In the deep winter of 280 AC, the cold that settled over King's Landing was damp and seeped into the bones.
By his third week in the Red Keep, Leon had learned the castle's routines:
At six in the morning, the first wisps of cooking smoke rose from the kitchens.
At nine, Grand Maester Pycelle crossed the inner courtyard to check on the ravens in the rookery.
At three in the afternoon, Varys appeared without fail in the shadows of a library corner, like a quiet spider.
And every day before dusk, Leon himself walked along the edge of the training yard with Tyrion.
This was the "limited freedom" Tywin permitted, on the condition that Thea and Sandor Clegane remained within five paces.
"There's been no sign of Rosso or the other two."
Tyrion cast a wary glance at Sandor behind them. "I don't like the way that big fellow looks at you," he said quietly.
At twelve, the second Clegane son was already more powerfully built than many grown knights. He followed in silence, the intact half of his face expressionless, but his eyes stayed fixed on Leon.
"Father called Rosso and the others away. I don't know what for. And his assignment in King's Landing is to protect me."
"Our dear father never does anything without a purpose."
Tyrion said, "There must be a reason the second Clegane son suddenly came to swear allegiance to Father. I asked around. Sandor was still in the Westerlands last month for his father's funeral. Gregor inherited the title, but Father had Sandor come to King's Landing."
Just as Leon was about to speak, [Eye of Insight] flickered faintly in his mind, though the indicated distance was considerable...
Only when Leon focused on the flickering point did he realize it came from the direction of Flea Bottom, and he sensed that it was something important to him.
"Let's go to Flea Bottom..." Leon said suddenly.
"Thea, it seems Leon has spent too much time with the Mad King lately... Something's gone wrong with that beautiful head of his... Seven Hells! What madness are you talking about?" Tyrion pointed at Leon with a trembling hand.
"We have to go. If you're afraid, you can go back to your warm bed." Leon tilted his head, all smiles.
"Oh! Our prophet has resorted to goading me." Tyrion's eyes widened at once. "That means you need me desperately, dear brother!
"I can just imagine what our dear father will say when he finds out..."
Tyrion struggled to keep his face straight and folded his arms across his chest. "The lions of the Westerlands should not set foot in a cesspit!"
Leon exchanged glances with Thea and Sandor, then tilted his head in a signal.
...This was what made Tyrion so endearing.
The four put on plain, dark gray woolen cloaks, pulled up their hoods, and cautiously headed toward Flea Bottom.
Flea Bottom smelled ten times stronger than the Street of Silk.
Crooked wooden houses crowded both sides of the narrow alleys. Vegetable leaves, fish scales, and suspicious brown lumps floated in the filthy muddy water.
Ragged children ran through the sewage, stray dogs rummaged through heaps of rubbish, and disheveled women emptied chamber pots from windows without even looking to see whether anyone was below.
Leon was about to skirt around them when a commotion suddenly arose from deep within the alley.
"Monster! Get out!"
"Look at his face! Seven Hells!"
"He must be cursed!"
A crowd had gathered before a half-collapsed wooden shack, throwing stones and rotten vegetable leaves inside.
Leon caught a faint, almost inhuman whimper coming from within.
There was a strange rhythm to the sound, like some broken language.
They pushed through the crowd and squeezed inside.
The shack was dim and damp, its air thick with the smell of mold and urine.
A thin figure huddled in a corner, shielding his head with both arms. As Leon approached, the boy raised his head...
[Eye of Insight] instantly produced an analysis:
Male, approximately thirteen years old, five feet eight inches tall, severely malnourished.
He looked more like a skeleton wrapped in rags. His hair was matted into clumps, and dried face paint covered his face, cracked and flaking to reveal the pale skin beneath.
There were tattoos on his exposed arms: "Putty" spelled in Valyrian letters, and a design of an overlapping sun and moon.
"A fool."
Tyrion moved closer. "Look at the scraps of his clothes... Those vivid purples and golds are in the style of Volantis. I've seen them in books."
A fool? What was a fool from Volantis doing in Flea Bottom?
Leon crouched down.
The boy seemed to notice the movement. His body began trembling violently, and his lips opened and closed soundlessly before letting out gasping sounds: "Hah... hah..."
"He's suffered a fright," Thea said, her hand on her sword hilt. "He might be mad, too."
