The men who walked in weren't ordinary foot soldiers. The ones in front wore half-plate with the Lannister lion carved into the breastplates, strutting like they owned every street they'd ever stepped on.
Old John's hands started shaking.
He'd run this tavern on Pickled Meat Street for over ten years. He'd dealt with Gold Cloaks shaking him down for protection money, street toughs eating for free, sailors flipping tables and starting fights. He'd seen just about everything the bottom of the city could throw at him.
But a squad of fully armed soldiers marching in like they owned the place? That was new.
Years of scraping by in the gutter had taught him one hard rule: no matter how scared you were, you smiled.
Old John wiped his hands on his apron and hurried forward, bending low at the waist. "My lords, we've got fresh beef stew on the stove and roasted fish just off the docks. The ale came in this morning—"
"No need to be nervous, old man."
A smooth voice came from behind the soldiers. They parted without a word. A man in his early thirties stepped out, gray-green eyes half-lidded, a faint smile playing on lips that looked painted red. He stopped in front of Old John and looked him up and down like he was appraising livestock.
"Sweetmouth" Rav. Former right hand to Gregor Clegane. The Mountain's pet.
"We've been camped outside the city for months," Rav said, still smiling. "First day back inside the walls. The camp whores kept talking about the best cook on Pickled Meat Street. Figured I'd bring some of the boys to see if the stories were true."
Old John's smile froze. His gut twisted. He'd never wanted his name reaching ears like these—especially not through camp prostitutes.
Rav clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm but not quite friendly. "Call me Rav. Or Sweetmouth, if you like. The boys prefer that one. And from now on, this street answers to me. Understood?"
Old John's legs went weak. He knew the name Gregor Clegane. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms did. The eight-foot monster who'd burned and raped his way through the Riverlands and supposedly swallowed infants whole.
Now one of his old lieutenants was claiming ownership of Pickled Meat Street.
"Relax," Rav said, voice still pleasant. "We're just here to eat. Heard your stew's worth the walk. Sit down, boys. Don't scare the paying customers."
The soldiers spread out and took seats without a word. No shouting, no smashing mugs, no groping the serving girls. They were almost polite.
"One stew each," Rav called out. "And a few pitchers of ale. We pay our way."
Old John nodded fast and bolted for the kitchen.
Rav dropped into a chair at the table right behind the gray-cloaked old man by the window.
Barristan Selmy didn't turn around. He kept eating slowly, spooning stew into his mouth like he had all the time in the world. But his ears were sharp. Fourteen men, by the footsteps. When Rav introduced himself as one of the Mountain's, Barristan tugged his hood lower to hide more of his face.
He had no intention of starting trouble tonight.
That small movement was all it took.
Rav's eyes narrowed. He studied the broad shoulders, the way the man held himself. The hands were big, callused, scarred from years of gripping a sword. Not a laborer's hands. A fighter's.
Rav stood up. Two of his men followed.
"Hey, old man."
He stopped beside Barristan's table. "Eating alone?"
Barristan didn't look up. He tore off another piece of bread and dipped it in the stew.
"Alone," he answered, voice low and rough, like any tired old man.
Rav tilted his head, studying him. "Where you from?"
"Far away."
"Far away where?"
"A small place. You wouldn't know it."
Rav chuckled and swung a leg over the bench across from him. "Came all this way just to eat stew? Or are you looking for someone?"
Barristan finally set the spoon down. "An old friend."
Rav stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled wider. "Pull the hood back. Let me see your face."
Barristan stayed still.
"Deaf?" Rav's tone stayed light, but ice crept in. His men's hands drifted to their sword hilts. "I said, pull the hood back."
The tavern went quiet. Every customer froze. Old John peered out from the kitchen, face white.
Barristan slowly raised his head just enough for the hood's shadow to cover his eyes. Only the gray beard showed.
"I don't want trouble," he said quietly. "Let me finish my meal and I'll leave."
