A ragged, starving sea of humanity surged—shoving, trampling, rolling forward in a tide.
To the hungry and unreasoning, the High Septon—so fat he could barely waddle—made a target too large to ignore.
The High Septon and his septons, the foremost Gold Cloaks and Lannister red-cloaks, were swallowed by the flood.
"Gods!"
"Help us!"
"Stop those wretches!"
On the stands, nobles who had come to witness Stark's judgment shrieked, and chaos bloomed.
To the west lay the doors of the Great Sept of Baelor and the Street of the Sisters; to the east, Flea Bottom.
Gawen Crabb glanced at the few Blue Cloaks of House Crabb beside him and barked, "Form up! North!"
"Your Grace Cersei—hold fast to me!"
His sword flashed, slapping aside some nameless missile. He swept his blue cloak over the queen regent.
"With me!" He drove forward with his guards.
…
By Cersei's order, Eddard Stark had received each day only a single cup of water and, at times, a black loaf hard as stone—just enough to keep him from dying in the black cells.
His hands were still bound behind him. Though the guards had vanished, Ned had no strength to flee.
He toppled and could not rise—despairing, yet almost relieved. Perhaps ending here was better than a Lannister headsman's blade.
He was swiftly hemmed in. He watched, helpless, as "rioters" tore away the gray velvet with the white direwolf from his back.
He knew what was coming and wished only for a clean stroke.
"No!" The direwolf kicked and thrashed; he would not die naked in the gutter.
A grime-faced man hissed in his ear, "Crabb remembers."
Ned froze; his pupils shrank. His taut body went slack, letting them hoist him up.
"Honor does not die," he mumbled—and the world went black.
…
"Lancel—draw!" Gawen roared.
He shoved aside Ser Lancel Lannister—who'd tried to shelter behind him—and pressed on.
Cersei, who had gripped one arm before, now nearly hung off Gawen entirely.
Slash—slash—slash.
One… two… three… His blade rose and fell; blood flew, and his stride never faltered.
Panicked nobles and soldiers began to close around them.
…
BANG!
Mondon Veywater's broad body slammed a round shield into the mob; blood burst like a popped wineskin.
"Lord Gawen!"
He snatched Ice from the ground and hurled it. Gawen's hand lifted; the grip smacked into his palm.
Valyrian steel—dark as smoke—good steel. Gawen preferred heavy, workmanlike blades; nothing brittle, nothing that chips when a fight begins.
For most men, Ice was too heavy for long work. Gawen tested a few cuts. Good.
He dropped his visor to the narrow slit.
He glanced down at Cersei—still outwardly composed; the lioness did not frighten easily. Very Cersei.
He swept the chaos, then raised Ice one-handed, point stabbing at the sky.
"Protect the Queen! The brave know no fear!"
"Protect the Queen! The brave know no fear!"
"Protect the Queen! The brave know no fear!"
Red-cloaks and Gold Cloaks rallied around them, lines stiffening as they shouted down their own terror.
"Victory to the brave!"
"Victory to the brave!"
"Victory to the brave!"
…
Ser Boros Blount cringed behind his brothers of the Kingsguard—safer there than the king himself.
"Coward."
Gawen's boot slammed him flat.
"Mother!"
Pale-faced Joffrey spotted Cersei coming and all but leapt into her arms.
"Joffrey!"
She crushed him to her—then, frowning, pushed him back, seized his shoulders.
"You are the king. Kings do not lose."
Gawen flicked a glance at the filth still clinging to Joffrey's face and arched a brow.
Lancel appeared at Gawen's side, spattered with blood, trembling with a feverish excitement.
"Gawen—I killed one!"
He thrust out his red-wet sword like a prize.
Gawen thought Lancel needed, like Jaime, time away from King's Landing to right his head. For now, his wits were… peculiar.
"Lancel—on me."
"O—of course!"
…
Ice flashed, biting wide swaths clear.
Stroke after cold, bright stroke—ten, fifteen—until the maddened crowd broke into full panic.
Gawen's gilded armor ran crimson; hell opened where he stood. Screams keened; the mob recoiled in frenzy.
Those ahead tried to flee; those behind still pushed forward; collisions turned savage.
Cersei and Joffrey clung to Gawen's back-trail; Lancel guarded the flank.
"Keep moving!"
"Forward! Forward! Forward!"
"Forward! Forward! Forward!"
…
Sansa Stark screamed through tears, "I have no bread! I have no bread! I have no bread!"
