In front of the Wheel Keep—the grand, mobile tower that served as the royal carriage—Cersei Lannister's face grew even darker, her expression as grim as a storm about to break.
Her eyes locked onto the two people walking together in the distance, both of whom she despised. The sight only stoked the fire of rage smoldering in her chest.
"Cersei?"
Noticing her expression had turned sour—though he already knew the reason—Jaime gently reminded her, still supporting the Queen where she stood. He gave her hand a firm but reassuring squeeze.
Jaime Lannister was neither blind nor stupid. He knew exactly what had triggered Cersei's anger.
But he also knew there was nothing he could say.
And even if he did speak, it would be pointless.
Roused from her inner storm by Jaime's voice, Cersei instinctively glanced around, then forced herself to rein in her fury.
But not before casting one last vicious glare at the pair walking away. Only then did she withdraw her venomous gaze and glance down at Jaime, who stood with her at the steps of the Wheel Keep.
"Let's go."
Cersei didn't say much. She simply raised her skirt with her free left hand and issued the cold command.
Seeing that she didn't explode on the spot, Jaime secretly breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly helped her descend the steps of the Keep.
Just then, a small head peeked out from behind the doorframe—a head of neatly pinned golden hair atop a delicate face.
"Hey~ Mother! Where are you and Uncle Jaime going?"
Myrcella Baratheon poked her head out from the entrance of the Wheel Keep, her eyes full of innocent curiosity as she looked at her mother and her Kingsguard uncle.
Hearing her daughter's voice, both Cersei and Jaime stopped in their tracks and turned to look.
There stood a lovely young girl with fair, milk-white skin and a cascade of golden curls.
At the sound of her daughter's voice, the frost on Cersei's face melted away.
"Myrcella, stay inside the Keep with your brothers. Someone will bring food to you shortly."
"After you finish eating, make sure you get some proper rest."
Cersei didn't answer Myrcella's question about where she was going. Instead, she gave her a clear instruction to remain inside the Wheel Keep.
Myrcella, who had been cooped up in the Keep all day, pouted in mild protest when she heard her mother's order.
At first, she had been thrilled to leave King's Landing aboard the Wheel Keep—but after a full day of seeing the same unchanging scenery, combined with the jolting and bumping of the road, she had begun to feel a bit worn out.
Still, now that they had finally stopped, her curiosity about the outside world began to outweigh her physical fatigue.
She was eager to see what the inn looked like. But clearly, her mother had no intention of taking her along.
So all Myrcella could do was lower her head and mumble, "Alright, Mother… I'll rest after dinner…"
Though she was only eight years old and looked delicate and frail, Myrcella still carried herself with grace and beauty.
And though she hesitated for just a moment, she ultimately obeyed her mother without protest.
When that sweet little head disappeared back behind the doorframe, both Cersei and Jaime couldn't help but smile.
But a second later, Cersei wiped the smile from her face. She turned her head away again, her expression returning to its usual coldness.
"Come. Let's walk a little—get away from the crowd. My whole body's sore from all the bumping around on the road," she said, barely glancing at Jaime.
Jaime, however, hesitated at her words.
He looked around cautiously, then leaned in and lowered his voice.
"The vanguard caravan should've already prepared food for you and Robert. I think you should eat something first…"
But Jaime really shouldn't have said anything—because the moment he did, the fury Cersei had been bottling up all day inside the Wheel Keep surged straight to the surface.
She yanked her arm free from Jaime's support, lifted her eyebrows sharply, and snapped, "I can't even drink a sip of water right now!"
"Gods damn it, why do I have to go to that cursed place just because that fat pig is going? The snow up there could freeze a person to death!"
"By then, I bet you'll even need someone standing by while you take a piss—just to make sure your cock doesn't freeze off in the next second!"
Seeing that Jaime wasn't taking her side, Cersei—already fuming—couldn't hold back anymore. She shouted at him, unleashing her rage.
Thankfully, she still had a shred of self-control. Her voice had come out louder than intended at first, but the rest of her words were gritted out through clenched teeth, her tone lowered as she vented her frustrations to Jaime.
Jaime remained silent in the face of all this.
He knew that Cersei's anger, though seemingly aimed at him, wasn't truly directed at him. It was a case of cursing the tree while scolding the squirrel.
But that wasn't the only reason for his silence.
Everyone knew why Robert Baratheon was heading north—there wasn't a soul at court who couldn't guess the real reason the king was dragging himself all the way to that frozen wasteland.
Still, as a Lannister, Jaime couldn't very well argue with Cersei about it in public.
And he understood exactly why this whole affair had Cersei fuming.
After all, from her perspective, the now-vacant position of Hand of the King should have gone to a Lannister—their father, Tywin.
How much had House Lannister done for House Baratheon?
And what did the king do in return?
He tried to placate the Warden of the West, the Duke of Casterly Rock, with some orphan from the Vale.
And then, without missing a beat, turned his sights to the frigid North, planning to chase after that damned Stark.
