Gawen Crabb did not press Loras Tyrell any further.
He silently extended his right hand, palm up, as if feeling for something.
Lifting his gaze to the distance, he let out a quiet sigh, his eyes tinged with regret. "I thought King's Landing was shrouded in grief… it is weeping…"
The crowd fell into complete silence.
In that instant, seeing this scene, the merriment of moments ago gave way to complicated emotions.
Some felt ashamed, some awkward, and others dismissive—every reaction under the sun.
Renly's face darkened, the anger in his blue eyes barely contained.
From a young age, wherever Renly went, he was met with endless flattery, as if he were a sun around which all others revolved.
He still found it hard to believe that a minor noble would dare try to humiliate him so openly.
Renly's eyes shifted slightly, glancing toward Jaime, who stood beside Gawen.
Could this be a Lannister plot?
He had never held much affection for the Lannisters, and Gawen's behavior was so inexplicable that Renly could not help but suspect it.
Renly fixed his gaze on Gawen, his eyes both arrogant and laced with warning.
Gawen met Renly's heated stare, a flicker of disdain crossing his face—just long enough for Renly to notice.
In a calm tone, Gawen asked, "Lord Renly, does the old duke's passing sadden you?"
That fleeting look of contempt made Renly's temper flare.
The Baratheon words were Ours is the Fury.
And with sharp precision, Gawen had pushed Renly to the very edge of that fury.
Feeling the weight of every eye upon him, Renly gave a stiff nod.
Renly was no time-traveler like Gawen; barely past twenty, he had yet to reach full maturity. And the man before him… cared nothing for the hierarchies of blood.
A lord of Renly's standing could easily have ignored Gawen's question.
But as a contender for the Hand's seat, silence today could breed rumors tomorrow.
Gawen respected the rules of the game, first nodding in thanks to the Lord of Storm's End.
A faint smile curved his lips, carrying the air of a man whose scheme had just succeeded.
Renly's eyes twitched—he had been right. This was a Lannister plot!
"Well then…" Gawen began slowly.
In that moment, the handsome Loras Tyrell stepped in front of Renly, facing Gawen directly.
"I told you," Loras said coldly, "Lord Renly is not to be insulted!"
Gawen arched a brow, glancing at Loras's frostbitten expression.
"Ser Tyrell, are you looking to make another baseless accusation?"
Loras's golden eyes blazed, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "I won't waste words! The gods will judge. My sword will be the proof."
Gawen gave Jaime a sidelong, amused look. "Ser, surely he doesn't mean to challenge me?"
"Seems obvious," Jaime replied with a shrug.
Gawen's casual dismissal only stoked Loras's fury, the young knight nearly shaking with it.
In an instant, Gawen's smile vanished, a cold gleam flashing in his eyes. "All present here can bear witness."
His aura shifted sharply, and Loras felt for a heartbeat as though a wild beast had fixed its gaze upon him.
He shook off the thought—absurd. His swordsmanship was beyond question.
The crowd stepped back, opening a ring for the duel.
He would teach this insolent man a sharp lesson. With a metallic hiss, Loras drew his blade.
In that moment, he himself became like a drawn sword—so sharp that those watching could not help but admire him.
And then… he fell. With a single heavy blow, Gawen knocked Loras out cold.
The Knight of Flowers was too handsome; mercifully, Gawen had spared his face.
The change was so sudden that no one reacted in time; all stood frozen.
Renly rushed forward, kneeling to check on Loras.
The young knight's eyes were shut, his figure slightly disheveled yet still strikingly beautiful.
In that moment, his features bore an uncanny resemblance to his sister, Margaery.
Renly's gaze sharpened, sweeping slowly over Gawen and Jaime.
Jaime lifted his chin, his lion's eyes as sharp as ever—a golden lion never feared a crowned stag.
Gawen rested his right hand on the hilt of his sword, the blade upright at his side, his posture one of lazy indifference.
He felt the burning stares of noblewomen in the crowd, and for a moment wondered if he had become the villain in someone's story.
Why the double standard, he thought—handsome men should be treated equally.
Fresh from felling one flower, Gawen now turned his gaze to Renly's other guards.
"Anyone else eager to make baseless accusations?"
The guards glared at him with open hostility.
Renly handed Loras to a squire, then raised a hand to stop his men from drawing steel.
He approached Gawen, casting him a long look before addressing Jaime: "Ser Lannister, I'll remember your… greeting."
Jaime's lips curled into a cold smile. "And I'll remember yours, Lord Renly."
Renly meant today's events; Jaime meant Renly's past designs against Cersei.
This was the great-lord version of trading threats: the Baratheons of Storm's End versus the Lannisters of the Westerlands.
Gawen looked on calmly, though part of him wondered whether to stoke the flames further.
But too much was too much; he set the thought aside.
His mind flickered to Baelish and Varys—it seemed all three were weaving their own chaos.
A pity their loyalties clashed; if the three ever joined forces, the great lords might never see their end coming.
Renly's cold snort brought him back. The stag lord shot him one last glare before turning on his heel and leaving the marble square with his men.