Huddled among a knot of girls, with Ser Aron Santagar lying nearby in a pool of blood, breath stilled forever.
Gold Cloaks and knights fought to shield them, but men slipped through—the mob's hungers drawing more and more toward the cluster of highborn girls.
A black hand clamped Sansa's ankle and yanked.
Another seized a girl's skirts.
A jeweled boy-lord lunged to aid them—only to crumple when a stone smashed his temple.
"Gods, save us!"
Rrrip. Sansa's sleeve tore. A plump white-faced girl, clutching the fabric, was dragged from the platform.
"Take my hand!" Sansa snatched—and grasped only air.
She lost one handhold to reach—and the grip on her ankle won. Sansa toppled from the platform too.
"Mother!"
Blackness crushed in; she sobbed, helpless.
…
Far off, a hundred marsh-marigold banners snapped; drums thundered; horns blared.
Beneath the colors, blue-and-gold ranks advanced with locked shields.
The human tide shattered on contact.
…
Gawen exhaled, passed Ice to a clansman, and unhelmed.
Players at the great board kept fingering King's Landing; the city paid in sin and sacrifice.
Currents he had stirred had risen to waves. He had misjudged the spark and the scale.
Chaos might be a ladder—but more hands than his were on the rungs.
He drew a steadying breath. Do not mistake the game for yours alone.
He turned and strode on. Lord Gawen—unyielding.
…
The Kingsguard around Cersei and Joffrey parted as Gawen approached.
He bowed a hand to breast. "Your Grace, Your Majesty—rest here. Our relief will be on us soon."
Cersei nodded; chin high, yet she could not fully mask her disarray.
Nearby, a knot of ladies sobbed; Cersei's brows pinched in contempt and impatience.
Joffrey kicked at Sandor Clegane and snarled, "Useless dog! Where did you run off to?!"
The Hound stood, silent, unanswering, letting the boy rain blows.
After a beat, Cersei beckoned Gawen.
He stepped close.
"Lord Crabb, you are unhurt?"
He shook his head. "When you go abroad, Your Grace, let me be your shadow."
Her gaze softened. "I will. Only you let me breathe."
When she turned sweet, there was always an errand. Gawen kept his humility.
"To guard you is my duty."
Her eyes hardened. "These wretches have shamed the king. How do we answer?"
"Curfew—swiftly and long. And grain—we must secure bread, Your Grace. The particulars—settle them in council."
She snorted. "The council is two fools. Their stupidity birthed today's riot and endangered my son."
She added, cold: "I've had enough of Pycelle and Varys. Henceforth, I'll act under my regent's authority on matters that matter."
Joffrey, done venting, stalked over. "Mother, I want them punished—Pycelle and Varys!"
"They're cowards, Joffrey," she purred. "You'll frighten them as it is."
"Hmph. See they err no more. I'll not face this again."
Cersei nodded, then turned to Gawen. "Lord Crabb, I need you to do as you did in the Queen's Quarter…"
Joffrey glanced around. "Have you seen Sansa?!"
Cersei rose, scanning. "Wasn't she with the master-at-arms and Ser Mandon?!"
They looked to Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard.
"My first thought in the tumult was for the king," he said, blank-faced.
Cersei nodded, then snapped to the other side: "Ser Boros, Ser Meryn—bring back the Stark girl."
Ser Boros did not budge. "Your Grace, our white cloaks only inflame the mob."
"Obey," Cersei hissed, "or strip the cloak and remember your vows!"
Joffrey added, "And see what became of the wolf."
"I think he's dead. Someone saw him torn apart."
…
…
A week later, in the throne room.
Tyrion Lannister hobbled in on crooked legs, cutting short Cersei's small council.
"Who let you in?" she said, voice full of scorn.
"Ah," Tyrion drawled, "now I know where Joff learned his manners."
"My, how things have changed…"
He sighed, clambered onto a chair.
"Get out. You don't belong here."
Tyrion grinned. "Such a welcome, dear sister."
He fished a letter from his pocket and tossed it to Varys.
"Lord Varys—my sister's favorite."
Cersei set down her quill and eyed the seal.
"What trick is this? This is the small council, not your usual brothel."
"Oh, they're much the same," Tyrion smiled. "Both exist to make people laugh—though the pay is worse."
He tipped his head. "Don't play the dullard, clever sister. You recognize the seal."
He met her icy stare. "Yes—our most amiable father has written to his most beloved son."
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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