes red as an homage to the God he once served.
"The castle has many eyes and ears," Cregan replied cryptically, and though the reason was probable, it was not the real reason for his discretion.
"Hmph, I don't believe you are naïve enough to believe that the eyes and ears you speak of aren't aware of our little escapades," Thoros answered, and Cregan looked towards the man with a raised brow.
"The tales of the Spider's web were famous even in Myr. I can hardly believe that our regular meetings are a secret from the man," and Cregan nodded as he thought whether he should tell him the real reason.
"It's because of the Prince," in the end, he decided to answer. After all, it wasn't anything sinister.
"The Prince," and Cregan nodded.
"Yes, in the yard, I train with him, and our Royal Prince and his Queen mother do not take it kindly if someone outshines the Royal prick," Cregan answered, and Thoros nodded.
"Ahh, now it makes sense. You hold yourself back in the yard, and to make up for it, you have me train you," Cregan nodded. It was the most suitable solution.
And Joffrey and Cersei's jealousy wasn't limited to the yard. Even in his lessons, Cregan was forced to hold himself back as he kept pace with the Prince, though that didn't stop him from taking advantage of the vast collection of texts hidden in the Royal Library.
"Of course, or did you think I liked being trained by a drunken priest instead of the likes of Ser Barristan the Bold," Cregan japed as both of them broke out into a chuckle as Thoros made to stand up.
"Ahh, I believe I must be on my way. You have improved quite a lot over the year," he said as Cregan pushed himself up once again. The once excruciating pain had now been reduced to a dull ache, one which he had contended himself to live with for the rest of his life.
"You still cannot fight for long because of your leg. But you have got the basics down and could hold your own against many of the fake knights trodding around this city," said the man, and the praise made him smile as a sense of elation erupted in his heart.
It wasn't useless. All the time he had spent trying to learn the sword hadn't been useless. The man walked away, though he suddenly stopped as he questioned suddenly.
"Though I must ask, where do you get all this gold?" questioned Thoros, and Cregan smiled as he gave the man a cryptic smile.
"From the clutches of a little Mockingbird."
0000
CERSEI LANNISTER
The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms hadn't slept in peace for days as the Red Keep whispered of the Hand's unfortunate fate. They spoke of how the man had died so suddenly. They sang his praises, and each time they mentioned the name of the old Lord of the Eyrie, she felt as if a knife was pointed at her neck, a knife that would cut it out any second now.
Yet, as she saw the unmoving body of the old man infront of her, her heart eased slightly. Yet she knew that until she had taken care of the people closer to him, she wouldn't get rid of that knife aimed at her neck.
"I never considered you to care much for the dead, dear sister," and that voice filled her heart with ease as she looked to the side as her other half entered the sept, clad in shining white armor, with neigh a scratch on it. His hair, golden, much like her own, had been fashioned with oil and reached his shoulders, his unblemished face as if chiseled by a master.
"I just came to pay my respect to the late Lord Hand," she remarked regally as she stared at the Septon standing by the body. The man understood her signal and left the sept, leaving her alone with her brother who had now come to stand by her side.
"You are too careless with your words, brother," she chided him, yet he paid her words no heed and smiled without any care in the word.
"And you worry too much, whatever Jon Arryn knew, died with him," he remarked, and she shook her head, feeling the cold metal of the knife pressed against her neck as she turned her head to look at her other half.
"The man could have told someone we cannot leave any loose strand," she spoke, and Jamiw shook his head as he replied.
"And what do you think will the people at court think when suddenly people close to our hand began to turn up dead, the man told no one, I guarded the door to his chambers myself when he fell ill. The man was reduced to blubbering mess in a few hours. You need to relax," he said as he swung his arm around her shoulder, his head reaching for her shoulder.
She shrugged and pushed his arm away.
"The boy, I have heard that he called the Stark boy to his room in the night," she spoke. She saw Jamie frown as he nodded with a sigh.
"Yes, he did," he replied, and she felt her lips thin as she spoke up.
"He could have told the boy!" she shouted, and Jamie shook his head.
"I was there when the boy met him. He didn't say anything to him. And why would Arryn even think of telling the boy about it? What good would that do," Jamie said with a shake of his head.
He had always been like this, oblivious to the plots and machinations around him. So it fell to her to protect them, protect him. Yet it was a task she would do gladly for him, both now and before when she had ruined one of her friends for thinking that they could tempt him.
