Up close, I could make out more of his features. He had a mess of collar-length sandy brown hair, suntanned skin, dark eyes, and a small white scar over his left eyebrow. He stopped near our chairs and bowed. “King Tommen Baratheon, Lord Tywin Lannister,” he said. Even his voice sounded young and cocky.

I gave him a gracious smile. “I have been looking forward to meeting you, ser. You had an impressive showing in the tourney. Would you do us the honor of introducing yourself?”

His lazy smile turned into a self-assured grin. “My name is Addam, Your Grace. Addam of Flea Bottom, or so the songs claim. Though I am no knight yet.”

“You have a mind to become one?” I asked.

“The mind and the brawn for it, Your Grace, just not the arms and armor for it. I swear, I would have had your knight eating dirt had I been wearing plate. He’s good, to be sure. Got a wicked morningstar, too. But I’m better, Your Grace, I know it in my heart.”

I laughed. “I’ll make sure you have a chance to claim your vengeance, my friend. It looked like a hard fought victory from the stands, but Ser Balon had even better things to say about your skill-at-arms from up close too.” He didn’t, but men were much like children and dogs in some regards—they loved being patted over their heads and called good boys.

“Aye, a good fight. The crowd was on my side too, as well they should. I was one of them not too long ago.”

“You’re from the capital, then?” I pointed to the empty chair sitting by the wall, and gestured for him to sit with us. “You did mention an epitaph that would suggest so.”

“I am from Flea Bottom as much as the stench is,” Addam said as he carried the chair over and plopped it down in front of ours. “Do you mind if I have some of the wine, Your Grace? I haven’t had some good wine in a long time.”

Tywin looked beyond unamused, but I had to laugh again at the guy’s audacity. “I would think your drinks were being paid at every tavern in the city, given there are already songs in your name.”

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He shrugged. “So would I, but it seems my fellow kingslanders got stingier than a pimped out whore since I left for Essos.”

I got up to serve him myself from the small table behind his chair. It told me something of a man how he reacts to a king handling his wine. “Is that where you learned to fight?” I asked. “I doubt you had many chances to practice the sword in the streets of Flea Bottom.”

Addam laughed and lounged back on his chair. He seemed pointedly at ease in the company of the rich and powerful. “Aye, Your Grace. Not much to learn here, but there’s plenty of warring going around Essos.”

“You served in a company in the east, then?” Tywin asked with a curl to his lips. Sellsword companies had a reputation for being unreliable and cutthroat, though given the Brave Companion’s reign of terror in the Riverlands during the war, he certainly wasn’t above making use of them.

“Aye, my lord.” Addam puffed up his chest. “In the Golden Company.”

I almost spilled the wine I was serving, but I covered it up with an appreciative hum. A week ago I wouldn’t have even batted an eyelash at that comment. In fact, I would have taken it as a badge of honor and skill. The Golden Company was the only sellsword company who had never broken a contract. Their words were as good as gold, after all. Ten thousand men, with fully armored knights and bowmen and even elephants in the mix. Born in the Seven Kingdoms, forged in Essosi war. Why wouldn’t I want a man like that to guard my back?

But their other words, their war cry, “Beneath the gold, the bitter steel,” told me all I need to know about Addam and the company he kept. The words alluded to Ser Aegor River, more commonly known as Bittersteel, the founder of the company, and also the biggest Blackfyre supporter of his time. And I just so happened to learn of a potential Blackfyre lurking in the east.

I couldn’t take the chance. I set his full cup down and hefted the pitcher up with both hands. It had a good weight to it.

“Tell me, Addam, have you ever heard of the Spider?”

I saw him stiffen up on his chair, but by then I was already swinging. The metal pitcher hit the back of Addam’s head with a wet crunch, and quick as that the sellsword was down for the count, slumping forward to land on the carpet. A pool of blood slowly formed around his head.

I looked at the pitcher still in my hands. There was a large dent on one side. “Is this lead?” I asked no one in particular. “Because if it is, we have to see about changing it… urgently, if possible.”

The room had the quiet of death for a moment. “It’s pewter,” Tywin said finally. I turned to see him staring at me. “Would you like to tell me why I have a dying man in my solar, Your Grace?”

A fair enough question, given the circumstances. “He’s hardly dying,” I said. “But it seems it’s time we spoke about where Varys went, after all.”