When Gawen Crabb finished speaking, the hall fell silent.
After a moment, Lancel Lannister finally reacted and broke the hush.
"Gawen, you mean Stannis will crown himself? Seven save us!"
Everyone ignored Lancel's alarm, though Gawen remained patient. He pointed to the letter lying before Tyrion Lannister.
"That is the proof of Stannis's hidden ambition. Why else spend such effort to slander our king?"
He felt several glances sweep over him. He answered them with a calm look and a faint smile.
Varys's eyes glittered; Pycelle's eyes skittered away; Tyrion grinned.
Cersei Lannister was pleased with Gawen's framing; she smiled with satisfaction.
"Stannis is a hypocrite—base and shameless. No wonder my husband loathed him in life."
Varys chimed in, smiling.
"I have heard no one likes him."
He tittered to himself.
Gawen offered a polite chuckle; before long, the hall was filled with the laughter of "villains."
The Queen Regent lifted her hand; the laughter ebbed, leaving a few stray coughs.
She looked to the dwarf Hand.
"Tyrion, you will see to this. And… prepare Stannis's little amusements in advance. Such things should be your specialty, should they not?"
Tyrion affected deafness to the barb and bowed his head humbly.
"Your Grace the Regent, forgive my dull wits. As for Stannis… might I beg your guidance…?"
He played the part of the dutiful, docile brother.
A flicker of triumph crossed Cersei's face; for once, she felt a twinge of satisfaction with the dwarf.
"Name Selyse Florent's lover as her own uncle—Ser Axell Florent, Stannis's acting castellan."
Saying it brought her a keen and settling pleasure.
She went on, "They are said to be inseparable on Dragonstone. I have also heard Stannis's daughter has grown Florent ears—a charming coincidence."
Varys folded his hands, inclining his head with a note of admiration.
"Shireen Baratheon's greyscale may well be the gods' punishment for Lady Selyse's infidelity… The best lies hide a sliver of truth—enough to plant doubt. Queen Regent, your wisdom commands respect."
Grand Maester Pycelle's sleepy eyes flew open.
"Your Grace… is this true?"
Tyrion gave a look as if the pieces had just fallen into place.
"So that's it! Stannis is distant to his wife, yet he is suspicious by nature. If we sow mistrust between him and House Florent, it can only aid us when he moves to claim the crown."
Cersei sniffed, proud, then raised a cup and sipped, much pleased.
Gawen smiled with his eyes as he turned to the Queen Regent, hand to breast.
"Fortresses most often fall from within. Victory to Your Grace."
Lancel, lost at first, suddenly caught on and burst out,
"Victory to the Queen Regent!"
The others glanced at one another—then echoed as one,
"Victory to the Queen Regent."
The moment grew a shade awkward. Cersei shot Lancel a chilly look.
"Next matter. Have you a suitable candidate for Master of Coin?"
Pycelle quavered,
"Your Grace, we recommend the Lord of Rosby—Gyles Rosby."
"Your reasons."
"Your Grace, Rosby holds what King's Landing urgently—"
…
"Next matter: the Targaryen remnant is stirring across the Narrow Sea…"
"…Earl Gawen…"
…
…
Night, at Chataya's.
Reclining on thick cushions, Gawen suddenly opened his eyes.
"My lord, are you awake?"
The girl's voice was clear as a bell. She had long, straight silver hair, green eyes, and porcelain-fine skin.
Gawen closed his eyes again for a moment; when he opened them, the edge in them was gone.
He rubbed his hair. "How long did I sleep?"
The silver-haired girl slid lightly onto his lap and nipped at his ear.
"Only a little while…"
While waiting, Gawen had dozed—and dreamed. In the dream, after being created Earl of the Crab Claw Peninsula, "Gawen" left the game of thrones and returned home to live as a placid lord. He had a wife and child, yet in the dream their faces would not come into focus. Angered, he reached for his sword—and woke.
The silver-haired girl whispered at his ear,
"My lord, I'm Marei. I'm very good at easing fatigue."
She who had seemed so composed a moment ago had suddenly become… adorable?
Gawen smiled faintly and patted the rounding of Marei's hip.
"Go and fetch Chataya for me."
Marei left reluctantly. Something about her expression felt… familiar. A mirror? Surely an illusion.
Before long, Chataya entered, light-footed, a silver flagon in hand, clad in sheer green silk.
Tall and willow-slender, her skin was dark as ebony and her eyes the color of sandalwood. She settled beside Gawen.
"My lord Gawen, forgive me. No matter what price I offer, I cannot buy good wine of late."
A flicker passed through Gawen's eyes. He took the cup she poured and sipped.
"Because of the royal fleet?"
Chataya sighed softly.
"Now they call it Stannis's fleet. They say his blockade has left uncounted ships crowding the Blackwater's quays."
Gawen's gaze shifted.
"Do you need help?"
Her smile was bewitching as she shook her head.
"Everyone is the same just now; that is well enough. Your protection is gift enough, my lord, and Chataya will remember it."
Gawen's fingers traced the rim of his cup. After a pause, he said,
"I will be away from King's Landing for a time…"
A becoming hint of unease crossed Chataya's face.
Another mirror… Gawen reined his thoughts back and continued,
"While I am gone, the new Hand, Tyrion Lannister, will honor my promises."
Chataya bowed deeply.
"My thanks once more, Lord Gawen."
Gawen sighed.
"Lord Petyr is my friend. I hope he returns to King's Landing soon."
Chataya curtsied again with grace.
A gentle knock, and Marei slipped in like a maid with a tray of fruit.
Before leaving she glanced back, eyes dewy.
"My lord, Marei will wait for you."
Gawen: "…"
Chataya laughed softly.
"My lord, my daughter is not usually so bold."
Gawen: "…A rare hair color."
Chataya smiled.
"My lord, though Marei bears the blood of the Summer Islands, she was born here in King's Landing."
Seeing Gawen's look, she continued,
"I raised her myself, so she has my ways. I am from the Summer Islands. We do not deem it shameful to sell love in a brothel. Those skilled in the art of the bed are respected. Many highborn ladies and lords, when spring fever takes them, will serve a few years in a brothel to honor the gods."
Gawen's brow arched.
"The gods?"
Chataya dipped her chin.
"Our bodies and souls are the gods' gifts. They grant us voices to sing their praise; hands to build their temples; and desire, that through union we may honor the divine."
After a moment's silence, Gawen said,
"Chataya, the new Hand is a different sort of devout."
She bowed slightly as she poured.
"As you command, Lord Gawen."
…
Chataya was about to withdraw when the door swung open and Tyrion hobbled in.
"Ha… at last you've learned to en—oh… Chataya, is it?"
"Welcome, my lord Lannister," Chataya said with a graceful bow.
…
When she had gone, Tyrion pinched his chin, thoughtful.
"Gawen, have you watched Chataya's carriage? Few whores carry themselves with such poise. She surely fancies herself a kind of priestess."
Gawen couldn't help but laugh.
"Tyrion, I must admit—you do have a keen eye."
Tyrion barked a laugh.
"Alas, they will never appreciate my greatest virtue. My chief charm is generosity—aye, everyone loves golden dragons…"
He tapped his nose and grinned.
"Once, when they worked hard to take my dragons, they left me a dazzling smile. But since I became a noseless dwarf, they weep as they take them."
Gawen chuckled.
"Then wear a false nose—of gold. Everyone will love you again."
Tyrion laughed long, poured himself wine, and said,
"Tempting. I'll see the finest smith tomorrow."
He took a long pull—then winced.
"This… is dreadful."
.
.
.
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