Gawen Crabb's ear twitched. He lifted his gaze toward the distance. "If you think of Queen Regent Cersei as a man, you'll find her much easier to understand."
Tyrion Lannister bared his teeth in a grin. "You really do—"
Gawen turned his head and looked straight at him. Those brown eyes said this was no jest. Tyrion's smile ebbed away.
They sat together on the white marble steps beneath the doors of Maegor's Holdfast—one large shadow and one small.
Gawen had been busy: the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks had no shortage of duties. Even so, he had found time to shepherd Lancel Lannister in to pay court to King Joffrey, to "check on" Grand Maester Pycelle's recent health… and, of course, to scheme and barter with Tyrion.
High on the stair behind them, Cersei Lannister had just stepped out through the doors. For an instant she started—thinking she'd seen Jaime returned. She had seen this silhouette-pairing many times in memory.
The lioness seldom stooped to eavesdrop. Today, on a whim, she wished to listen.
She signaled for her attendants to stay and, alone, came down the steps. The wind was in her favor; she needn't draw very near to hear clearly.
"So in my dear sister's eyes," Tyrion mused, "the men of the Red Keep are all delicate beauties?"
Gawen smiled. "You flatter her. To Cersei, the men here are at best camp whores."
"Hah… the more I think on it, the truer it rings…"
Tyrion's laugh held rue. "Our lioness indeed. What surprises me is who understands her best. You may know her better than the Father Above."
Gawen shook his head, amused.
Tyrion sighed, then said, "Few think as you do. Most trust what their eyes can see—and truth or rumor, either will erode her rule."
"Do you think the queen regent fears loose tongues?" Gawen asked.
Tyrion blinked, then smirked. "My sweet sister prefers to pull them out."
Gawen patted the Imp's small shoulder. "Then your task as Hand is simple: pull whichever tongues Her Grace tells you to."
Tyrion shivered despite himself. "They'll hate me for it. I'll die."
"You're a Lannister," Gawen said evenly. "There's no dodging it."
Tyrion raked a hand through his hair. "I should've known. The Old Lion never gives me pleasant work—he hates me more than Cersei does."
He peered up. "Lord Gawen, is it too late to lick the queen regent's slippers?"
Gawen lifted a shoulder. "May the Seven favor you."
Tyrion caught his arm. "Too late?"
"Blood is blood," Gawen said after a moment. "I suspect she'll grant you one chance—if she sees your loyalty."
"Just now I was teasing…" Tyrion cleared his throat. "You shouldn't trust appearances, my friend. We siblings are very close—we only joke in ways other houses might not understand. We love one another dearly."
He lowered his voice. "Hey—let me tell you a secret about my sister. Once you hear—"
"What secret?" came a cool voice.
Tyrion leapt up, spun, and then contrived to stand neatly at attention.
He blinked, then pasted on a smile. "Radiant, enchanting queen regent. My homage."
He dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
Cersei studied her humble Hand, sniffed. "Mind your tongue, Tyrion."
"Carved upon my heart, Your Grace."
Her green eyes slid to Gawen. She descended another step.
Burgundy boots entered Tyrion's view, then her skirts swept down to cover them.
He let out a tiny breath. He truly couldn't have done it.
"Some business calls me away," Cersei said from above him. "Today's inspection of the defenses at the River Gate—what the smallfolk like to call the Mud Gate—falls to you, Lord Hand."
She glanced once more at Gawen.
"With joy, merciful queen regent," Tyrion said smoothly. "I shall examine every corner with the eyes of an owl."
"Lord Gawen, with me." She turned and mounted the steps.
"As you command."
Before following, Gawen looked back—expressionless. Tyrion happened to look up; their eyes met. Each gave the faintest nod.
Gawen followed Cersei through the doors, across the hall, and through three inner doors to a private garden he had never seen.
He took it in: beds heavy with strange blossoms, colors bright beneath the sun; a sweetness in the air like a veil.
His gaze came to rest on an old swing, weathered by years.
Cersei stopped beneath a small pavilion.
After a silent moment with her back to him, she said softly, "I brought this garden from Casterly Rock."
He thought he caught the scent of gold dragons in the flowers.
She turned, stepped close, stared a heartbeat—then snapped a slap at him. He tilted his head and the blow passed in the air.
"You dare dodge?"
"Forgive the body, not the man," Gawen said at once. "I'm a half-wild fighter. My body moves faster than my wits. Pray forgive my flesh, Your Grace…"
"The Kingslayer is a fighter," she cut in, eyes blazing. "He never dodged."
"…," Gawen thought. Jaime has taken her hand before? He reeled his mind back.
He let the excuses die. After a few gulps of remembered humility, he said, "This time I will master my body."
Cersei glared—storm-black and seething.
"You heard, then?" Gawen ventured.