"Think. Jamie. Think! Who was the lord who grew up beside Robert in the Eyrie, the man whom Robert loves more than his own brothers, the same man who also called Arryn a father," she told him and finally realized what she was alluding to.
"Eddard Stark," he whispered before he shook his head, in dismissal.
"I was there when the boy met Jon Arryn, by then, the man couldn't even take his own name and could barely speak. And I asked him myself of what Arryn spoke to him. The boy said that the fever had gotten to the man's head and that he had called him Ned, and apart from that, eh hadn't been able to make sense of anything else," Jamie told her, and though his words assured her, she still couldn't let this go.
"The boy could be lying," she ventured, and Jamie raised a brow.
"I told you to relax. The boy knows nothing," and she sighed as she thought of how her husband had mentioned that wretched name himself.
"Robert spoke of Eddard as well," she told Jamie, who was now listening with rapt attention.
"I believe Robert wishes to make him his Hand," and she saw Jamie's lips thin at this for a second before he shrugged.
"A Stark this far up South, it has been some time since a Stark became the Hand," he remarked, and she knew that Jamie was not fond of the an. After all, it had been him who had given him his accursed moniker.
Kingslayer, and though he laughed it off, she didn't miss how his eyes would tighten whenever that accursed name would call him.
"You should be the Hand, or even father, not a barbarian from that wasteland," she muttered and Jami didn't deny her words as he wrapped his arms around her.
"I can assure you he won't last long here in the South. Everyone knows Starks don't do well in the South. He will probably end up resigning within a year," and maybe he was right. She was worrying over nothing.
Yet, as she remembered the Stark boy's ominous gaze, she shook her head as she sighed.
"He did," she added, as Jamie scoffed.
"He is no Stark, he is a boy," Jamie dismissed her concern, but she could not. She saw what others did not.
"That boy unsettles me. He is quiet, too quiet," she remarked, and that was odd. Usually, boys his age would be boisterous, loud, and filled with wonder and excitement.
Yet the boy was quiet. Quiet enough that if one were not to pay attention, they would often forget that he was even there, and that gaze. Those grey eyes they somewhat reminded him of the eyes of Rhaegar, filled with an unspeakable burden.
"You forget who he is father is. They called Ned Stark, the Quiet Wolf. The boy simply takes after his father too much," Jamie remarked and that was reason enough even though her heart told her that there was something else hidden under that gaze.
Yet no matter what she felt, as long as he was in the capital, she could not move against him. Yet away from the capital. Yes, after all the woods can be such a dangerous place for a crippled young lad.
0000
Outside the red stone walls of the Red keep, in one of the largest building so the city, one infamous for fulfilling every desire a man could have, a small man, dressed in fine garbs flushed in rage as he berated tow man clad in armor.
"What do you mean you haven't found the money? This is the third time, we have been robbed and yet you still have no lead!" the man thundered, and the Gold Cloaks dipped their heads, though one of them tried to speak up.
"We searched the whole Flea Bottom, my lord. There was no sig…."
"I don't care! I want my money found! And the man who dared steal from me at my feet!" the man spoke in a cold rage, and the two guards simply nodded.
"As you say, my lord!" and then the two guards rushed out of the room, leaving the man alone in the room. The man settled down in his chair as he poured himself a cup of wine. The truth was that the money wasn't much, nearly a hundred thousand Gold Dragons. And yet this was not the first time it had happened but this was the largest amount they had stolen.
"Who are you and what are you even doing with this gold," he whispered for despite vast searches they had not ever found any of the gold stolen from him. Who would steal from him just for the sake of stealing from him.
Or was it a plot from that damned spider, and the more he thought of it, the more it began to make sense.
"Could it really be you, Varys," he whispered as he put down the cup and his eyes glinted.
"We will see about that," and at that he picked up the bell and rung it as a guard entered the room once more.
"Have the gates and the docks sealed. I want every carriage and trunk that leaves the city in any way searched for the stolen gold. No one leaves the city without a proper search," he ordered. The man nodded and motioned for him to leave. Then he plopped down and planned his little revenge.
As he sat there seething in rage, a raven sat outside his window, eyeing the man unnaturally before it took to the skies and vanished into the skies darkened skies once more, as a brown-haired boy opened his eyes in his room smiling at his misfortune.
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