Sunlight filtered through a gauze of cloud, and the flowers of the Maegor's Gardens basked, vivid with life.
Gawen Crabb lounged against a tree. Not far off, pudgy little Tommen was earnestly practicing his swings with a wooden sword.
Gawen's eyes flicked up as Lancel Lannister came striding over, face flushed, clearly still seething.
Gawen greeted him lightly. "Ser Lancel, who's put you in such a temper?"
"Who else…"
Lancel's gaze slid over Tommen's wooden-sword play with a flash of contempt.
"The Halfman. That wretched Halfman—he's a traitor to House Lannister!"
Gawen glanced at him, curious. Lancel's mouth curled, open disgust plain to see.
"He wants to send Gregor Clegane's head to Sunspear. Has he forgotten the Mountain is our bannerman?!"
Gawen arched a brow. "Could anyone even recognize the Mountain's head?"
Lancel sniffed. "Tyrion says no one else's skull is that big."
His expression twisted as he spoke.
Gawen's lashes lowered… Not only anger. Mostly jealousy. Lancel was blazing because he envied Tyrion.
"Did the Queen Regent agree?"
"The Halfman's tongue is all honeyed lies. Even Her Grace let herself be fooled!"
Gawen understood Tyrion's play. Lannister stood ringed with foes; Sunspear was one of the very few to court. The Mountain's head was an earnest for alliance. If it went well… next would be a betrothal, and a chair on the Small Council.
Hand Tyrion was straining to haul Lannister out of the fire.
"Lord Gawen, we are the Queen's most faithful men. We can't just watch while that sly dwarf deceives her."
"How would you do it, Ser Lancel?"
The question wrong-footed him; he faltered, suddenly unsure.
His skittish eyes told Gawen enough—Lancel wanted him to go persuade the Queen.
"Ser Lancel, don't forget your charge."
Gawen's voice was mild, but Lancel flinched.
"The Queen Regent needs no one to tutor her. Do you understand?"
Though half comprehending at best, Lancel nodded at once.
Gawen sighed inwardly and looked toward Tommen, who was having his armor unlaced with a page's help. "Ser Lancel, a question. Who in the Red Keep hates Tyrion the most?"
Lancel blinked, then brightened. "Her Grace?"
"And King Joffrey," Gawen added, beckoning Tommen over.
Lancel's eyes sparkled. He grew excited. "Yes—Tyrion even slapped His Grace! How did I forget that? Your memory's better than mine, Gawen!"
He slapped Joffrey because of you that day, Gawen thought, not bothering to map the loops inside Lancel's skull.
One of the boy's chief uses was to fill the space Jaime had left and stand as Gawen's lightning rod—Lancel's battlefield lay in the bedchamber, not in jealous squabbling.
Gawen clapped the now-buoyant Lancel on the shoulder. "Go. The Queen needs you. Attend her well."
Lancel left grinning. He met Tommen jogging up and the boy chirped, "Cousin Lancel—"
Lancel didn't break stride. He barely dipped his chin, eyes already away.
Tommen reached Gawen with a small, wounded face.
Sensitive as ever, his eyes glistened. "Lord Gawen, I think Lancel doesn't like me…"
Gawen crouched, tapped a fingertip against the boy's cheek, smiling. "If Lancel dislikes you… will you be so sad you refuse your favorite cream cakes?"
Tommen shook his head, firm.
Gawen ruffled his hair. "Then it's only one less person who likes you. Why let that spoil your good mood?"
Tommen's mouth lifted into a pure, simple smile.
"Your Highness, that's enough for today. I'll see you back."
As they walked, Tommen said, "Lord Gawen… will Lancel never like me?"
He peered up, full of timid hope. Gentle as he was, the boy's heart was thin-skinned and brittle.
"Not anytime soon," Gawen said.
Tommen's thoughts turned to cream cakes, yet hurt still nipped at him. "Why doesn't he like me?"
"Do you need him to?" Gawen asked.
"I… suppose not?"
Gawen nodded. "Many will like you. Many won't. That's true for everyone—and it isn't a terrible thing."
"What is a terrible thing?"
"Disliking yourself because of others."
Tommen blinked, brow scrunching. After a pause, he ventured, "You mean… I should like myself. Is that it?"
"I mean: don't let others make you doubt yourself so easily. Learn to trust yourself."
"I don't quite understand," Tommen said honestly, "but I'll remember."
…
Maegor's Holdfast, outside the Queen Mother's chambers.
A maid I love, summer-fair, sunlight in her golden hair…
A soft harp drifted through the door. Though the singer's voice was muffled, Gawen recognized Lancel.
Talented, that one. Gawen nodded to Ser Meryn Trant, white cloak on watch. "Ser Meryn, Her Grace sent for me. Pray announce me."
"The Queen Regent said you may enter at once."
Meryn pulled the door wide; the song broke off mid-note.
