Queen Cersei gently patted Princess Myrcella's small back.
Her gaze grew distant as the waves of cheering outside the carriage drew her into memories long past.
Years ago, when she and the young King Robert Baratheon had walked hand in hand out of the Great Sept of Baelor, the cheers of the crowd had been just as thunderous.
Thousands had gathered in King's Landing to bless her marriage to Robert. The square was filled with splendor: every woman wore her finest dress, and half the men had children perched upon their shoulders.
The tall and handsome Robert had whispered in her ear that all the people adored her. Wearing the queen's crown, Cersei had tried to fall in love with him. She was ready to settle into her role as queen.
That day, Cersei Lannister had married Robert Baratheon in glory. That day, she had triumphed over all the women of Westeros.
But her joy had not lasted long.
On their wedding night, lying beneath him and enduring the stench of wine, she had suffered Robert's weight upon her body. Afterward, she heard the low murmur of a name whispered into her ear—Lyanna.
Lyanna Stark, once betrothed to Robert Baratheon. To proud Cersei, Robert's act was unforgivable.
Living, Lyanna had stolen away the prince she had once secretly admired—Rhaegar Targaryen. Dead, she had stolen her new husband's heart. Cersei felt like Lyanna's defeated rival; her name became her shame.
The lioness Cersei Lannister, who had always borne in her heart the will to contest men, could not tolerate being bested by another woman. Worst of all, Lyanna was already dead—there was no way to strike back.
Cersei could never swallow that rage.
The only time Robert Baratheon had ever made her truly wet was that wedding night.
And in truth, Robert Baratheon should have perished right then and there.
Cersei's hand clenched slightly.
"Mother?"
Princess Myrcella seemed to sense her mother's unease. Her bright eyes turned, her little face clouded with worry.
The queen forced herself back to the present.
"I am fine, Myrcella. Mind your posture—always remember you are a princess."
Hearing her mother's command, Myrcella instantly sat straighter, lifting her small chin with a "proud" tilt.
Cersei nodded, satisfaction curling across her face.
Outside Lion Gate, an open ground was already crowded. The banners of great houses snapped in the breeze.
When the queen's carriage drew to a halt, the noisy throng fell into silence, bowing toward her.
Naturally, Queen Cersei would not receive the noble ladies beside the carriage.
A grand pavilion had already been set up for her to greet them.
From carriage to tent stretched nearly a hundred yards of rich wine-red carpet—Cersei's favorite shade.
The carpets were provided by a King's Landing merchant named Pitry.
Gawen's concern was not ownership, but usage. His agreement with Pitry had been about rental fees, not purchase.
Though it was Pitry's first time making such a bargain, he was familiar with similar dealings, and the arrangement had gone smoothly.
According to the terms, Pitry and his men would bring carts laden with carpets, laying them out at each place the queen would stop along her route.
Once the royal hunt was over and they returned to King's Landing, Pitry would not only pocket the usage fee from Gawen, but retain ownership of the carpets besides.
As for what he chose to do later with carpets trodden beneath Queen Cersei's feet—that was no concern of Gawen's.
For nobles, laying carpets within their halls was commonplace, but rolling them out like roads beneath the open sky was rare indeed.
It was not a matter of waste—only of custom. But Gawen knew better than to underestimate the extravagance nobles would show for vanity and display.
Descending from the carriage, Queen Cersei stepped onto the carpet and nodded in secret satisfaction.
As overseer and chief steward of the royal hunt, Gawen escorted her into the tent.
Cersei, still holding Myrcella's hand, passed her daughter to a maid and sat down. "Baron Gawen, you have been thoughtful."
She meant the lavish display of costly fruits spread along the long tables on either side of the pavilion.
From the carpets to the fruit, such arrangements had never been part of previous royal hunts. Cersei understood well that all of this was Gawen's doing.
Gawen placed a hand to his chest and bowed. "Your Grace, for one as exalted as you, these are but trifling adornments arranged by your servant."
He would not tell her that, once the gathering was done, his steward Rossell would have the fruit quietly carted back to the Crabb Estate—where merchants were already waiting to purchase them at a fair price.
The carpets and fruit alike had been paid for with the additional funds Littlefinger Petyr Baelish had released for the hunt at Gawen's request.
And since Cersei herself had appointed Gawen as master of the royal hunt, the handling of such matters was his to decide.
For all his careful maneuvering, Gawen had spent the whole of yesterday in tireless preparation.
Queen Cersei accepted a cup of wine from her maid, sipping delicately before her lips curved. "It will serve a purpose. At the very least, those women who prefer to skulk behind their husbands' backs whispering nonsense will think twice."
She took a longer draught of summerwine and held out her cup again. "Pour."
Then she added, "Every hunt, I have grown weary of their petty chatter."
Cersei swirled her cup, her green eyes gleaming. "Baron Gawen, thanks to you, I find myself with a touch of interest in this year's hunt."
Gawen bowed again. "I am honored by Your Grace's favor."
The queen gave a slight nod, her gaze sharpening. "I was surprised when I first heard of it. This was no easy feat. I am curious—how did you persuade Littlefinger? I know well that men are seldom honest."
Her words carried a hidden barb. Gawen felt a stab of annoyance—Ser Jaime again!
He silently cursed Jaime's loose tongue in front of her.
Spreading his hands, he said, "It was Lord Petyr himself who arranged my meeting with the Hand, Lord Jon Arryn."
"Since his presence had already been discovered, perhaps Lord Petyr feared we would not let him slip away."
Cersei's lips curved as she leaned languidly against the armrest. "Littlefinger, Petyr… and what impression do you have of him?"
Gawen paused, thinking. "Mm… his bottom line seems… flexible?"
Cersei shot him a sidelong glance.
.
.
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