As the crowd dispersed, Jaime chuckled. "Lord Crabb, your way of provoking is… unique. Renly won't soon forget it."
"Shame the others were stopped by him," Gawen said with regret.
Jaime's mouth quirked. "Not doubting your nerve, but you're not worried about Renly's revenge?"
Gawen lifted a brow. "Do Lannisters worry about Renly's revenge?"
The message was clear: We're on the same side.
Jaime smiled broadly and clapped him on the arm. "If there's a tourney, let's test ourselves."
Putting Renly in his place had put Jaime in a fine mood.
This was a bloodless contest between great houses of Westeros, and the victor was Jaime Lannister.
After bidding Gawen farewell, Jaime strode off—eager, Gawen guessed, to tell Queen Cersei and claim his reward, whatever that might be.
Turning toward the Great Sept of Baelor, Gawen walked inside.
He moved through the Hall of Lanterns, its ceiling hung with many colored glass orbs, the long corridor that led from the main gates into the sept proper.
Not far ahead, laughter and chatter rang out.
He frowned slightly, spotting the portly yet imposing Mace Tyrell, the small and slight Petyr Baelish, the plump and gracious Varys, and other Red Keep dignitaries.
At the center of their circle, Mace beamed.
The scene reminded Gawen of an inflated fish flanked by two foxes.
Slowing his pace, he headed toward them.
He had, after all, just knocked out the Tyrell lord's son outside—but family interests were a separate matter. Unless Loras were lord or heir, he did not speak for the Golden Rose.
Renly, after all, was still a rival for Mace's claim to the Hand's seat.
"Why, if it isn't Gawen!" Mace boomed, clearly pleased.
Gawen had intended to wait until he was closer to greet him, but the Tyrell lord spotted him first.
"It's an honor to see you again, Your Grace of the Rose," Gawen said warmly.
"Good, good!" Mace chuckled, stroking his beard. "I hear King Robert entrusted you with an important task across the Narrow Sea. Didn't expect to see you back so soon."
"The matter's temporarily settled, so I returned to King's Landing," Gawen replied.
"Good for you, lad—best to gain experience while you're young. I have faith in your abilities."
Gawen bowed his head. "I'll remember your counsel, my lord."
Such a humble boy, Mace thought, nodding with satisfaction.
Gawen greeted the others in order of rank, receiving friendly smiles all around, his closeness with Mace and his position as the queen's chief agent not lost on anyone.
Turning to Petyr, whose face looked drawn, he asked with concern, "Lord Baelish, you seem tired—perhaps you should rest?"
Petyr shook his head. "The old duke's death has left much to be done. I'm barely managing."
Varys nodded. "Indeed, the realm runs on coin, and the treasury cannot be left untended."
He sighed. "No one was closer to the old duke than Lord Baelish—he is surely the most grieved among us."
Petyr's jaw tightened.
Gawen smiled. "Well, now that Lord Tyrell is here, you may take a moment's ease. I hope you recover swiftly—after all, as Lord Varys says, the realm's finances rest in your hands."
Mace stroked his beard again—well said, that's exactly my thought.
Varys folded his hands. "Lord Crabb is right."
Their eyes met briefly; both gave the smallest of nods.
Illyrio was gone—stabbed by Daenerys. This was something the two would have to discuss privately.
The plan Varys and Illyrio had built over decades would not be abandoned midway.
In some ways, perhaps Daenerys had done Varys a favor, clearing the way for him to claim Illyrio's resources.
Petyr spoke smoothly: "Thank you for your kindness, Lord Crabb. I'll recover soon enough… In truth, seeing Lord Tyrell has already lifted my spirits."
Varys inclined his head. "On that, we agree."
With a hand over his heart, Gawen added, "I have always thought of Lord Tyrell as a pillar of the realm."
The young man's flattery drew a moment's pause, then a chorus of agreement.
Mace beamed. "But one stone alone does not make a wall—the realm needs all your efforts together."
"Beautifully put!" the others agreed.
Gawen lingered, admiring their performance. Mace, for all his girth, still cut a handsome figure; to the outside world, the very image of the Reach's high lord.
From within… well, that mattered less. Gawen only cared for appearances.
Then, he felt a sudden chill.
Turning, he saw Stannis Baratheon approaching from afar.
Without fuss, he slipped out of the circle.
Somehow, he felt like a man caught in a lovers' quarrel between House Lannister, House Tyrell, and House Targaryen.
Had Stannis already marked him as an ally of Dragonstone?
He signaled subtly to Mace, but the lord was lost in a sea of praise.
Next, he glanced at Petyr, who caught on quickly.
A discreet finger pointed the way; Petyr followed it with his eyes and recognized Stannis at once.
In the game of thrones, betting too early was a grave mistake. Petyr quietly withdrew from the crowd and joined Gawen.
They exchanged a knowing smile.
As for Varys, he was holding Mace's hand warmly, leaving a powdery smudge on the Tyrell's sleeve.
Gawen decided not to interrupt.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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