…
Within, the Queen Regent lounged barefoot against a pile of cushions, golden hair loose and lovely.
Lancel, a harper, a flautist, and a few pages stood by—young and comely, all of them. Gawen could not deny: his lady knew how to enjoy herself.
He bowed. "Your Grace."
Cersei swirled her cup, seemingly in a fair mood. "Lord Gawen, have you met our new Hand?"
Her green eyes skimmed him, weighing. Gawen felt a familiar strangeness—she was testing something… Tyrion. He guessed the dwarf had said something about him.
"I've heard," Gawen said, "but haven't met him."
"You may go."
The others withdrew at once. Lancel alone lingered.
Cersei's brow creased. She crooked a finger; he hurried close.
She brushed his cheek with a formal kiss. "Go, Lancel."
As he left he shot Gawen a jealous glance—and ran into Gawen's gaze shifting to meet it. His heart lurched; he ducked his head and quickened away.
Gawen suddenly felt the King would relish a display of loyalty from his Red Keep guards. He'd heard Joffrey had taken to shooting live targets with the crossbow. Ser Lancel would be pleased to oblige.
…
Cersei sipped summerwine and asked lazily, "Lord Gawen, what do you make of the new Hand?"
"I hear Lord Tywin appointed him. I imagine there are reasons I don't yet know."
Her mouth thinned. "He's a lucky jester, nothing more."
She flexed her toes. "I don't care for trouble."
"He's a trouble you can remove whenever you wish," Gawen said smoothly. "The Gold Cloaks are yours to command."
"Let us see what tricks the dwarf thinks he has." A curl tugged her lip. Then: "You've heard he means to send the Mountain's head to Dorne?"
"Ser Lancel told me."
She snorted. "He does know where to beg help."
Gawen dropped his eyes. If not Tyrion, he had half-suspected Lancel might have planted doubts about him. It wasn't Lancel—Gawen knew the boy lacked the craft—but he tested anyway. He underestimated no one.
Cersei looked back at him. "And what do you think? Why this sudden courtship of Prince Doran?"
"Hand Tyrion means to forge an alliance between Lannister and Martell," Gawen said after a moment.
Her eyes narrowed. "The Martells hate us. How could they join hands?"
"Prince Doran's hatred reaches back one life," Gawen said quietly. "Dorne's wars with Storm's End and Highgarden run a thousand years. With enough earnest—this can be done."
"Earnest? A dead man's head?"
"Not nearly enough."
He leaned a fraction closer and lowered his voice. "A marriage."
Cersei's laugh was scornful. "He'd have Joffrey wed a Mart—"
She froze, pupils pin-pricks.
She shot to her feet and clutched Gawen's arm. For the first time, he saw panic—fear—on her face.
Of course she saw it. If they sought Dorne's aid, Lannister was the asking party, not the asked. Doran would not ship a princess north to be held as a Lannister hostage. Only if Cersei's daughter went south to Sunspear would he believe their sincerity.
"My Myrcella… I will never give my Myrcella to the Dornish—no more than I loved being given to Robert! Never!"
"Your Grace," Gawen soothed, "perhaps I'm wrong. Don't distress yourself."
Her eyes brimmed. "Damn you all. Damn them all!"
"My lady, the Princess is in the Maidenvault. Without your consent, no one will take her from your side. I give you my word."
Cersei wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest… She missed Jaime with a sudden ache—and wanted to tell him: your darling dwarf means to sell our only daughter like chattel to the Dornish.
Gawen might have held his tongue—but he already suspected Tyrion was reaching for him—or rather, for his six thousand Gold Cloaks. If so, the dwarf would have to weather Gawen's counter. This was the game board.
Cersei with a cool head was no match for Tyrion. An angry Cersei… might be.
He would make the Hand learn: if we share this table, you bring your bargain to me—with proper coin on the barrel—or else.
…
They parted. Cersei dabbed away the tears and went cold.
"He thinks a letter from Father makes him untouchable? Paper is paper. Eddard Stark had Robert's paper."
"Yes," Gawen murmured. "The power is yours. One word, and he rots in the black cells."
She turned, sipped, stood silent a while, then muttered, "Or the dwarf obeys the old lion…"
Gawen stepped up to refill her cup.
She searched his face. "Lord Gawen—what if it's Tywin's order to Tyrion?"
He shook his head slightly. "I can't say yet. Some truths need proving. Perhaps… at the proper time, you ask the Hand yourself."
Her eyes glinted. She extended the cup to him. "I've no taste for waiting, Lord Gawen. I want answers soon."
He took the cup, paused, and said, "Without taking his life, Your Grace, I'll fetch you what you want."
A smile touched her lips. She patted his cuirass, eyes gone cool and bright.
"Be kind to him, Lord Gawen."
…
…
The Vale, at the Bloody Gate.
"I thought I knew that face…"
The Knight of the Gate lifted his visor, a faint smile creasing his rough voice. "Little Cat—you're far from home."
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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