At dusk, the sky gradually shifted from azure blue to a soft, golden hue.
Gawen's tone was gentle. "Tyrion, when a man is too calm, he risks seeming heartless."
The smile on Tyrion's face faded. "Gawen, you saw right through me, didn't you?"
He shrugged his small shoulders. "Conversations with you are always a little too easy."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Gawen raised his cup in Tyrion's direction, took a sip of Summer Red, and added, "One way or another, the queen must be given satisfaction."
Tyrion arched a brow, faint amusement in his eyes. "That's all?"
Gawen spread his hands. "That's the main reason—she enjoys it. Don't forget my position. As for the rest… ask Ser Jaime; you know his temperament well enough."
Tyrion sighed in mock helplessness. "Mm, I suppose my little head is always too full of thoughts. No wonder my dear sister doesn't like to kiss my little face."
He grinned. "I should learn from you how to keep Cersei happy."
Gawen chuckled. "Here's a good tip—word is the queen's been fond of mummers' shows lately."
Tyrion laughed aloud. "Forget it—her tastes change too quickly. Not like mine…"
Lowering his voice suddenly, he asked, "So—how did your trip to Pentos turn out? I mean the Targaryen whelps."
Gawen's brow rose. "What else could it be? The Red Keep never stopped hunting them—they've been driven from place to place."
Tyrion ruffled his hair. "A pity. Unless the gods themselves intervene, I'll never see a living dragon. If the Targaryens had dragons, they wouldn't be across the Narrow Sea! The last two hatched on Dragonstone… pitiful, twisted creatures no bigger than a hound's skull. Those were the final dragons in Targaryen records—likely the last the world will ever see. I should have given up long ago."
From childhood, Tyrion had been morbidly fascinated by dragons. At his sister's wedding to Robert Baratheon, he had determined to see the skulls that once adorned the walls of the Targaryen throne room.
By then, King Robert had replaced them with banners and hangings, but Tyrion persisted, and eventually found them in a damp, shadowy cellar.
He had expected the skulls to be fearsome, even horrifying—never that they would be beautiful. Black as onyx, smooth and gleaming, they seemed to glimmer under torchlight—so beautiful they took his breath away.
Spreading his hands, Tyrion said, "When my sister was wed, I saw a dragon's skull in the Red Keep cellars. Its jaws alone could swallow a whole aurochs—or one of those woolly mammoths said to roam the frozen wastes.
"History says King Loren of the Rock knelt to Aegon the Conqueror after seeing his three dragons. Looking at those skulls, I can only feel grateful he did."
Gawen nodded. "The singers call it the Field of Fire—three hundred years ago, the united hosts of the Rock and the Reach faced Aegon and his dragons. Nearly four thousand men burned to ash in a single day, including King Mern of the Reach."
Tyrion took a sip of Summer Red. "All of Mern Gardener IX's sons perished in the flames. The royal House Gardener was all but wiped out.
"Their steward, Harlen Tyrell, yielded Highgarden to Aegon, and so the Conqueror gave him the castle and made House Tyrell Lords Paramount of the Reach."
Gawen set his cup down. "The golden rose that blooms eternal."
Tyrion grinned. "Ah, yes—the steward gave away his master's lands, and became lord of them himself. The golden rose has always known how to thrive. I wonder what they'll give up this time—and what they hope to gain."
Gawen's gaze flicked to Tyrion. "It sounds as if you already know the answer."
Tyrion countered, "The new Hand of the King—will the Crab Claw Peninsula not place a wager?"
Gawen's disdain was plain. "My lord, I am the queen's chief aide. The Peninsula's tradition is to serve the queen directly."
Tyrion smirked. "Now you see my answer, don't you?"
Gawen's brow furrowed slightly. After a pause, he said, "King Robert is still young. Too many variables lie ahead. The golden rose won't ignore that."
Robert was only thirty-six years old (born in 262 AC). By all rights, his reign could last many years yet.
Tyrion spoke from a Casterly Rock perspective. Jaime, who should have been heir, was bound to the Kingsguard; under Westerosi law, Tyrion Lannister was the legal heir to Casterly Rock—though their father had yet to acknowledge it.
Leaning back in his chair, Tyrion said, "As a friendly neighbor, I can't help but pay attention. I hear the Queen of Thorns is not easy to please… and then there's that merry little band of Small Council members—our good friend Petyr, the venerable Grand Maester, and that bald eunuch with one fewer piece. King's Landing is never dull."
Gawen smiled. "We expect Lord Eddard Stark to be the next Hand. His bond with the king is strong; they trust each other."
Tyrion nodded, then smirked. "So His Grace can enjoy his pleasures without worry. I envy him."
"And you?" Tyrion went on. "Even as Cersei's aide, you could still pay your respects to the future Hand."
Gawen looked faintly appalled. "Are you serious? Do you think a Stark from the North would go for that sort of thing?"
Tyrion laughed. "The Red Keep will be filled not with flattery, but with the dreary business of governing. Imagine it—the scene should be entertaining."
Gawen chuckled. "If there are no other variables, they'll struggle to adapt to each other's ways—it will take time to build trust."
