Margaery Tyrell folded her hands neatly over her stomach. Her eyes, as soft and wide as a doe's, turned toward King Robert as she spoke.
"That solemn knight suddenly stepped in front of me, Your Grace. His actions could easily be misinterpreted, and Lord Crabb had no choice but to intervene on my behalf…"
She cast a light glance at Gawen before continuing.
"Thanks to his timely handling, the misunderstanding has already been resolved, my king."
When her explanation was finished, Margaery lowered her head ever so slightly. Outwardly, she betrayed nothing unusual, but within her heart she could not find peace. She had already realized that King Robert looked upon her only with simple admiration—the natural appreciation a man might show when he beheld something beautiful.
Beyond that, however, he had revealed no other emotions—none of the delight, joy, or excitement she and her family had expected.
Renly's intelligence had been wrong…
Thinking of the burden placed upon her by her family, Margaery suddenly felt a wave of unease. If she could not become queen, then what value would she still hold? Would her family continue to cherish her?
What should I do…? For the first time, a deep sense of helplessness rose within her.
"Your Grace, Lady Margaery is too kindhearted to trouble you with the truth. She has spoken with restraint. But to my eyes, his behavior was reckless. This concerns the honor of Lady Tyrell."
Margaery heard the voice of Lord Crabb.
At some point, he had moved to stand beside her. As he spoke, his hand discreetly touched her arm, steadying her.
She realized only then that her body was trembling.
She heard him add, "One cannot simply excuse such conduct because the man is a minister of the realm! Should he be allowed to do as he pleases?"
Why did I drift off just now? Margaery drew a quiet breath to calm herself.
Feeling her steady again, Gawen released her arm and raised his brows ever so slightly.
Her eyes met his. Their gazes collided for a brief moment.
Little lady, steel yourself.
Thank you for your concern!! Margaery could not help but secretly glare at him.
In her hand she still held the papers concerning the shipment of supplies worth fifty thousand gold dragons bound for the Crab Claw Peninsula. Gawen was determined that no incident should interfere with House Crabb's strategic reserves.
Thanks to Renly's false report, the Tyrells' long-cherished dream of placing their daughter upon the throne had shattered, at least for the moment. Yet the ambition of House Tyrell—to rise to the station of a queen's family—would not so easily die. Gawen thought it certain they would soon set another plan in motion.
"Seven hells, I'll not heed the slanders of my own bannermen. Let the matter rest!"
King Robert cursed, then dismissed the affair in accordance with Margaery's account.
Gawen only shrugged. How the matter was settled was the king's prerogative.
Duke Eddard Stark glanced toward him.
From Robert's own lips, he had learned that Gawen now served as Queen Cersei's officer. Yet despite Ser Ilyn Payne's ties to the Lannisters, Ned had not defended him. Eddard Stark had a heart bound to honor.
Dark hair, brown eyes—the features of the First Men. Coupled with the fact that this was a child he himself had once saved, there was a natural bond between them.
Eddard looked again at the disciplined ranks of Crabb soldiers. He nodded inwardly. The boy had grown well.
Soon, the fine wine and food that Gawen had arranged in advance at the Balis Inn won Robert's attention.
Hearing the roar of laughter spilling from the hall, Ned could only shake his head helplessly.
"Jory, fetch the children from the carriage."
Jory Cassel was the captain of his guard. It was whispered that during Eddard Stark's wedding to Catelyn Tully, he had been the first to tear open her bridal gown in the boisterous bedding ceremony.
Not long after, Gawen beheld Sansa and Arya.
Sansa Stark had a mane of thick auburn hair and blue eyes. At eleven, she was already a little beauty.
Arya Stark bore the sharper features of her house, with dark brown hair and grey eyes. At nine, she was still slim and slight.
Gawen's eyes flickered as the girls exchanged courtesies with Margaery. He noticed that Arya was left-handed.
Turning slightly, he gestured toward the inn's doorway.
"Lovely ladies, please, come inside. A fine meal will ease your weariness."
Margaery, smiling, took Sansa's arm and entered with her, chatting amiably. Arya lingered, stopping before Gawen and lifting her head to look up at him.
Expressionless, Gawen lowered his gaze in reply—only to receive a mischievous face from the girl.
He chuckled. "Go on in, Lady Stark."
Eddard sighed and shook his head, laying a hand on Gawen's shoulder as he passed. Watching Arya dart off, he said, "My youngest daughter likes her play. She is rather willful."
Gawen noticed a rare smile crease the stern lines of Ned's face as he spoke of Arya.
"Duke Stark, that is a good thing. A brave girl learns to look after herself."
"Let us hope so."
Before stepping inside, Gawen looked back toward a figure tending the horses. "Mondon, take that man a jug of wine."
Following his gaze, Mondon blinked his dull eyes. "Yes, Lord Gawen. At once."
Inside the inn, King Robert drained a cup of wine in one great swallow, slamming it down upon the table with a thump.
"Well done, Gawen."
He looked at him. "Tell me, did you know Ned would be arriving today? Is that why you made these preparations?"
Speaking casually, he tore into a roasted leg of lamb with his teeth, as though his question were nothing.
As host of the small feast, Gawen's seat was close to the king's own. At Robert's words, he felt many eyes turn his way.
"Your Grace, my men are not skilled in such matters. I had no choice but to ask Lord Varys."
He explained further, "I spoke at length with him of Duke Stark and House Crabb, and only then did he grant me a general direction. Today I was merely taking a chance. Luckily, it turned out well enough."
Robert did not seem to care for his answer, calling instead for more wine. The revelry swelled once more.
Gawen noticed Arya slipping to his side. "Lady Stark, do you need something of me?"
