Chapter 176 — Lance's Tavern
As the most populous city in Westeros, King's Landing was always lively.
But ever since news of dragons returning spread across the Seven Kingdoms, the number of outsiders flooding the city had exploded.
People from every corner of the realm rushed toward the capital. Even penniless peasants scraped together coin just for the chance to glimpse the legendary creatures.
Dragons.
A century ago, the House Targaryen still had many of them. If you were lucky, you might see one or two in your lifetime.
But no one lives two hundred years.
So when word came that dragons had returned, the entire continent erupted.
Not just King's Landing — nearby towns swelled too.
Like Duskendale.
Once diminished after the Defiance of Duskendale, its streets now overflowed with road-weary travelers.
Northmen. Reach silk merchants. Stormlands smiths. Vale knights. Even traders from the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea.
Anyone who could get passage or coin made for the Iron Throne.
---
At the town center stood a modest tavern, packed beyond reason.
Smallfolk, sellswords, sailors, and prostitutes crammed every corner. The air was thick with sour ale, roasted meat, sweat, and perfume.
On the signboard:
"The Old Anchor Tavern"
Below, in much larger letters:
"The Prince Regent Lance Lot's favorite tavern in his youth!"
And beneath that, smaller text:
— "Duskendale Blacksmith Ale — beloved by His Grace, 1 silver stag a cup!"
— "Prime charcoal-roasted beef — said by His Grace to give strength for hammering steel. Only 15 silver stags a slice!"
The prices were outrageous.
But the tavern stood "directly opposite the smithy where the Regent once worked," so business boomed daily.
The owner clearly had a sharp head for profit.
---
Near the fireplace's best seat sat a girl in a deep blue wool cloak, a steaming bowl of beef stew before her.
Her thick auburn hair was loosely tied back, revealing a smooth brow and sapphire eyes bright with excitement.
"That journey was incredible, Petyr!"
She spoke in a hushed but thrilled voice.
"Three bands of brigands, two groups of wildlings — remember how they threw rocks at our wagon?"
She grinned.
"If your guards hadn't been so fast, I'd have shown them what a Tully can do!"
Across from her, a slight boy smiled gently, listening as though the tavern noise didn't exist.
His grey-green eyes focused only on her.
"Eat slowly, Cat."
He pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped a bit of broth from her lips.
"Thanks, Littlefinger!"
She paused, then smiled with graceful composure — the bearing of the eldest daughter of House Tully still evident despite her recent travels.
"At least more graceful than that little northern she-wolf," she thought with faint pride.
Sitting straight, she beamed at him.
"If not for you and Uncle Brynden, Father would've married me off at Riverrun to that Stark boy two years younger than me."
"You're truly my best… brother!"
Petyr's smile twitched.
Brother?
Not the role he had in mind.
Even so, the boy recovered quickly, dipping his head.
"It's my honor, Cat."
His voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the tavern's roar.
Only Petyr Baelish knew he had already been ready to duel Benjen Stark for Catelyn's sake — until Brynden Tully had helped them flee Riverrun instead.
Now Lysa had married Eddard Stark.
So what?
He had already taken Lysa's maidenhood. To Petyr, she was little more than a stepping stone — useful for smuggling profits in Stoney Sept… and little else.
But Catelyn was here. Once they crossed the Narrow Sea, no one would find them.
With his savings and wit, they'd live well. Children. A future.
He smiled.
"Hurry, Cat. Don't you want to see the dragons in King's Landing?"
"Of course!"
She beamed and returned to her stew — not noticing the calculating look in his eyes.
King's Landing?
Of course not.
Too many people. Too much risk of recognition.
---
The tavern door burst open.
A gust of snow-laden wind swept in — and the tip of an ancient leather scabbard appeared.
Then the man.
Tall. Lean. Like a drawn blade.
Brown hair flowed loose. Armor worn but elegant. A handsome face with a faint, defiant smile.
Three ravens, each clutching a red heart gleamed on his chest.
"Lyn Corbray…"
Petyr's heart sank. He lowered his head into his hood's shadow.
"You know him?" Catelyn whispered.
"Second son of House Corbray. Some say the best knight in the Vale. That sword… must be Lady Forlorn."
"Valyrian steel?"
Her eyes lit up.
He ignored everyone, walked to a table held by two massive sellswords — men known for beating groups twice their size.
He sat. Set the sword on the greasy table.
The scar-faced one snarled, "This is our table. Move."
The room went silent.
Lyn didn't look up.
"Ale. Beef. The best you have."
The mercenary studied him, wary.
"We could share," he offered carefully.
"I don't share."
Lyn's gaze lifted lazily.
"Perhaps you should move."
That did it.
The punch came —
—but Lyn was faster.
A dull thud. Scarface's fist froze midair. He staggered, clutching his throat, collapsed.
At the same instant, the one-eyed merc stabbed from below the table.
Steel rang.
His dagger flew from numb fingers.
Too fast. Too strong.
He tried to retreat—
Too late.
Lyn vaulted onto the table. A knee shattered the man's nose. His head slammed down.
Black steel flashed sideways.
Scarface, trying to rise for a sneak attack, took the blade through his throat.
Silence.
Lyn pinned the one-eyed man, produced a wanted poster.
"'Scar' Jory — rape, murder, slavery. Fifty gold dragons."
"'One-Eye' Peake. Same crimes."
The sword fell again.
Dead.
Clean. Efficient. Terrifying.
Then he sat back down.
"Ale. Beef."
Life slowly resumed around the corpses.
Catelyn stared, awestruck.
That was a knight.
"Come, Cat," Petyr hissed, grabbing her hand. "We're leaving."
"Why?"
"He's seen me before."
They slipped toward the door.
Then—
A black blade barred Petyr's path.
Snow swirled outside.
Lyn's voice came lightly.
"No rush to leave in this weather."
He looked at Petyr, amused.
"Care for a trade… Lord Petyr Baelish?"