"Stop him!" Lord Eddard Stark shouted.
Everyone was screaming, his voice drowned in the uproar.
Sansa clutched her father's arm with both hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Father, please, save him!"
The Mountain raised his greatsword with both hands and swung down hard at the Knight of Flowers' chest. With a resounding crash, Ser Loras was hurled from the saddle, hitting the ground heavily.
The terrified gray mare bolted away. Dazed and reeling, Ser Loras struggled to rise.
The Mountain's sword traced a wide arc.
A sickening crunch—blood spurted in a crimson spray. The Knight of Flowers was cut in two.
Buzz—
For a heartbeat, time itself seemed frozen. Every gaze fixed upon the horror that had unfolded, unable to believe what they had just seen.
Dum-dum, dum-dum-dum, dum-dum-dum…
A familiar tune flickered through Gawen's mind, his brown eyes narrowing. The Hound, trying to intervene, stumbled and fell because of his injured leg. Renly Baratheon leapt madly from the high stands, tumbling and rolling across the ground. The Tyrell knights and their green-cloaked soldiers surged into the lists in a frenzy.
In the chaos, the Mountain's towering frame vanished amid the press of bodies—whether he lived or died, none could say.
Petyr Baelish stood beside Gawen, watching the turmoil with calm amusement. "No doubt the Tyrells deliberately chose a mare in heat."
He curved his lips into a thin smile. "I daresay it was planned. Everyone knows the Mountain favors massive, ill-tempered stallions. Such a pairing was bound to end badly."
Gawen inclined his head slightly. "Most likely so. The Golden Rose was too proud… and pride often leads to tragedy."
Petyr's pupils contracted. After a pause, he murmured, "Indeed. Not every man is willing to play the games of great lords. And fate—or ill fortune—made Gregor Clegane the exception."
Gawen turned to him with a faint sigh. "Lord Petyr, the Tyrells will hate the Lannisters for this."
In the distance, Lannister redcloaks and Tyrell greencloaks faced each other down, the clash of steel but a heartbeat away.
Petyr shrugged. "I've heard Lord Mace dotes on his youngest son. Seven kingdoms, and peace lasted only a handful of years."
Gawen showed nothing outwardly, though inwardly he sneered at Baelish's crocodile lament.
"Come, my lord," he said at last. "The Hand may need us."
It had all happened so quickly. Eddard Stark glanced down at the daughter sobbing against his chest. He had to reach the king and calm the storm before blood was spilled, yet he could not bear to leave Sansa alone.
She was nearly wept dry, mourning the slain Knight of Flowers. Would his beauty, his name, soon be forgotten—no songs sung, no ballads composed? The thought made her weep all the harder.
Gawen and Petyr pressed through the crowd toward Eddard.
Seeing the girl's tear-streaked face, Gawen raised his voice above the din. "Lord Stark, entrust Lady Sansa to me. I will see her safely to the Tower of the Hand."
At the sound of his voice, Sansa forced herself to calm. She released her father's arm, lowered her head, and dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.
Ned nodded, patted her shoulder, and strode down toward the chaos.
Sansa needed rest. Gawen escorted her away with his guards, Petyr Baelish trailing close behind, unwilling to leave.
By the time Sansa climbed into the Crabb carriage, she had regained at least a semblance of composure.
"Thank you for your help, Lord Gawen. And…"
Her damp eyes turned toward the stranger seated opposite, who was staring at her with an unsettling intensity.
He was neatly dressed, like a septon, short of stature, with a pointed beard streaked with silver.
Gawen, standing by the door, made the introductions. "Lady Sansa, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin on the King's Council."
Her courtesy was flawless. "An honor to meet you. I am Sansa Stark."
A thought struck Gawen—neither Sansa nor Arya bore the haughtiness of other highborn maidens. Their plain honesty set them apart from Margaery Tyrell's carefully cultivated charm.
Satisfied, Gawen gave a few instructions to the guards and left the task of escorting Sansa to Petyr.
With both the Knight of Flowers and the Mountain struck from the lists, Gawen was now champion of the joust. Tradition demanded an audience with the king and queen—along with the prize of forty thousand gold dragons.
