The Throne's Last Flame

Chapter 127 - Not Allowed to Refuse

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.