Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast, the Queen's chambers.
Jai stood at the bedside, gazing at Cersei as she slept, and a faint smile curved his lips without him realizing.
The soft silk coverlet only served to better outline the graceful shape of the drear's body.
His throat tightened, Adam's apple shifting as he reached out and gently touched the top of her bare foot that peeked out from beneath the sheets.
"Your Grace, good morning."
Cersei's lashes trembled. Her long, shapely legs stretched out, her delicate feet flexed, toes spreading and curling again.
After a fleeting daze, a smile rose at the corner of her eyes. "Good morning, Ser Jai. Co serve your queen and help her rise."
She took the robe Jai offered, wrapping it around herself, and sat before the mirror at her vanity. "Ser Jai, you seem a little different than usual today. Am I mistaken?"
The ever-composed Jai felt a sudden stir of unease, though his face betrayed nothing. "Perhaps it's only your own good mood?"
Cersei gave him a sidelong glance. "Speak. What is it really?"
Jai moved behind her, laying his broad hands upon her shoulders. "Princess Myrcella has long wished you would teach her how to braid hair. I thought today might be the perfect ti."
Cersei tilted her head back slightly to et his eyes, her lips curving. "Very well, I'll grant you this, ser. For your sake, we'll go see her later."
Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand.
Tap, tap. Gawen climbed steadily, though his mind was still occupied with his exchange with Varys.
The eunuch was a ticulous player of power, his little birds everywhere.
In his mories before crossing into this world, Varys had always been one of the deepest-hidden players of the ga, plotting great designs alongside Illyrio Mopatis.
Gawen now had one foot firmly planted in the ga of thrones, with a political stance of his own.
Varys' words had been courteous, but Gawen was himself accustod to n who spoke with veiled purpose; instinct told him to be wary of the Spider.
First of all, he was certain Varys had spoken favorably of him to Jon Arryn, laying the ground for a more welcoming eting. That was a clear show of friendliness.
But there was no such thing as love without reason in the ga of power. What was Varys' aim?Did he see in Gawen, descendant of loyal Targaryen retainers, a potential champion to recruit for the dragons' return?
Gawen dismissed the notion outright. At least until Daenerys had true dragons, she would never win "investors."
He had once hoped to quietly bide his ti until the story truly began, but since setting foot in King's Landing, he had felt himself pulled into the current. Every little move of the great lords demanded his attention.
Perhaps it was ti to change his mindset—and begin weaving plans of his own.
He reached the landing on the second floor.
Pausing, he cast a glance about and saw a goldcloak approaching.
"Good day, my lord baron. Please, this way."
Gawen arched a brow, giving a small nod.
Outwardly relaxed yet inwardly alert, he took note of the defenses: each level appeared divided, yet in truth all were linked by hidden channels of communication. The Tower of the Hand ran on chanisms of its own.
The goldcloak stopped before a plain, unmarked door.
Without a word, he opened it, then stepped aside. "Please enter, my lord baron."
Inside the study.
Gawen entered and found an old man hunched over a pile of docunts.
Stopping a few paces from the desk, he placed a hand to his chest and bowed. "Good day, Lord Jon Arryn."
Jon lifted his head from the papers, his clouded eyes flicking toward Gawen. "I've work yet to finish. I don't care for servants disturbing . Make yourself at ho—find a chair, pour yourself a drink from the cabinet. Sit."
He spoke like a kindly elder scolding a nephew, his tone gentle.
With that, Jon's gaze returned to his stack of parchnts.
Gawen could never treat wine as if it were re water, to be drunk at every mont.
Instead, he pulled out the chair slanted before the desk and sat, closing his eyes to rest.
Ti passed before Jon finally set down the docunt in hand, stamping it with a firm thump before laying it aside.
At the sound, Gawen opened his eyes, eting the Hand's steady gaze.
"I am old now, not so quick as I once was… you have waited patiently, young baron."
His voice was kindly, but Gawen raised his guard all the sa.
Jon leaned back in his chair. "As Warden of the Vale, I regret what befell your cousin. Alas."
"As an apology, I could help her find a fine young man, let her begin anew."
Gawen bowed his head respectfully. "Your Grace's kindness honors . My cousin wishes for a ti of rest."
"Very well. She is still young. When she has healed, tell —I know of many worthy young n in the Vale."
Gawen pressed a hand to his chest, nodding again in thanks.
"I can feel your anger. A petty rchant of Gulltown—bold enough to insult a noble lady."
Jon paused, then asked: "Did the blood of that rchant's family soothe your wrath?"
Gawen frowned faintly. "Whose blood?"
"Usur rkar and all his household. Must I remind you further?"
The kindly elder was gone.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Fla — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: /DrManhattanEN👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the fla. And fire rembers.
Reviews
All reviews (0)