Eddard Stark looked at the peerless beauty standing so close before him, his expression turning cold.
"Cersei, beauty cannot buy forgiveness."
"Forgiveness?"
The tenderness on Cersei Lannister's face vanished in an instant, her voice brimming with fury.
"What do you take me for? By what right do you speak to me of forgiveness?"
She rose to her feet, mocking him.
"Do you not have a bastard of your own? Did you not even bring that bastard into the Red Keep?"
Her eyes turned scornful.
"I am curious—who was the mother of your bastard? Was it some peasant girl after you burned down her village? Or some whore? Or perhaps the sorrowful Lady Ashara? I've heard… after you returned the greatsword Dawn to her, Lady Ashara leapt from the walls into the sea. Why was that? Was it because of her brother you slew—or the child you stole?"
The Queen stared straight at the Lord of Winterfell, her voice full of rage.
"Noble wolf, tell me—between you, Robert, Jaime, and me, what difference is there?"
Eddard slowly rose, facing the furious Queen with calm resolve.
"Cersei, listen well. I will say this only once. When Robert returns from the hunt, I intend to tell him everything as it truly is. Until then, I will not stop you from leaving. You may take the three children with you."
He paused, then added:
"But I give you this warning: no matter how far you flee, Robert's wrath will follow. If I were you, I would not go to Casterly Rock. I would take ship to the Free Cities, or even farther still. Run as far as you can."
At those words, Cersei's body visibly stiffened.
Incredulous, she asked,
"You would have me exile myself, Stark? You would make me and my children wanderers?"
Ned shook his head slightly.
"Cersei, you know well what became of Rhaegar's children."
For a moment she was silent. Then the Queen lowered her gaze, her long lashes concealing the flicker in her eyes.
Her voice grew heavy, tinged with bitterness.
"Do you know, Stark? I am the Light of the West, the proud lioness of Lannister… and yet I was given to that man, who treats me no better than some low whore…"
Lifting her eyes, her beautiful gaze was veiled by a sheen of mist.
"Ned, all that I have suffered—what am I to do with my hate, with my rage?"
Ned sighed.
"Jaime can go with you. Wherever you go, he will protect you. And… so long as I yet live, I will do what I can to restrain Robert from hunting you down."
He had intended only to spare the three children. Now, he was offering mercy even to Cersei and Jaime… but Robert might never forgive him for that.
The direwolf had shown his greatest kindness—yet the lioness did not feel gratitude. She let slip a mocking smile.
"Stark, you truly are a good man."
It is only honor, thought Ned as he gazed steadily at the Queen, but he said nothing.
Cersei went on.
"Jaime told me of that day long ago—when King's Landing fell. You need only have climbed those steps to sit the Iron Throne. A once-in-a-lifetime chance, and you let it slip away. Just as you are letting it slip today. How pitiful…"
Ned's voice was chill.
"I have committed more mistakes than you could ever imagine. But that was not one of them."
The wolf's stubbornness only stoked the lioness's anger.
…
Feigning to wipe away tears, Cersei turned her back to him.
Her face was expressionless, but her voice carried sorrow.
"Ned… grant me some time. The children are not like me. They love that man. They have prepared for days now—tomorrow they were to depart on the hunt with him. At least allow them this."
Ned hesitated, then finally sighed.
"As you wish. Forgive me, that is all I can do."
Cersei turned back, her green eyes studying the solemn features of the Lord of Winterfell.
"Stark, you must keep your promise."
Her gaze drifted toward the godswood.
"The gods bear witness."
Ned inclined his head. Cersei lifted her skirts and walked away.
After a few steps, she halted, looking back over her shoulder.
Her voice was cold.
"In the game of thrones, Stark, you win—or you die. There is no middle ground."
Before Ned could answer, the Queen swept away swiftly.
…
…
Night in King's Landing, at the Iron Gate.
The Iron Gate was one of the seven great gates in the city walls, standing to the northeast, close by Blackwater Bay. Rosby Road passed through it into the city.
The Commander of the Gold Cloaks, Janos Slynt, was a big, heavy man, thick as a wine cask, with a double chin. He wore a black damask tunic and a half-cloak of golden thread clasped with a small enameled spearhead of red.
Rubbing his bald pate, he said with some pride,
"It feels like ages since I last came here. Before I was raised to Commander of the City Watch, I spent long years as Captain of the Iron Gate guard."
Lord Gawen Crabb exchanged a look with Ser Per Pellit.
Ser Per had arrived in King's Landing that morning. Though weariness still marked his face, his spirits were high.
He gave Gawen a nod and strode off.
It was said Janos Slynt's father had been a butcher, and when he smiled, he did indeed look like one carving meat.
"Rest easy, Lord Crabb. None in King's Landing dare defy Queen Cersei's will. Certainly not me, hah."