So Cersei's fury wasn't just about this one matter. It was the culmination of everything.
Especially now that she had to go with Robert—endure all the exhaustion and hardship—just to reach that gods-forsaken place.
But after that outburst, her anger gradually cooled. She no longer screamed like a fishwife in front of the crowd, throwing propriety to the wind.
Instead, she pressed her lips together, shot Jaime a glare, and with a flick of her head, lifted her skirts and strode off toward the distant woods on her own.
Jaime could only stand there with a helpless smile, shaking his head. He adjusted the longsword strapped to his waist and followed after her.
…
"I fell in love with a girl as lovely as summer,
Sunlight dancing in her shining hair…"
"I fell in love with a maiden as bright as autumn,
Dusk's glow brushing the ends of her locks…"
"I fell in love with a girl as pale as winter,
Moonlight catching the curve of her ear…"
Sitting atop the carriage shaft after a round of bickering with Tyrion, Kal leaned back, gazing at the setting sun on the horizon. A blade of grass—plucked from who-knows-where—hung from his lips as he hummed an old song from Myr.
Clearly, now that he'd eaten and drunk his fill, he was in a fine mood.
On the other side, Tyrion was struggling to climb up onto the same carriage shaft. Once he managed it, he opened a chest filled with books and began rummaging through it, trying to decide which one to give Kal.
But the moment that sweet, melancholic melody—meant to be sung, not hummed—reached his ears, Tyrion froze.
His hand halted midair, hovering over a stack of books. His expression went blank as he listened to the voice beside him.
Not until the song faltered halfway—its lyrics forgotten—did he slowly come back to himself.
He dropped the question of what book to choose altogether, pulling out two volumes at random without even glancing at the titles or contents. With his usual mask of calm back on his face, he climbed down from the carriage.
Books tucked under one arm, Tyrion waddled over to Kal.
But instead of handing over the books right away, he tilted his head up at the man lazily swinging his legs while watching the sunset, and said out of nowhere: "If you sing that song for me a hundred times, I might consider giving you another gold dragon."
Kal blinked, caught off guard by the remark.
Then he turned to face him, rolled the grass stem in his mouth with his tongue a couple times, and looked down at the dwarf with a strange expression in his eyes.
He stared at Tyrion for a good half-minute without saying a word—trying to determine if the little man had lost his mind—before finally speaking in a wary tone: "First of all, I'm a sellsword. I make a living dancing on the edge of a blade."
"And second… I suppose moonlighting as a bard once in a while wouldn't be the worst thing. A lot of noble ladies and their daughters seem to like silver-tongued types."
"So…" Kal narrowed his eyes and looked Tyrion up and down. "You sure your brain hasn't been kicked in by a donkey? Or maybe something worse?"
As soon as he finished, Kal sprang to his feet, clenched his fists, and glared down at the dwarf, who was now 'trembling' in place.
This bastard actually dared treat him like some back-alley songbird for hire.
But Tyrion didn't take the threat seriously in the slightest.
He casually tossed the two books he'd been holding onto the ground beside Kal, clapped the dust from his hands, and stepped forward. With a quick turn and a hop, he plopped down right next to Kal.
Then, his gaze followed Kal's, landing on the sun suspended over the mountain peaks.
"Do you even know the name of the song you were singing?" Tyrion asked in a calm, almost idle tone, eyes still on the view before them.
But before Kal could answer, Tyrion went on as if speaking to himself: "It's called The Seasons of My Love. A ballad from Myr."
"But it's not meant to be sung the way you did it—some bold, swaggering confession. It's supposed to be sweet and sorrowful, like weeping through a smile, yearning for something just out of reach…"
"Like the moon floating on the water—only a beautiful lie."
"A lie that can be shattered with nothing more than a single gold dragon."
For once, Tyrion's voice had taken on a rare seriousness, as if he were truly discussing the finer points of musical interpretation with Kal.
But when he finished speaking, no reply came—only silence.
After a long pause, Tyrion finally noticed that Kal still hadn't responded. He turned his head, puzzled, and glanced over.
Kal, meeting Tyrion's gaze, reached up and removed the grass stem from his mouth. Then he straightened his posture and looked at the dwarf with an intensity that didn't quite match his usual irreverence.
"I heard sorrow in the dwarf's voice," Kal said slowly. "It was like a breeze drifting across the Blackwater, reeking faintly of fish…"
"But colder than the snows of the North."
Gone was the usual teasing tone. The strange, cryptic words that came from Kal's mouth now felt jarring against the moment—especially from a man like him.
But there was something unusual in his eyes too—a flicker of earnestness.
Tyrion, who just moments ago had been wondering why Kal wasn't responding, now sat stunned, caught off guard by his words.
His eyes flickered, shifting through a dozen thoughts in an instant.
Then suddenly, it was as if something amusing had crossed his mind. He tilted his chin up, lips curling into a faint smirk, and looked at Kal with a hint of disdain.
"Kid, I'd wager you've barely even seen snow…"
"Tell me—do you even remember your first winter?"