Leon reached out, but Sandor stopped him.
"My lord, be careful."
"He can't hurt anyone," Leon said. His instincts told him that this person's danger was not physical, but something else.
He gently placed his hand on the fool's forehead.
The skin was cold and clammy.
And at the instant of contact, [Eye of Insight] suddenly erupted.
The suffocating sensation of icy seawater flooding the lungs, splintering timber, flames burning in the night.
And... an egg.
A yellow egg with dark gold markings, slowly sinking into deep water.
"Aah!" The fool suddenly screamed, clutching his head with both hands and curling even tighter.
Leon withdrew his hand, cold sweat seeping from his forehead. The sensations of that brief instant had been so intense that he had almost felt the agony of drowning himself.
"What did you see?" Tyrion asked keenly.
"A shipwreck." Leon panted. "Something happened to him at sea. The ship sank, and he survived, but..."
He looked into the fool's unfocused eyes. "But his mind is stuck in that moment." Something stirred in Leon's mind, and a name surfaced.
He asked in halting Valyrian, "Is your name Putty?"
The deformed boy shuddered all over, and tears welled from his intact left eye.
He nodded frantically, stretched out a trembling finger, and scratched crooked letters on the ground:
P U T T Y.
"Pudding Face," Leon read.
In Volantis, fools who performed farces were often given the name "Putty," and their faces were their most important "masks."
Thea swept a wary gaze beyond the door. "My lord, we can't stay here long."
Leon nodded and told Pudding Face, "Come with us. We have food, a clean place, and we can treat what's wrong with you."
Pudding Face's eyes were full of fear and distrust.
Leon thought for a moment, then lowered his hood, fully exposing his pale violet eyes in the dim light.
"I'm a monster too," he said softly. "In this world, monsters can only help one another."
Pudding Face stared into those eyes for a long time. At last, he slowly held out his hand.
The room on the third floor of Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep felt even more crowded with a madman added to it.
Tyrion closed and barred the door. "Well, now we have a madman from Volantis in our room. What will Father say when he finds out?"
"Father will ask, 'What value can he provide?'" Leon said. "So we have to find his value."
He had Sandor set Pudding Face on the rug before the fireplace. He remained curled up, but the warmth of the fire eased his trembling a little.
Leon placed his hand on his forehead again.
This time, he was prepared and kept [Eye of Insight] in a gentle probing mode.
Chaotic, fragmented images.
Screams, seawater, laughter.
A face covered in paint turned somersaults in a magnificent hall, surrounded by richly dressed men and women.
One face among them-
Steffon Baratheon.
Robert Baratheon's father.
He looked somewhat younger than in the portraits Leon had seen, but he was indeed the lord of the Stormlands.
He was speaking with a nobleman from Volantis. A map lay on the table, marked with... the ruins of the Valyrian Peninsula.
The scene shifted.
In a ship's cabin at sea by night, Lord Steffon held something wrapped in black velvet, about the size of a melon.
He unfolded the cloth, revealing a stone egg...
It reflected the candlelight faintly, as though alive.
"His Grace will be pleased," the lord murmured to himself.
The scene changed again.
The thunderous crack of a breaking mast, towering waves, seawater flooding in.
Lord Steffon rushed out of the cabin clutching the stone egg, but a huge wave struck. The egg flew from his hands and fell into the black sea.
He reached to catch it but grasped only air. Then he, too, was swept into the sea.
The final image:
The egg sank slowly into deep water, its dark gold markings glowing faintly like veins of gold ore, deeper and deeper until it disappeared.
Leon snapped his eyes open, gasping for breath, his head throbbing.
"Well?" Tyrion asked urgently.
"The dragon egg is real."
Rubbing his head, Leon said, "Lord Steffon bought one from a triarch in Volantis, but it was lost in the storm on his return voyage. The egg sank in the waters near Massey's Hook."
Tyrion's eyes went round. "Seven gods... So the rumors are true? The Mad King really is looking for dragon eggs?"
"And he almost found one."
Leon looked at Pudding Face. "He's the only witness. He was on deck during the shipwreck and saw the whole thing."
"But he's mad."
"Perhaps he can be cured," Leon said.
