Today promised to be a long day for Gawen.
…
A blade to the neck, whether you lean in or pull away, cuts just the same. And so, after leaving the Tower of the Hand, Gawen headed straight to Maegor's Holdfast to seek audience with Queen Cersei.
He'd barely made it through the entrance hall before one of the Queen's handmaidens stepped forward and blocked his path to the stairs.
Her message was simple: the Queen was resting. She had no time for him today.
Gawen raised an eyebrow. Before coming here, he had already instructed his men to try and locate Jaime.
While it was impossible to talk Cersei out of anything once her mind was set, Jaime could at least absorb a few of her blows on his behalf.
Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen… none had seen him. And he hadn't left the Red Keep either. So, Jaime could only be in Maegor's Holdfast.
…
Maegor's Garden
Gawen tilted his head toward the sky. It was now certain: Cersei would hear about what happened in the Tower of the Hand from someone else.
Most likely while lying in bed, catching her breath in Jaime's arms.
How did Gawen know this habit of the Queen's?
He was a man of details. After spending time around her—and paying attention—he'd come to understand a few things that others missed.
…
Whenever Cersei and Jaime indulged in each other, Gawen's rule was to maintain his distance.
Still, it would have been best if Cersei had learned the news from his mouth.
But between that and accidentally wandering too close to her and Jaime's private affairs, the choice was clear.
In a matter like this, loyalty wasn't worth even a single copper star.
Both Cersei and Jaime knew by now that Gawen was exceptionally perceptive.
Didn't the handmaidens now stand guard all the way at the bottom of the stairs?
Back in the day… they used to play far more recklessly.
Their indulgence in taboo only seemed to heighten their pleasure. But now, a degree of restraint had emerged.
It wasn't just Gawen they were guarding against—anyone as sharp-eyed as him posed a risk.
If he waited by the stairs just to plead his case, Cersei might see that as suspicious or intrusive.
So Gawen chose the harder path: to leave Maegor's Holdfast entirely.
…
One minute. Two. Three.
Standing quietly in the garden, Gawen maintained a solemn, contemplative posture.
The passing handmaidens and servants took note of the heavy air around him—he looked like a man carrying deep burdens.
Might she think I no longer need her?
Would she truly suspect my loyalty—because of a pile of gold dragons and a new title?
Of course, these thoughts were staged.
He was acting. For the benefit of every pair of eyes he knew were watching—Cersei's spies among them.
…
Lost in the rhythm of his performance, Gawen's ears picked up the soft patter of light footsteps.
He turned at just the right moment and offered a graceful bow. "Good day, Princess Myrcella."
Clad in red, golden hair gleaming, Myrcella Baratheon looked like a miniature version of her mother. She lifted her chin slightly. "Good day, Lord Gawen."
So word traveled fast in the Red Keep.
Gawen nodded gratefully and lowered himself to match her height, keeping their eyes level.
The simple gesture raised Myrcella's opinion of him—though she already held him in high regard.
Her bright green eyes sparkled. "I was nearby. One of my maids said you were here, so I came to find you. Congratulations, Lord Gawen."
Her youthful voice brought a soft smile to Gawen's lips.
"Thank you, Your Grace. I'm deeply honored. You're the first lady to offer your congratulations. I'll remember it always."
Myrcella nodded, her eyes alight.
Though they'd had few interactions, she had a good impression of him.
Her kind, intuitive nature let her pick up on small disturbances in those around her.
She never voiced these thoughts aloud—preferring to observe in silence. Whether by innocence or instinct, it was a quiet talent.
And her instincts told her: Gawen Crabb was a trustworthy knight.
She had long suspected that there was more going on between Gawen and her uncle Jaime than anyone let on.
That her ever-composed uncle… had sides no one else ever saw.
So that's the kind of uncle you are, she thought with quiet amusement.
To young Myrcella, both Jaime and Gawen seemed terribly childish.
…
She fixed her clear green gaze on him. "Lord Gawen, I see you're troubled."
Gawen raised an eyebrow. "Your Highness, you have an eagle's eye."
Myrcella clasped her hands behind her back. "If you'd like… you can tell me. I'm a very good listener."
Should I use her? Gawen wondered. Might be more useful than expected...
No. He'd leap between lions if he had to, but he had lines he wouldn't cross.
He bowed slightly. "It's only that I've been entrusted with a great responsibility. And for a moment… I felt lost."
Myrcella answered with a child's clarity: "A brave knight fears nothing."
And in that moment, Gawen did feel comforted.
…
At his suggestion, the two left the garden, and Gawen continued teaching Myrcella horsemanship.
The Red Keep was far too dark. He needed a few hours of clarity.
As evening approached, Gawen finally took his leave of the reluctant princess and departed the castle.
Of course, he still made one last stop at Maegor's Holdfast. Once again, the Queen's handmaiden barred the stairs.
It had been over two hours… and yet Gawen felt no frustration.
…
Evening. Gawen's new manor in Hook Alley.
Just as he arrived, he found his steward Layton waiting at the gate.
He dismounted and handed the reins to his squire, Martel Beck, then turned to Layton.
Layton bowed. "My lord, I have urgent news to report."
"This isn't the place," Gawen said, striding toward the doors. "Come inside."
…
Crabb Manor – Side Hall
Gawen listened quietly as Layton explained.
"Dick Crabb?"
He raised a brow, thoughtful. "The city's investigative detail—that's under Jeffory, isn't it?"
Layton nodded. "Yes, my lord. He's still stationed in the Queen's District."
