With the matter of Lord Stannis concluded, the conversation could end there.
Gawen had already achieved his initial aim; the rest would depend on Petyr's plotting.
This was not some lofty scheme of intrigue—exposing the secret chamber in the Hand's study was opportunity enough. All that was required was for the plotter to keep his identity hidden.
A man as shrewd as Petyr Baelish needed no reminding to remain in the shadows. Gawen, in turn, would keep himself concealed behind Petyr.
At this moment, both men would choose to protect one another in silence. Such was the unspoken accord of political schemers.
Though it bore the name of a hunt, the Royal Hunt in the King's Wood was in truth a courtly outing arranged by the queen, where the noble ladies of the Crownlands traveled together beneath royal auspices.
As a royal function, it was deemed an affair of state, and thus the funds—measured in golden dragons—were approved and released by the Master of Coin.
Glancing over the documents Petyr had passed across the desk, and comparing them against the clerks' inventories, Gawen's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
Two thousand gold dragons?
The Crownlands nobility did know how to enjoy themselves.
The queen's clerks had already been busy for three months preparing the hunt, with the necessary provisions long since purchased.
No wonder that when Gawen suddenly inherited responsibility for the hunt, the officials had shown no displeasure when he encountered them in Maegor's Hall. Instead, they had been unusually cordial.
The fat had already been skimmed, the profits pocketed. What remained was only the drudgery of command and escort. Of course they were happy to hand it off and wash their hands of it.
Gawen could not help but feel jealous—his colleagues could gorge themselves and walk away from the table, leaving others to clean the dishes.
Noble Queen Cersei would never know, nor care, about such things.
This was the queen's trust. All Gawen could do was apply himself to the task.
And in truth, his nature was such that he did not brood long over what was already lost.
Petyr broke the silence."I must admit, I was surprised to hear you were given charge of the King's Wood Hunt at this late hour. The major purchases have all been made. What remains is little more than the tiresome burden of guards and escorts. Hardly a task to win you greater favor from Her Grace."
Gawen gave a slight shrug."Duty is duty."
Petyr spread his hands, his look earnest."Baron Crabb, I have told you before—we are friends now. Within my power, I am always glad to aid a friend."
Gawen's sharp memory reminded him that Petyr had nearly repeated, word for word, what he had said during that midnight "visit."
The Master of Coin continued:"Though my hands are somewhat tied, I can authorize an additional thousand dragons for you, my friend. Any more would draw unwelcome eyes."
The meaning was clear: this was Petyr's gesture of conciliation.
Such an addition fell within the scope of the treasury, and thus could not be kept secret. But as the one overseeing the Royal Hunt, Gawen could easily make arrangements to ensure Queen Cersei's outing was more splendid than ever—and still pocket a fair share besides.
By his reckoning, with some effort, he might skim off half.
Gawen no longer envied his colleagues.
He placed a hand upon his chest and inclined his head warmly."House Crabb will ever remember the generosity of Lord Petyr."
Outside the Affairs Hall, Red Keep
Bidding Petyr farewell, Gawen stepped through the tall doors—only to find Ser Jaime Lannister waiting, his face dark as thunder.
Since gaining the name Kingslayer for his broken oath, Jaime's faith in himself had collapsed. Outwardly he seemed unchanged, but inside he lived half in ruin, caring for little beyond Queen Cersei.
Family, power, honor—none of it mattered. Cersei was his only creed.
To Gawen, Jaime seemed a man adrift, unstable of temper, consumed by one forbidden devotion. He thought it best not to judge him too harshly.
Gawen pretended not to notice Jaime's scowl and greeted him with ease."Ser Jaime—has Her Grace sent for me?"
Without answering, Jaime thrust a golden pouch into his hands, embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon."Little wild man—this is Prince Joffrey's reward for you."
Little wild man? So he had returned to that title again?
Gawen took the bag, weighing its heft discreetly, before passing it back to the ever-loyal Anguy at his side."My thanks to Prince Joffrey. Convey them for me, if you would."
Jaime's glance was sharp and crooked, his tone edged with disdain."Come. Princess Myrcella wishes to see you."
"Myrcella?"
Falling in step with the Kingslayer, Gawen asked with some puzzlement,"Ser Jaime, may I ask what has moved the princess to summon me?"
"She heard the tale of the Mermaid."
The Mermaid?
Gawen remembered well how, to make Siren's Port more alluring, he had tasked Steward Herschel with spreading the legend of the Mermaid back in Whispers City.
And now the tale had reached even into the Red Keep? Out into the world at large? Herschel had done fine work indeed—Gawen almost missed him in that moment.
But his quick mind also pieced together something more: so this was the root of Jaime's strange hostility toward him.
Myrcella was what—eight, nine years old?
In Gawen's eyes, she was a child. What foul designs could he possibly harbor? He searched his memory, but could think of nothing, whether in her presence or absence, that might have been misread.
A flicker of irritation stirred in him. Was Jaime like this with everyone, or only him?
Outwardly, he showed nothing."So the princess has heard of the Mermaid, then?"
Jaime gave a stiff, curt nod.
"The tale comes from Siren's Port, my own holding…"
Gawen's streak of mischief showed itself. After a pause, he asked deliberately,"Ser Jaime, since Princess Myrcella wishes to meet me alone, should I not bring a bouquet of flowers?"
At once Jaime's face went ashen. Gawen laughed to himself inwardly.
The Kingslayer's fist clenched about his sword hilt."Princess Myrcella is still but a child. She will not be accepting flowers from strange men."
"Quite right," Gawen agreed with a nod. "The princess's rank is high, and though she is young, we must set up safeguards."
At last Jaime's lips twitched into the faintest of smiles.
"But I am different," Gawen added smoothly. "I am one of the family."
That stopped Jaime cold in his tracks.
Gawen feigned puzzlement at the pause, glancing about."Ser Jaime? Why halt here?"
Jaime's heart seethed with resentment, yet he knew Gawen was truly innocent of any wrong. He could only curse Tyrion for planting such thoughts. His love for his brother dimmed by a fraction.
"Forget the flowers," Jaime muttered, stepping forward once more.
Then, softening his words with a cough, he added:"Little baron—Princess Myrcella does not care for gifts."
Gawen spread his hands."I shall do as you advise, ser."
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