Enduring the pain, he concentrated again. This time, instead of probing memories, he sensed the "blockage" in Pudding Face's consciousness.
His mind was like a stream blocked by fallen rocks. If only the crucial stone could be moved...
Leon "saw" a memory deep within Pudding Face's consciousness, congealed by fear into a hard knot.
It was the moment the ship sank. He clung to a piece of driftwood, watching the people around him scream and vanish into the darkness.
That utter terror had overwhelmed everything, causing his consciousness to shut itself away.
Leon gently touched the knot with his mind.
He did not force it apart, but worked as though melting ice with warm water.
He conveyed safety, warmth, solid ground underfoot.
Once, twice.
Pudding Face's body began to relax, his breathing gradually steadying.
After repeated touches, the knot finally broke.
Pudding Face's eyes flew open.
This time, his pupils were no longer unfocused.
His gaze was blank at first, then gradually focused, finally settling on Leon's face.
His lips trembled, and he uttered his first clear words:
"...Stone egg..."
"The egg sank," Leon said softly. "In the waters between the Narrow Sea and Massey's Hook, right?"
Pudding Face nodded. Tears spilled out, mixing with the dried paint on his face and leaving murky tracks. "Sank... Everyone... His lordship... He reached for it, but the waves..."
He covered his face, his shoulders shaking, but this time he was weeping lucidly, not trembling in madness.
Tyrion watched in disbelief. "You... you cured him?"
"I only moved the stone that crushed him," Leon said.
He felt exhausted and could barely resist the urge to collapse onto the bed, but for now, he could only endure it.
Compared with the nosebleeds he had suffered before, the backlash this time was far worse.
He could still hold on, perhaps because the recipient was willing to be healed, or perhaps because his ability was growing.
Thea watched Pudding Face warily. "Are you lucid now? Do you know who you are?"
The fool raised his head and wiped away the tears and paint with his sleeve, revealing a pale face with clearly defined features.
At twelve, he had the dark brown eyes common among the people of Volantis.
"I'm Pudding Face," he said, his voice hoarse but coherent. "A fool from Volantis. Lord Steffon Baratheon bought me to give to his son, to perform and relieve his boredom."
He looked at Leon with a complicated expression. "You... you put your hand on my forehead, and then... whatever was blocking me cleared. Who are you?"
"Leon Lannister..." Leon said very slowly. "You're... in the Red Keep... in King's Landing now."
Pudding Face looked around the room and gave a bitter smile. "The Red Keep. So I was brought back after all."
"You know about the stone egg," Tyrion said bluntly. "Besides you, who knows exactly where it sank?"
Pudding Face fell silent for a while. "The crew all died. Lord Baratheon died too. That's confirmed. I'm the only survivor, so... in theory, I'm the only person who knows the exact location."
"Can you draw it?" Leon asked.
"I can draw the stars that night, the direction of the currents, and how far we were from the nearest island," Pudding Face said. "But I need a promise."
"What promise?"
"Don't hand me over."
Pudding Face looked Leon straight in the eye. "To House Baratheon, the king... anyone.
"I'm lucid now, but if they know I remember, they'll use every means to dig the information out of my head, then arrange for me to 'die in an accident.' I've already died once. I don't want to do it again."
Leon and Tyrion exchanged a glance.
"You can stay here with us," Leon said, the pain having eased somewhat. "As my informant."
Pudding Face raised an eyebrow. "An informant? A fool who went mad?"
"A fool is the best intelligence gatherer."
Tyrion grinned. "No one guards their tongue around a mad clown. You can walk around the Red Keep, perform your antics, and listen to people talk, especially those who think you can't understand or remember what they say."
"What do I need to do now?"
"Three things."
Leon held up his fingers. "First, draw a detailed nautical chart showing where the Dragon Egg sank.
Second, build a network of informants in the Red Keep, starting with your fellow fools.
Third, help me keep an eye on every minister on the Small Council."
Pudding Face thought for a moment, then nodded. "I can do that. But... I need somewhere safe to stay. I need some money to cultivate contacts. And... if one day you find the stone egg, don't leave me behind..."
"Don't you know that Lannisters... shit gold?" The corners of Tyrion's mouth lifted.
"I swear by the gods, the day will never come when we abandon you," Leon said.
"Thank you." Pudding Face held out a hand covered in greasepaint stains.