Rav's smile didn't reach his eyes. He reached out to yank the hood down.
A big hand caught his wrist mid-motion. Hard. Unyielding.
Rav couldn't move his arm forward an inch.
Every soldier in the room stood up at once.
Barristan still didn't look at him. His other hand stayed on the spoon. "My name's Whitebeard. I'm just here to eat. Then I'm gone."
He released Rav's wrist and placed a few gold dragons on the table between them.
Rav stared at the coins, then at the old man. For a long moment the only sound was the rain outside.
Then Rav laughed. Bright, easy, like nothing had happened. He waved his men back down.
"Sit," he told them. "False alarm."
He walked back to his own table, dropped into the chair, and looked at the gold in his palm. The smile stayed, but his gray-green eyes were cold.
Barristan finished his meal without hurry. He scraped the last of the stew from the bowl, wiped his mouth with a cloth, stood, and walked toward the door. Steady steps. The gray cloak swayed behind him.
He passed Rav's table without a glance.
Rav watched him go, fingers drumming on the coins.
The walk. The shoulders. The way the cloak moved.
He knew that silhouette.
From years ago. When Eddard Stark was Hand and Robert held a great tourney to welcome his old friend. Barristan Selmy walking behind the king in white armor and cloak. The greatest knight in the realm.
The man who had just left wasn't some random old traveler.
He was Barristan the Bold.
Rav's smile sharpened.
When Barristan's foot was about to cross the threshold, Rav called out.
"Hey, Whitebeard!"
Barristan stopped. Turned. His right hand drifted toward his sword hilt under the cloak.
Rav just raised his cup in a mock toast, grinning with yellow teeth.
"Thanks for the company! Next time the drinks are on me. You've got enough gold there to eat here for a month."
Barristan gave a single nod and walked out. The door closed behind him.
Rav stared at the closed door for a long moment, still smiling.
Then he stood up.
"Full?" he asked his men.
They answered together. "Full!"
"Good." He walked to the bar where Old John stood frozen. "How much?"
Old John shook his head fast. "No charge, my lord. It's an honor—"
Rav's boot slammed into his stomach.
Old John flew backward into the shelves. Bottles shattered. He hit the floor hard, clutching his gut, gasping.
Rav stepped over the broken glass and crouched down. He grabbed a fistful of Old John's hair and yanked his head up.
"I said I pay my debts. Nobody refuses what I offer."
Old John wheezed, blood on his lips. "My… daughter… works for Lord Corleone… in the Hall of Order… please…"
Rav's smile didn't waver. "Corleone? I work for the Hand of the King. Who the fuck is Corleone?"
He drew his sword and laid the flat against Old John's throat.
The soldiers started cheering. Ugly, eager sounds. They slammed tables and shouted for blood.
Rav raised the blade.
Old John squeezed his eyes shut.
The sword never fell.
Rav suddenly stiffened. His eyes went wide. Blood sprayed from his mouth in a thick arc. He dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, foam and blood bubbling at his lips.
One by one, the other soldiers began dropping too. Same symptoms. Twitching. Foaming. Eyes rolling back.
Old John stared in horror, covered in Rav's blood.
Then the kitchen door burst open.
Ally rushed out, saw the chaos, and ran straight to Rav. She dropped to her knees beside him.
"My lord, what happened? I'll get a maester—"
Rav reached for her with a shaking hand.
Ally caught it.
A thin blade flashed.
It slid into Rav's throat from the side, clean and quiet, then pulled free. Blood fountained.
Rav made a wet, choking sound and toppled sideways.
Ally stood up, the needle-thin sword dripping in her hand. Her face was calm.
She looked down at the dying man.
"Remember my friend Romi?" she said quietly. "In the Riverlands. He was wounded. Couldn't stand. He begged you for help. You took his hand… then drove a sword through his throat."
She wiped the blade on Rav's cloak.
"That sword," she said. "It's this one."
From the shadows near the door, Barristan Selmy's voice finished the sentence.
"I was there."