The gardens of Maegor's Holdfast were breathtaking, a sea of blossoms in every hue.
Gawen placed a hand to his chest and bowed. "Your Grace, it is my greatest honor."
Queen Cersei inclined her head slightly, lifting her gem-studded goblet for a sip of wine. "Lord Gawen, how long until your men arrive?"
Gawen cast a sidelong glance at Sansa and answered respectfully, "Your Grace, no more than ten days."
"Good."
She seemed lost in thought, and neither Gawen nor Sansa disturbed her silence.
Sansa Stark was already enthralled by the queen's allure, dazzled by the golden promises she painted.
Her mind was filled with nothing but radiant dreams of Joffrey.
Family. Duty. Honor. Gawen sighed inwardly. The little she-wolf, lost in sweet love, had yet to understand the meaning of Winter Is Coming.
Ah well—heavy burdens for the able.
Cersei's emerald gaze shifted elsewhere, and a tender smile touched her lips.
"Dear Sansa, look—your prince comes to fetch you."
Not far off, Joffrey waved, leading a fine white horse.
Sansa leapt to her feet, joy written plain, then stammered shyly, "Your Grace, I…"
Cersei shook her head with indulgence. "Sweet child, go on. Don't keep your prince waiting."
When Sansa had gone, Cersei's gentle smile vanished.
"Such an innocent girl."
Gawen smiled faintly. "Your Grace, your approval is what matters."
"Sit."
She indicated the chair Sansa had just vacated.
Gawen hesitated only a moment, bowed thanks, and drew the chair a little farther back before sitting.
The corner of Cersei's lips curved, her green eyes fixing on him.
"Lord Gawen, can your soldiers stand against the Gold Cloaks?"
Gawen's eyes flickered. He answered solemnly, "Your Grace, that depends on the battlefield. Outside the city, two thousand Crabb Blue Cloaks could defeat all the Gold Cloaks in King's Landing."
He paused. "But within the city it would be another matter. Nearly every Gold Cloak wears chainmail, breastplate, and helm. Their arms are sound. In the narrow streets, my men's advantage would be blunted. At best we might win narrowly—but the losses would be terrible, and those who survived might not serve you long."
"Armor?"
After a pause, Cersei said, "And if your soldiers had enough armor?"
"Then, Your Grace," Gawen said without hesitation, "should the Gold Cloaks dare offend you, my men would slaughter them all. Equal arms, and one Blue Cloak could best ten Gold Cloaks. That is beyond doubt."
Cersei rose, pacing a moment. "I shall have words with Lord Janos, the commander of the Gold Cloaks. Their gear is long due for replacement."
Already bought, or soon to be? It hardly mattered. What mattered was the flow of new arms.
Lord Janos would grow rich. And so, too, would Gawen.
His eyes brightened. "Your Grace, your wisdom astounds. Soon the craven Gold Cloaks will bow, and none in King's Landing will dare defy you."
Cersei approached, wine in hand. "Clever Gawen. You've guessed what your queen intends?"
He lowered his gaze. "The duty of House Crabb is to guard the queen's safety."
Her green eyes lingered on him until his composure strained. Then her lips curved subtly.
She shifted, seating herself on his lap, one hand curling around his neck.
Her breath warmed his skin. He froze, stiff as a spear haft.
She swirled her cup and smiled. "Would you risk all for your queen's safety?"
His throat bobbed. "Yes, Your Grace."
Her eyes softened, her gaze unwavering. "No matter who the foe might be?"
His pupils tightened, his voice low and fervent. "Yes, Your Grace. Loyal and unafraid."
"Excellent…"
She drank, smiling. "You've pleased your queen. How shall I reward you?"
Gawen's voice quavered slightly despite his courtesy. "Your trust is reward enough. A warrior asks only for a cup of wine."
Her smile deepened. Indulging his modest request, she offered him the sweet warmth of summerwine, which he drank awkwardly.
Outside the gardens, Gawen paused, turning his gaze toward the throne room.
The first move: Lancel and strong drink, a 'mishap' that would not be mishap at all. Should Robert Baratheon prove lucky, then came Ser Jaime and the red-cloaked Lannisters' ambush.
And if the drunken king survived still? Then came Cersei's final stroke: mutiny.
She told Gawen she would soon ride with her children to join Robert at the hunt. The thought made his eyes flicker.
Joffrey's charm had worked—Sansa was wholly ensnared. With the little wolf as a hostage, Eddard Stark could be bent.
The scheme was thorough. If aught went awry, Varys the Spider would lend unseen aid. Robert's death was certain.
Then two thousand Crabb Blue Cloaks in King's Landing would be the sole wild card.