"Variables?" Tyrion asked.
"Don't forget—the golden rose is in King's Landing. They've come all this way; to leave empty-handed would wound their pride."
Tyrion's face grew thoughtful. "Cersei first recommended the Lord of Highgarden as a candidate for Hand. What's her stance now?"
Gawen shrugged. "You don't want to know."
Tyrion snorted. "That's my dear sister. Fortunately, we share such a warm, gentle father."
Gawen agreed silently—Lord Tywin was indeed… "affable."
With a pained gesture, Tyrion ran a hand through his pale-gold hair. "Harsh truths, Gawen. All I can do is sit here and grumble to you. Pathetic, isn't it?"
And what sort of man was Lord Gawen Crabb? Humble, honest, merciful, wise, brave, honorable… cough.
He patted Tyrion's shoulder. "Don't fret over the queen—or the golden rose. Whatever happens, Her Grace's safety is assured. My sword will see to it."
Tyrion froze for a heartbeat. "Gawen… you've gone strange on me."
A smile played in Gawen's eyes. "Your little tells give you away, Tyrion. I'm beginning to believe the Lannisters truly are one big, loving family."
Tyrion laughed. "Yes—Father's kind, Sister's gentle, Brother's stern, and the little brother's obedient. Ha!"
After a moment, Tyrion said, "You're unexpectedly dependable, my friend. I can return to my ladies' arms without worry. They only love me for my… gold dragons. Heh!"
Gawen chuckled. "Enjoy yourself, my lord."
Footsteps approached. Gawen turned his head to see Surana appear.
Tyrion, ever mindful of appearances, quickly smoothed his expression.
"My lord, an invitation to dinner has just arrived."
Gawen took the finely made card, bearing the golden rose of House Tyrell, and opened it.
His brow lifted. "Tonight?"
After a pause, he said, "Tell them I will attend."
Once Surana had gone, Tyrion said dryly, "The golden rose must be thanking you for knocking their Knight of Flowers senseless."
Gawen tapped his fingers on the table. "The Hand of the King?"
"No doubt—they've set their sights on my sister's favorite."
With that, Tyrion slid down from his chair.
After seeing Tyrion off, Gawen made a few preparations and, flanked by his guards, set out for the Tyrells' feast.
Night had fallen. Stars began to pierce the darkening sky, and the moon showed its pale face.
A cool breeze brushed Gawen's cheek.
It had been a long day—arriving in the capital that morning, then visiting Maegor's Holdfast and the Great Sept of Baelor.
The handwriting on the card was Margaery Tyrell's; Gawen suspected it was at Lady Olenna Redwyne's urging. Such a sudden invitation was very much the Queen of Thorns' style.
The North was far from King's Landing; Lord Eddard Stark's sudden appearance on the shortlist for Hand would surprise many. The bond between wolf and stag was well known—and urgency was to be expected.
Gawen understood.
Half an hour later, they arrived at the Tyrell manse.
The grand oak doors swung open, and a servant led Gawen inside.
In the hall, Margaery awaited him—dressed in a simple green gown, her long brown curls loose upon her shoulders.
She smiled warmly. "Good evening, Lord Gawen. I'm glad you could come. Welcome."
Extending her slender hand, she offered it to him.
"Good evening, Lady Margaery. The honor is mine."
Gawen lifted her fingers lightly, brushing the back of her hand in a courtly gesture.
"My grandmother is upstairs," she said, inclining her head toward the stairway.
Gawen hesitated. "Your grandmother… the Queen of Thorns?"
Margaery cast him a sidelong glance. "Don't use that name in her presence, Lord Gawen."
She seemed more amused than reproachful, her manner almost intimate—far warmer than during their formal meetings at Highgarden.
One playing good cop, the other bad cop—was that the plan tonight?
Gawen smiled. "Thank you for the kind warning, my lady. You're most considerate."
Her doe-like eyes softened. "Let's go—she's waiting, and her patience is limited."
At the top of the stairs, two towering guards stood—twin giants in green surcoats edged with gold, golden half-helms gleaming, the golden rose embroidered on their chests. Broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, red-bearded, and blue-eyed, they were near mirror images.
Margaery said, "My grandmother's personal guards—Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk. Hard to tell apart, so she calls them Left and Right."
"A wise choice," Gawen said.
The twins pulled open the door.
Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth. At the head of the long table sat a frail, white-haired old woman.
Margaery led Gawen forward. "Lord Gawen, my grandmother, Lady Olenna—widow of the late Lord Luthor Tyrell of Highgarden, mother of Lord Mace Tyrell."
Gawen bowed with a hand to his chest. "Good evening, Lady Olenna. It is an honor to meet you."
The scent of strong rose perfume hung in the air.
Lady Olenna studied his face before speaking kindly. "Sit, child. I'm glad you've come to share supper with an old woman."
Gawen thanked her, nodded to Margaery, and took his seat.
Servants soon filled the table with dishes, then withdrew, leaving only the three of them.
Lady Olenna's voice was lively. "No stiff rules here, child. Eat! I hear you arrived in the city this morning and were already busy knocking my grandson senseless—you must be famished."
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