"I am not sure what it would matter," he replied. Quick to slice at the small talk, clinical in his bristle. Frederick Chilton, as his demeanor surely indicated, came armed with his own agenda.

"I have," he began -- slowly, deliberately, as if each and every syllable pained him only mildly beneath his skin. "A favor. To ask of you, if I may. Regarding Petyr Baelish." Not Ambassador Baelish, no. Titles were reserved for those who were not beneath the sickly knives of scrutiny.

"So it was really quite convenient that you wanted to meet up, Will. I cannot tell you how relieved I am for the opportunity."

No mention of satisfying his own curiosity; Chilton did not want to appear too eager regarding the mystery that Will had slipped to itch the moment that call had been made. He anticipated a quid pro quo -- and if that was so, then what better place to proceed with such an endeavor than beneath the break of morning, armed with coffee and mimosas? Why not scratch each other's back in public?

"What do you think of him? Quite honestly?" A painful grimace followed, the expression congruent with picking glass out of an open wound. "Regarding... Me, especially."