Cersei Lannister looked at Gawen, her pupils narrowing.
"No need to guess—both Stark girls are among Lord Eddard's retinue."
She snapped several rose stems in succession, her anger still not spent.
"I want to kill a wolf," she growled, "preferably a grey one!"
Gawen stood silently by her side.
The Queen broke roses, now she wanted to kill wolves… best to wait.
Reaching out, Gawen took her hand and used his cloak to wipe away the sap left by the broken stems.
Cersei lowered her eyes to glance at the hand he held, the corner of her lips curling.
"Count Gawen, your courage has grown."
"My Queen, I am your steward," Gawen replied.
He gently released her hand and added, "Your Grace, there is no one in the Seven Kingdoms who can stop King Robert from doing what he wishes—"
He went on, "—except you. But the cost would be too high. It would not be worth it."
Cersei lifted her chin, her green eyes glinting coldly.
"A matter of life and death, nothing more. Your Queen will never yield."
Gawen's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
"Your Grace, you should not place yourself in danger. Leave dangerous tasks to me… and to Ser Jaime."
Cersei's lips curved slightly at his words.
"Gawen, you always know how to please me. Sometimes I don't know how best to reward you…"
As she spoke, she reached out a pale hand and patted him. Her long fingers brushed against the cold steel of his armor, and her brow faintly furrowed.
Her eyes flicked with mild dissatisfaction toward the perfectly fitted Crabb armor.
"To serve you is the greatest reward I could ever receive," Gawen said solemnly.
Cersei gave a short laugh. "What a charming boy."
"…," Gawen blinked in mild confusion.
It was the first time he had seen her smile so naturally—her hair shone like gold foil in the sunlight, as beautiful as a summer maiden.
Perhaps Jaime's taste wasn't so bad after all?
…
The sweetness soon faded from Cersei's face. She stared at the flowerbeds for a while before a mocking, scornful look took its place.
…
Kingsroad, west of the Trident
Eddard Stark gazed at Robert Baratheon, whose girth now rivaled his height, disbelief on his stern face.
Was this truly Robert?
"Ned! Ah, it's good to see you—especially that sour face of yours!"
Eddard heard the familiar booming voice, then found himself crushed in a bear-like embrace that nearly shook his bones apart.
Yes—it was Robert.
Fifteen years ago, when they had fought side by side, Robert had been clean-shaven, his eyes bright, six and a half feet tall, a towering figure who stood head and shoulders above the crowd—a dream of many a maiden.
Nine years ago, during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, the stag and the direwolf had flown side by side, leading the armies of the Seven Kingdoms against the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands. On the night of victory, they had stood together in the fallen fortress of House Greyjoy—Robert receiving the rebel lord's surrender, while Eddard took the man's youngest son, Theon, as his ward.
Now, a coarse black beard hid Robert's double chin, but nothing could conceal his great belly.
Robert looked him over from head to toe.
"You haven't changed a bit," he said with a hearty laugh.
A rare smile touched Eddard's usually grave face. Dropping to one knee, he said solemnly, "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours to command."
He remembered his wife's counsel—Robert was not just his friend, but King of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Seven hells, Ned!"
"Don't start that with me!" Robert grumbled.
The King's meaty hand yanked the kneeling Duke of Winterfell to his feet.
"And another thing—we're brothers! Call me 'Your Grace' again, and I'll have you hung naked in front of a brothel. Pants off first, ha!"
Eddard chuckled. Robert might look different, but his temperament hadn't changed a bit. He thought of their days in the Eyrie—it still felt the same.
From the age of eight, Ned had been fostered alongside Robert at the Eyrie under Jon Arryn. He saw Robert as a brother.
"I'll not forget," Ned said firmly.
"Seven hells!"
After meeting Eddard's two daughters, Robert said cheerfully, "The girls are far lovelier than you!"
With guards keeping a loose circle around them, the two men walked to the riverbank.
Robert pointed into the distance.
"Right there—I smashed Rhaegar with my warhammer!"
Eddard remembered his sister's final smile, the way she had gripped his hand before she died, rose petals spilling from her palm, lifeless and dark.
It was a wound carved deep into his heart.
"You killed him," Ned said quietly. "You avenged Lyanna."
"I only killed him once!" Robert roared. "Now I kill him again every night in my dreams!"
His voice turned hoarse with grief. "Gods, Lyanna was only sixteen…"
Lyanna Stark had been meant to be Robert's bride, but she had died at sixteen—still a girl.
Some wounds never heal; a few words can open them anew.
The two men stood silently by the river, the weight of the past heavy between them.
The cold Iron Throne had not eased the loss of Lyanna.
After a time, Ned said, "Tell me about Jon."
Robert shook his head. "I've never seen a man's health fail so swiftly—as if a fire burned him to nothing in days."
Ned held back his suspicions of the Lannisters—some matters needed his own investigation.
After a pause, Robert's heavy arm came around Ned's shoulders.
"I meant to wait a few days before talking about this, but since you brought it up, let's speak now."
Ned nodded.
"Jon's death was far too sudden," Robert said. "The Red Keep is a tangle of chaos right now. I need someone I can trust—someone like Jon Arryn. He was Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, and Hand of the King. Finding a worthy replacement won't be easy."
Robert's tone turned sharp.
"One after another, they're all eyeing the Hand's seat without the ability to fill it. If I left the realm to them, the gods would never forgive me!"
Ned asked, "Jon's son…"
Robert cut him off. "The boy will inherit the title of Lord of the Eyrie and all the Vale's revenues."
Ned frowned. "The Arryns have held the title of Warden of the East for generations—it's a hereditary post."
Robert's impatience showed.
"Ned, a six-year-old can't command armies. I have to think about this year and the next. When the boy comes of age, I'll decide if he gets it back."
Ned did not back down. "In peacetime, the Warden's title is largely ceremonial. Let the boy have it—it's the least we can do for old Jon, who served the realm all his life."
Robert withdrew his arm from Ned's shoulders, his tone cool.
"Jon was the Hand—that was his duty. Loyalty to his king was expected."
Then, softening, he added, "I'm no ingrate, Ned—you know that. I loved him as you did. But the boy is not his father. A child can't govern the East—gods spare me!"
The King clasped Ned's arm. "Enough of this! I have something I need you to do—and I won't take no for an answer."
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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