Inside the carriage, Petyr's lips curled into a smile as he gazed at Sansa.
"You have the look of the Tullys," he murmured.
Then softly, "Do not weep any longer, Sansa. Laughter suits you better."
Confused, she felt his gray-green eyes upon her—not as if seeing her, but someone else.
"Catelyn… your mother…"
Her eyes widened. "You knew my mother?"
Petyr's expression softened. "Child, I grew up with Catelyn at Riverrun. To me, she was always the true Queen of Love and Beauty."
Back at the tourney grounds, Eddard Stark and King Robert had managed to quell the fighting, staving off bloodshed for now.
As champion, Gawen circled the lists, saluting the crowd, then—under Jaime Lannister's dark scowl—placed the crown of love and beauty upon Princess Myrcella's brow.
The girl's shy blush drew laughter from Robert and smiles from the court.
Cersei Lannister was well pleased. Gawen's triumph brought him renown across the Seven Kingdoms, while her daughter's coronation at eight years old ensured that all would praise Myrcella—just as they once hailed Cersei as the Light of the West.
The lioness lifted her chin. Her daughter too would shine above all others.
That afternoon, Ser Balon Swann of Stonehelm defeated Jalabhar Xho of the Summer Isles in the archery contest.
The melee drew nearly forty competitors—free riders, hedge knights, eager squires. They fought with blunted weapons in a mire of blood and mud, alliances forming and shattering in moments.
After three brutal hours, with limbs broken and horses slain, the last man standing was Mondon Waters of Whisper's Hall.
Afterward, Robert, restless as ever, declared his blood was running hot and left the tourney to hunt a white hart rumored to be in the nearby woods.
Riding back, Ned sighed. Hunting always held more allure for Robert than the governance of a realm.
For now, the Tyrells' fury was contained. But it was only a matter of time before grief turned to open war.
If war came, Ned thought grimly, there was but one way to bring Robert back from his hunts: battle.
At the Tower of the Hand, Ned found Arya again practicing her one-legged stance on the stairwell, proud of her bruises. He worried at Syrio's harsh methods, yet she refused to yield.
"Then Syrio it shall be," Ned said at last, though uneasily. "But take care, Arya. No more needless hurts."
"I will, Father," she promised with shining eyes, and hopped neatly from one foot to the other.
That night, Petyr climbed the tower steps, only to freeze at the hiss of steel.
Gawen's longsword pressed against his back.
"Lord Petyr," Gawen said evenly, "your affair with Lady Lysa has been uncovered by the Hand. He has the proof."
Petyr forced a smile. "Many dislike me, my lord. Evidence can be forged, misread—"
"From the Spider," Gawen cut him off.
Sweat beaded Petyr's brow. Yet his voice stayed calm. "Varys's whispers are the least reliable of all. Surely you know that."
Gawen shook his head. "No need to explain. I tell you this as a friend—because the proof is undeniable."
Petyr's smile faltered. "Then I should count myself lucky to have a friend who would warn me."
Gawen sheathed his sword and lowered his voice. "The Hand believes you were coerced. The true killer… was Lysa Tully."
Petyr stared in silence.
Gawen clasped his shoulder. "If Lord Eddard accepts this, I will see you safely sent away from King's Landing."
"To live as a beaten cur?" Petyr sneered.
"The Vale is your true home," Gawen replied evenly. "Lady Lysa will welcome you, her son needs you, and no place is safer than the Eyrie behind the Bloody Gate."
Petyr's eyes flickered. "The Vale lords would never suffer me and Lysa together."
"They could never match you," Gawen said with quiet conviction.
Petyr fell silent, shaken. "You would use me to bring chaos to the Vale. You mean to destroy House Arryn?"
Gawen spread his hands. "At last, you see. Only Arryn blood will sate the vengeance of the Crab Claw. My little secret is no secret to you, Petyr. So when you return to the Vale… we shall still be friends."
Petyr drew a steadying breath, his composure returning.
"Lord Gawen," he said softly, "partnerships require trust. And I see none from you yet."
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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