With hands behind her back, she said, "Lord Crabb, my name is Arya Stark. You can call me Arya."
They had already been introduced. She must have feared he had forgotten, and so repeated it.
"Very well, Lady Arya," he said with a smile.
She leaned closer. "Is the Red Keep fun?"
Gawen considered. "There are many amusing places in the Red Keep. You'll meet new friends. But…"
He lowered his voice, glancing about. "There are also many bad people. You must be careful."
Arya's face lit with excitement, as if she had uncovered a great secret. "I'll keep it safe!"
He nodded with a grin.
Mondon carried roast meat and a jug of wine to where the Stark horses were tied.
"Good day. My name is Mondon Waters. I brought you some food."
The dark-haired youth turned at the words. "Good day. I'm Jon Snow. Thank you."
When the feasting was done, King Robert found some excuse to slip away first.
Gawen guessed His Grace had gone to study matters of war.
Soon after, the rest of them departed the Balis Inn and continued toward King's Landing.
On the road, Gawen sought Duke Stark's counsel on the governance of lands, and in turn described the Crabb domain and the state of the Crab Claw Peninsula.
He told Ned that House Crabb had secured authority over the peninsula and would soon end the generations of turmoil.
With tens of thousands of subjects under his command, he was confident of becoming Robert's most capable crown vassal.
Ned, gratified, clapped the young man upon the arm.
As they neared King's Landing, they encountered Garlan and Loras Tyrell.
The two had come to escort Margaery.
Garlan Tyrell, second son of Lord Mace, was known as Garlan the Gallant. He cared little for fame, preferring deeds over songs, and so was less celebrated than his younger brother.
He resembled Loras closely, but stood taller, broader of shoulder, and with a beard that made him appear more martial.
As for Loras—still every bit as handsome as ever. At first sight, he had already enchanted Sansa.
At that age, Sansa dreamed romantically of gallant princes, noble knights, and love like in the songs.
Loras, still at the age of reckless pride, turned back deliberately before leaving, casting Gawen a provocative glance.
Gawen only smiled. He understood well: We will meet again in the lists.
But he thought to himself, In the game of thrones, there are only winners and losers.
He escorted the Starks all the way to the towering bronze gates of the Red Keep before taking his leave.
At the Tower of the Hand, Ned was about to order his daughters taken inside to rest when a young man approached, calling himself a royal page.
"Lord Hand, it is an honor! Grand Maester Pycelle has convened an urgent meeting of the Small Council. If it pleases you, they would have your presence."
After so many days upon the road, even the hardy Eddard Stark felt his body aching. He longed only for a hot bath, a roasted fowl, and a feather bed.
The timing of Pycelle's summons displeased him greatly.
His brows knitted. Coldly, he said, "Tomorrow."
The page bowed. "Then I shall inform the council that you are unable to attend, my lord."
"Damn it."
Ned swore under his breath. He had caught the implication: the other councillors were already assembled, waiting for him alone. This was not Winterfell; these men were no vassals of his. He could not afford to offend them on his first day.
Suppressing his anger, he said evenly, "I will go to them. But give me a moment to see my children settled."
He summoned Vayon Poole, steward of House Stark. "Vayon, I must attend the council. See to my daughters. Tell Jory they are not to wander, and Arya is not to go running about."
Glancing to Jon, he added, "Jon, watch over your sisters."
The boy opened his mouth, then closed it again, nodding silently.
"Good lad. Rest as well."
Ned noticed some of the shadows had lifted from Jon's face. Perhaps bringing the boy south had been the right choice.
The throne room.
The doors swung open. Eddard Stark strode in to find four councillors awaiting him.
The one he most disliked, Varys, was the first to approach. The eunuch seized his hand, his voice honey-sweet.
"Lord Stark, what joy to see you again. Varys lives to serve."
Ned caught the cloying, sickly scent about him, like flowers blooming upon a grave.
His face impassive, he said, "I will rely on you, then."
With that, he drew his hand free from Varys's clammy grasp and turned to Renly.
When Robert had won his throne, Renly had been but a boy of seven. Now grown, his likeness to Robert was striking. Each time Ned saw him, it was as though time had turned back, and the Robert of their youth stood before him once more.
Renly inclined his head, smiling broadly. "Ned, I am glad indeed that we will serve together."
"As am I, Renly!"
They embraced warmly. Varys looked on with a smile, eyes half-lidded.
Then Petyr Baelish spoke. "Lord Stark, I have long desired to meet you. Lady Catelyn must have spoken of me, surely?"
His elegant mask was set aside, replaced with a smirk tinged with disdain.
"She has mentioned you," Ned replied coldly.
He had never liked men with sly hearts, and Baelish's words stirred only anger.
"If I recall rightly, Lord Baelish, you were far closer to my brother Brandon."
Renly laughed. "I daresay he remembers that well."
It was said that when Catelyn Tully was betrothed to Brandon Stark, Petyr had challenged him to a duel for her hand. Brandon had defeated him with ease, and would have killed him had Catelyn not begged for mercy.
Baelish only shrugged. "Indeed. I still bear the scar of his lesson. So Brandon spoke of me to you?"
"He did—when he was furious," Ned answered, voice edged with fire.
Petyr's smile curved wider. "They say the Starks of the North are made of ice, destined to melt once they cross the Neck. I had thought your temper more frigid. It seems I was mistaken."
"Rest assured, Lord Baelish, the Starks do not melt so quickly."
Ned's cold gaze lingered on him before he walked past, taking the high seat of the Hand.
"My lords," he said gravely, "I beg your pardon for the delay. Be seated."
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