Leon shook it.
Over the next few days, Pudding Face seemed like a different man.
He washed his face and changed into clean clothes Thea had found for him. They weren't a fool's splendid costume, but at least they were respectable.
He made a simple bed in the corner of Leon's room and began "wandering" around the Red Keep during the day.
His method was clever: he didn't actively ask questions, only performed.
He made a few comical gestures while helping peel potatoes in the kitchen, imitated horses neighing while cleaning the stables, and bowed clumsily when he met nobles in the corridors before pretending to fall.
People soon grew used to "that slightly dim but harmless fool the Lannisters bought from Volantis."
And what he heard was astonishing.
"Yesterday, the head cook said the king has been summoning members of the Alchemists' Guild frequently lately."
Pudding Face said during his evening report, "They've been secretly moving something into the Red Keep's cellars... not food, but clay jars. Very heavy ones, and they're especially careful when carrying them."
"Gods! It's wildfire," Tyrion said at once. "The Mad King is stockpiling wildfire."
"There's more," Pudding Face continued. "I heard two handmaids talking. They said Queen Rhaella is pregnant again. But she's in very poor health, and the maesters are saying in private that she might lose the child."
"Queen Rhaella..." Leon mused.
"The third piece of news." Pudding Face lowered his voice. "I heard from a drunken Gold Cloak that the Master of Coin, Earl Qarlton Chelsted, has been secretly meeting with representatives of the Iron Bank of Braavos. The crown owes so much that it can't even pay the interest anymore."
Three pieces of information, each pointing toward the storm brewing deep within King's Landing.
Meanwhile, Tyrion had also made progress of his own over the past few days.
"I got into the craftsmen's guild."
He said smugly, "As a 'noble child interested in steel assemblies,' of course.
Those craftsmen ignored me at first, but once I pointed out three flaws in their waterwheel design, they shut up."
He pulled a sketch from inside his clothes. "Look, this is my improved catapult gear mechanism. It can increase the range by thirty percent. Of course, I didn't tell them whose child I was."
"What about the Alchemists' Guild?" Leon asked.
"That one's a little harder."
Tyrion said, "They're far more insular than the craftsmen. But I found a way in.
There's an old apprentice in the guild whose face was burned in an experiment gone wrong, and the others ostracize him. I happened to pass by 'by chance' and gave him some recipes for burn ointments."
"He accepted them?"
"He not only accepted them, he even started treating me as a 'talented young man.'"
Tyrion gave a sly grin. "He agreed to teach me some advanced alchemy. Of course, I had to swear not to tell anyone. In exchange, I'll help him calculate some complicated formula ratios."
Leon nodded.
The beginnings of his intelligence network were taking shape:
Pudding Face handled rumors and developments within the Red Keep, Tyrion infiltrated the ranks of craftsmen and alchemists, and he himself...
He looked out the window. In the darkness, the Red Keep's towers resembled black fangs.
He needed sources of information higher up.
That evening, Pudding Face finished drawing the nautical chart.
He spread a sheet of parchment across the floor of Leon's room and used charcoal to draw the waters near Massey's Hook.
Currents, wind direction, the moon's position on the night the ship sank... every detail was so precise that it hardly seemed like a madman's memory.
"Right here."
His finger landed in the middle of a stretch of water. "About eighty to a hundred meters deep. The egg is yellow, with dark gold markings, and about the size of a melon. If the currents haven't swept it away, it should still be in this area."
As Leon studied the chart, his [Eye of Insight] suddenly trembled faintly.
It was... a call. Very faint, like a distant echo.
"You have to find it," Tyrion said, his eyes shining. "But not now. This is a bargaining chip, an enormous one."
Leon nodded.
The Dragon Egg's whereabouts, the Mad King's secrets, the crown's debts, the alchemists' wildfire, the pressure of a marriage alliance with House Tully...
All these fragments were coming together to form a complete picture.
King's Landing was like a volcano on the verge of erupting.
And they stood at the edge of its crater.
"We need more eyes," Leon said. "More ears."
Pudding Face smiled, his face, now clean of greasepaint, looking shrewd and dependable in the candlelight. "Leave it to me, young master.
In Volantis, I served the most cunning merchant magnates. I know how to make people talk and how to keep information flowing."