Gawen cast him a sidelong glance, hand resting lightly upon his sword hilt.
"Lord Slynt, not every man is worthy to serve Her Grace. I would hear no words that might be so easily misunderstood…"
His long fingers tapped the pommel, his tone unyielding.
"I trust that was a jest."
Janos froze for an instant, then laughed too loudly.
"Of course! A jest, nothing more!"
Only then did Gawen's gaze soften a fraction. Yet when Slynt drew closer, the lord caught a reek of wine on his breath.
"Lord Crabb, though we speak of replacing old gear…" Janos lowered his voice, "all of it is new-forged. I would never hand Her Grace cast-offs."
At last, Gawen smiled faintly. Relief flickered in Slynt's eyes, even as curses boiled in his heart. A dog of the Queen, nothing more.
He forced a hearty laugh, but truth be told, were it not for currying favor with House Lannister, he would never abase himself before a mere functionary.
Why was Janos so eager to court Cersei's favor? Because even he, in his rough ways, had sensed the new Hand's disapproval. Eddard Stark was no Jon Arryn, and his sway with Robert was great. Janos feared losing his post as Commander of the Watch. He needed powerful patrons. When the Queen reached out her hand, he thought the gods themselves smiled upon him.
…
Ser Per returned.
"My lord—one thousand spiked helms, one thousand mail coifs, one thousand breastplates."
Gawen arched a brow, turning toward Janos.
The fat man wrung his hands.
"Lord Crabb, pray inform the Queen. Too many eyes are on the Watch. To avoid suspicion, I prepared only a thousand sets for now."
Gawen nodded approvingly.
"Very prudent, Lord Slynt. Her Grace does not care for unnecessary trouble."
Janos grinned all the wider.
"The rest is already in hand. Within three days, my gold cloaks will shed their old gear."
…
Beneath the full moon, carts rattled down Rosby Road outside the city. Gawen and Ser Per rode at their head.
"Per," Gawen said, tugging his reins, "you'll encamp in the woods east of the road for now. The Lannister merchants will bring provisions south from Rosby to supply the host."
Per inclined his head in assent.
"Rossell will see another stockpile laid up by the Iron Gate as well."
At the knight's puzzled look, Gawen smiled.
"Do you dislike the Iron Gate, Ser Per?"
After a moment's thought, Per ventured cautiously,
"My lord… you mean to…"
Gawen nodded.
"We must hold a gate in our own hand, or I'll never rest easy."
He flicked his reins.
"Be ready at all times, Ser Per. And remember—our enemies may not be without, but within."
"Yes, my lord!"
…
…
The following morning, in the Red Keep's Maester's Tower.
Grand Maester Pycelle, his jowls quivering, smiled obsequiously.
"Lord Crabb, welcome. I am at your service."
"Sit, Grand Maester," Gawen said, indicating a chair.
The aged man sat trembling—and nearly leapt from his seat as Gawen laid a blank parchment before him. What had once been his delight was now a herald of dread.
"My lord, I—I swear, I have done nothing! I have been nursing my wounds, that is all! By the gods, it is true!"
Gawen leaned back, legs crossed, sighing softly.
"This morning, when the Queen departed the Red Keep, I thought her face was… unwell."
Pycelle blinked, then stammered carefully,
"Well… all know Her Grace and the King are not… harmonious. She has little taste for hunting. No doubt her mood is poor…"
Gawen shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing.
"Our new Hand suspects the royal bloodline—that the three children are not Robert's."
Pycelle's heavy-lidded eyes flew open wide in shock.
Gawen's smile was slight.
"So my guess was true. You knew already."
The Grand Maester gaped, then shook his head desperately.
"No, my lord, no! I swear—"
But his words faltered when Gawen laid a dagger upon the table.
"Speak slowly, Maester. I will listen."
Pycelle drew a ragged breath.
"My lord… I did suspect, but I dared not dwell on it."
"I see," Gawen murmured. "You had read Maester Malleon's book, and that planted the doubt. Did it not?"
Miserably, Pycelle nodded.
"Yes, my lord Crabb."
"So then," Gawen went on, "you sought to win the new Hand's trust by giving him that book. You meant to hint at Jon Arryn's dying words: The seed is strong. And when black hair and golden hair were laid bare, Cersei and her three children would fall—and your place on the Council would be secured, with Eddard Stark's trust besides. A fine stratagem, is it not?"
The Grand Maester stared at him, aghast.
Gawen's tone was calm, almost kindly, yet Pycelle knew—this man had fabricated his guilt, backed by damning coincidences. If he wrote as bidden, he would be bound to Crabb's leash forever. If not…
I do not want to die. I want to live.
.
.
.
⚠️ 30 CHAPTERS AHEAD — I'm Not a Cyberpsycho ⚠️
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