Gawen reviewed every moment with the queen. His blue cloak, stitched with marigolds, swirled as he strode on.
He knew her well—Cersei's tenderness was but the mask of venom.
And he played his part well. To her eyes, the brooding young lord was already enthralled by her charms—useful, or disposable, as she pleased.
Looking back toward Maegor's Holdfast, he mused:
Should Robert fall by accident or ambush, all would cheer. He himself might even be named commander of the Gold Cloaks.
But if a mutiny crowned him? Then he would be the scapegoat—perhaps alongside Robert's dearest friend, Lord Eddard.
The plan seemed flawless, but… Cersei was blind to one thing: the chance that he might turn his soldiers against her.
Unlike Eddard Stark, bound by children, Gawen had no wife or heirs. At times, that left him without weakness. Prideful schemes… so like Cersei.
Had he played his part too well? She had not considered what might happen if a young lord with two thousand men chose not to kneel.
Still, she schemed to arm his men with the Gold Cloaks' gear. So very Cersei.
Perhaps she thought of it. Perhaps not. But to her, he was only a lovesick youth, summoned at her pleasure.
He sighed. Fortune favored Cersei, as ever. This was the game of thrones. And Lord Gawen Crabb was not the least bit angry.
He thought of stubborn Eddard Stark, and rubbed his brow. Sometimes the slower path was the safer one.
Near the Tower of the Hand, in a shaded pavilion, Gawen awaited.
Varys came gliding lightly. "Good day, Lord Gawen."
The eunuch's manner before others was always exaggerated, easy to startle. But alone, he was warm, almost kindly.
Gawen knew these masks well; they kept him secure on the council.
Varys had once invited alliance, and after much cautious thought, Gawen had accepted.
Together they had agreed: Littlefinger was too prone to chaos. And to prove his sincerity, Varys had claimed the task of striking the final blow.
Thus Baelish had been sent to the black cells. And in his place, a new alliance had been forged: Gawen and the Spider.
Their cause was noble—or so they told themselves. To bring Westeros a true king who knew its people's suffering.
That king was Viserys Targaryen, rightful heir in law.
At least, that was the surface of it. Beneath, each only needed the other—until one no longer did.
"Lord Varys," Gawen said with a bow.
A smile creased the eunuch's plump face. "My little birds bring astonishing tidings."
Gawen's eyes narrowed. "The Tyrells?"
"Not only them…"
The Mountain, who had slain the Knight of Flowers at the tourney, had himself been brought low, swarmed by Renly's and Tyrell's men. He still breathed, saved by Pycelle's tending.
But news spread: Ser Garlan Tyrell, Mace's second son, had rushed at him and been maimed for it—his right arm snapped like a twig.
"Can it be healed?" Gawen asked.
Varys shook his head. "The lord of Highgarden's first son limps from his first tourney. Now his second has lost an arm, and his third lies dead in the lists. A grim harvest."
Gawen arched a brow. "And some good news?"
Varys sighed. "A misfortune to others, perhaps not to us. The Imp, leaving a brothel, was caught in the melee. Someone slashed his face. From beneath the left eye down across the jaw, nose near gone, lip torn away. He bled a trail across the street. Pycelle works feverishly to keep him alive."
Gawen tapped the railing, frowning. "Lord Varys, is it grave?"
"I do not think mortal… but the pain is such no maester could cleanse the wound without drowning him in milk of the poppy."
Gawen closed his eyes briefly. Then: "The South grows ever more unstable. Will this aid His Grace?"
By "His Grace," he meant Viserys—an understanding only they shared.
Varys nodded. "When Lord Tywin brought twelve thousand men to the gates of King's Landing, he ignored Aerys's summons for near a year. At Pycelle's urging, the gates opened. In an instant, the city was lost. The Iron Throne gone forever."
He lowered his voice. "The same men who betrayed then—and gained most from it—will be Viserys's greatest foes."
Gawen said, "So Tyrion's wound is a boon, because…"
"Because Lannisters pay their debts," Varys finished with a sly smile. "An awkward principle indeed."
The Tower of the Hand
Jon Snow lay pale upon his bed, Ser Mondon Waters's broad bulk seated beside him.
Jon had taken a leg wound in the melee, and now rested uneasily.
He shifted, groaning in pain.
"Jon," Mondon said in his blunt way, "the maester says pain is a blessing. It means the bone is knitting."
"Seven hells…" Jon muttered. "When my leg stops hurting, then I'll thank the gods."
Mondon pointed to a vial. "Milk of the poppy. For when it's too much."
"I don't want to sleep again…"
Suddenly—BANG! The door burst open. Arya rushed in, face streaked with tears.
"Brother, Br—Bran…"
Black wings. Black tidings.
.
.
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