"Are you the same?" she asked coldly. "Gawen the camp whore?"
Her white hand rose and grazed his cheek—tender, almost gentle. The cloudbank in her eyes thinned as if it had never been.
"I did not mean to strike you, Gawen."
"…"
She smiled, slipped her arm through his. "Walk with me."
They strolled. "I grew up here," she said. "It's the last place I can still keep my girlhood."
She pointed to the swing. "Jeyne Farman and Melara Hetherspoon—my childhood friends. We played there together."
She indicated a deep red blossom. "It comes from a far land. I learned of it in a book, begged Father for years before he found one for me."
A low hedge: "Those tore a slit in my favorite dress."
She halted. A sheen like mist filmed her eyes. "It feels so long ago…"
Releasing his arm, she whispered, "Gawen—kiss me."
After, her brow rested against his cuirass. "I had a nightmare," she murmured. "Too real. Too terrible."
"…"
He patted her back. "Do not fear. My sword is in your hand."
"It felt imminent," she said. "Stannis is a demon. He takes King's Landing. He kills everyone."
She drew back, chin lifting, fingers brushing his cheek. "So young—and even you he did not spare. He is a monster."
"Perhaps the gods are warning us. We cannot sit and wait for doom. We must cut the nightmare off first."
"For me, for us, I need your sword out of its sheath. Will you do it?"
Gawen did not hesitate. He stepped back and sank to one knee. "Your Grace, nothing is a greater honor than to serve. Whispers Hold awaits your command."
Cersei's chin tipped higher; she studied him down her lashes.
"I, Cersei of House Lannister," she cried, voice ringing through the garden, "by right of Regent of the Realm and Protector, do create Gawen Crabb Earl of the Crab Claw Peninsula, Warden of the Crab Claw, and Governor of the Peninsula. I grant him the taxes and incomes of all its lands, and I command every lord upon the Crab Claw to hold House Crabb as their liege. His issue shall inherit these honors, forever and ever."
Gawen's voice trembled with contained exultation. "Your Grace, I thank you for your boundless favor. The Crab Claw stands ready at your word."
Her mouth curved. "Rise, my Earl of the Crab Claw."
His eyes flickered. He did not yet know precisely what Stannis had done, but it had earned Cersei's undying hatred.
He rose. "By your name, Your Grace, the tens of thousands of the Crab Claw will grind Dragonstone to rubble."
Cersei caught his hand in both of hers and pressed his palm to her breast.
"I shall await your triumph, Lord Earl," she breathed. "On the day you return, I will reward you here—in my maiden's garden."
Gawen left Maegor's, already weighing what aid he could prise from the Red Keep. Above, the sky had gone to iron; sunlight smothered to a dim smear.
He thought of the scene just past. Since Jaime's departure, Cersei's beauty-traps had grown more potent.
No wonder so many heroes fell—hard to stand against.
Gawen had a strong inoculation against such snares—and after Pentos, being long acquainted with Daenerys' unearthly beauty had only hardened him further. Thinking of her led to thoughts of dragons. Without misfortune, will the Targaryen dragons ever return?
A damp wind rose—the herald of rain.
He set off again.
Soon, publicly, Gawen would "depart to hunt Targaryen remnants." In truth, he would ride home to the Crab Claw and, by Cersei's command, muster the host to strike Dragonstone and bring Stannis Baratheon's head to her feet.
What had Stannis done? Gawen had a fair guess.
He smiled as he walked. In the distance he spied Varys—the Spider was everywhere.
"Good day, Lord Varys."
"And to you, Lord Gawen."
They exchanged courtesies like chance acquaintances and strolled together toward the council chambers.
"What did Lord Stannis do?" Gawen asked first.
Varys' eyes crinkled. "Has the queen regent's wrath brushed you as well?"
"Something like that," Gawen said with a shrug. "She is very angry today."
From his sleeve, Varys drew a letter and offered it.
"This morning, many black wings came to the Red Keep. Each raven bore a letter, written in Lord Stannis' own hand."
"His own hand?" Gawen unfolded the sheet.
He skimmed the contents, then passed it back.
After a beat of silence he said, "Diligent, as ever."
Varys tittered. "My little birds say that, barring mishap, every great and lesser lord in the Seven Kingdoms will receive a letter from Lord Stannis."
"Cold as iron he may be," Varys added, "but his justice is famed throughout the realm. Many will choose to believe what he has written."
Gawen looked sideways at the smiling eunuch. "Do you believe it?"
Varys' smile did not change. "Do you, Lord Gawen?"
"My heart is a snarl," Gawen said softly. "I hope it is truth—and I hope it is not."
The smile faded from Varys' lips. He sighed. "The war of a dozen years past never truly ended. A greater storm is coming."
After a moment: "Tell me then, my lord—what do you think Stannis aims to gain? Is it truly justice he seeks?"
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