Gawen tapped his fingers on the armrest. "Soon enough, the Red Keep will send someone to take over the district. Once his identity is confirmed, turn it over.
Jeffory will return to his post as my guard captain. Layton, from now on, you'll handle administrative affairs here."
His faction was still growing—and he sorely lacked competent civil staff.
Though it looked like Gawen had pacified the Queen's District with sheer force, governing civilians was not the same as commanding soldiers. Over time, things would become more complex. He neither had the time nor manpower to control it indefinitely.
His true focus remained his ancestral lands—the Crabb dominion. That was his root.
"The Goldcloaks can be bribed. Handle that directly. And have the investigators detain this Dickon fellow… send him to the Crabb estate outside the city."
He paused. "And before I arrive, make sure they 'look after him'—Crabb style. Just don't break him."
Layton, noticing that Gawen hadn't ordered the man executed, wondered: Could he be a Crabb bastard?
…
Once Layton left, Gawen moved to the study.
Inside were two mountains of men: Samwell Tarly and Mondon Waters.
Both stood and saluted. Gawen waved them down and took a seat.
"Sam," he asked, "did you visit the Street of Steel?"
Sam smiled bashfully. "We went this morning, my lord. I saw Tobho Mott's work—he reeked of wine, but his craftsmanship is outstanding."
Gawen spoke with confidence. "Sam, this task is yours now. Don't let coin be a barrier. I want Mondon turned into the fiercest warrior in the realm."
Sam nodded solemnly.
Mondon grinned. "Don't worry, my lord. I'll fight bravely!"
Gawen laughed. "I believe you. Just don't let the armor get too heavy—I don't want a lumbering bear on the battlefield."
Mondon chuckled sheepishly.
Gawen clapped his arm, then glanced at the bookshelves. "Sam, I doubt this library satisfies you. I've spoken to Steward Rossell. He'll procure anything you want."
Knights loved armor. Samwell loved books.
His eyes lit up. He scratched his head, embarrassed. "I don't know how to repay you, my lord."
Gawen grinned. "I'm sure Maester Al of Whispering Hill will enjoy your company. You'll meet soon."
After chatting a while longer, Gawen looked outside and stood. "Mondon, with me."
…
Nightfall. Chataya's Establishment
Gawen and his guards crossed half the city, arriving at Petyr Baelish's brothel.
Lights glowed in the windows. Music and laughter spilled from within.
He was escorted through the raucous main hall—past young women in silk, past slurred singing—to the upper floors.
Up on the third floor, he entered a room that clearly wasn't meant for guests.
The door opened. Petyr stood there, beaming. "Lord Gawen—congratulations once again."
Gawen smiled and extended his arms. "Lord Petyr, thank you for your kindness."
They shared a brief, close embrace.
"Come, sit," said Petyr, patting Gawen's arm and gesturing toward the room.
As they took their seats, Petyr's smile deepened. "I've also prepared a little gift for you."
Gawen raised a brow and unbuckled his sword, setting it aside.
Petyr nodded to a nearby maid. "Bring her in."
Moments later, a young woman—no older than twenty—entered.
Brown hair. Black eyes. A face… slightly above average.
Gawen glanced at her disheveled appearance, then looked to Petyr with curiosity.
Petyr raised his glass and took a sip of summerwine. "She calls herself Shauny—not her real name. My men discovered she's been asking around about you."
Gawen's gaze sharpened. He sipped his wine and leaned back. "Let me guess. This isn't just a thoughtful gift…"
He looked at the girl. "Lady Shauny—did you come for House Crabb?"
She replied carefully, "Forgive me, my lord, but… who are you?"
Her tone was composed, but the flicker of panic didn't escape Gawen's eyes.
Petyr, amused, said, "Shauny, meet Gawen Crabb, Earl of Whispering Hill—the man you've been so eager to find."
Her pupils contracted. She stepped back instinctively.
Petyr ignored her. "Satisfied with your gift, Lord Gawen?"
Gawen nodded. "Very much. I've felt on edge all day. Seems you've just relieved me of a great burden."
Petyr waved his hand. "No need for thanks—we're friends now."
Gawen placed a hand over his chest. "One more favor, then. Have her turned over to my men outside."
Shauny opened her mouth to protest—but one sharp look silenced her.
Terrified, she looked at Petyr, then shrank back, allowing the maids to escort her out.
When the door closed, Petyr raised his glass. "Tonight's one of those nights you don't come back from."
Gawen toasted. "Lord Petyr, your hospitality has truly eased my mind."
Petyr sipped, graceful as ever. "Think happy thoughts—like the fact that in just three days, you'll have your 150,000 gold dragons."
Gawen's drinking halted. "That soon? That's no small sum."
Petyr chuckled. "There is no royal treasury. It's been empty for years—hardly a secret. Nothing stays secret in the Red Keep."
Gawen looked shocked.
Petyr went on, smiling. "Robert loves tourneys and feasts. The Targaryens left piles of treasure behind, but even that couldn't withstand his appetite. Jon Arryn was frugal—but Robert hates wise advice."
Gawen quipped, "Maybe I should've asked for more."
Petyr paused, then laughed. "You might be right."
Gawen sighed. "I imagine being on the Small Council—especially Master of Coin—isn't easy."
Petyr shrugged. "The king and the Hand spend. I find the gold. My job now is borrowing—Lannisters, Tyrells, the Iron Bank, even merchants from Tyrosh… they're all creditors now."
Then, with a touch of dry humor: "Lately, I've turned to the Faith. The High Septon is a better haggler than any Dornish fishmonger."
Gawen couldn't help but laugh.
.
.
.
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