Chapter 18

Galad

After removing the last pieces of his armor, Galad sent Garlan away to be with his family. The boy protested, wanting to help carry equipment, to discuss the matches, to do anything a good squire should, but Galad insisted. The boy had been spending most of his days either in practice or in his service, and it would not be long before they left altogether. Garlan deserved some time with his family.

The jouster's tent had mostly emptied by now, the afternoon sun slanting through gaps in the canvas to paint stripes of gold across the trampled grass floor. Other knights had already departed for baths and wine and the admiration of highborn ladies. Broken lance fragments littered the corners, and the air still smelled of horse sweat and leather oil. Outside, the roar of the crowd had diminished to a steady murmur as people filtered out toward the city or settled in for the evening's entertainments at the grounds.

Galad changed into simple clothes, a linen shirt and wool breeches, comfortable after hours in plate, and gathered his things. He wanted to visit the tailor in Lannisport to collect the new garments Lynesse Hightower and Margaery had insisted he commission. Formal attire befitting a champion, they had said, for at the final feast, he was already guaranteed a sit at the high table as the archery winner. 

He supposed he could have asked for a Tyrell servant to fetch the clothes, but since he had already decided to leave their service—even if he remained technically a knight under them until he departed—it seemed more prudent to handle his own affairs now. Better to begin establishing that independence.

Stepping out of the tent, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the afternoon brightness. The tourney grounds spread before him in organized chaos. Rows of competitor tents lined one side, their canvas walls painted with house colors and sigils. The tilt lane stretched across the center, its sand churned and pocked from hundreds of hooves. Beyond it, the noble stands rose in tiers of wood and bunting, still half-full with lords and ladies who lingered to gossip and wager on tomorrow's events. Across from them, the hillocks where smallfolk had gathered were emptying faster, families trudging back toward the city gates with children on shoulders and empty wineskins in hand.

Before Galad could start toward the main road leading to Lannisport, two men approached across the packed earth between tents. He recognized Ben immediately, wearing the surcoat of a sergeant in House Tyrell's service. The other took a moment to register now that he was not wearing his bronze, rune-etched armor. Lord Yohn Royce, the man he had just unhorsed in the semifinals.

"Ah, here he is, m'lord." Ben gestured toward Galad as they drew near, weaving between groups of squires hauling equipment. Galad’s own armor was already on the way to Casterly Rock with some pages.

Up close, Yohn Royce was an older but formidable man, taller than Galad by half a head, with grey hair and broad shoulders that spoke of decades maintaining his strength. Large hands extended toward him, one offered in greeting.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury!" Yohn's voice boomed across the space between them, turning heads from nearby tents. "Good, you're still here."

Taking the offered hand, Galad shook firmly. Yohn's grip was strong, testing, and he seemed to approve when Galad matched it without flinching.

"Lord Royce. An honor making your acquaintance outside of the tilt lane."

Yohn gave him a great big smile that transformed his stern features. "Aye, lad, good showing, that. Haven't been knocked on my arse like that in years." He let out a booming laugh that startled a nearby page carrying wine cups. "Ha! And the Kingslayer, too. Now that was a fine sight. Say what you will about the man, he knows his jousting."

"Thank you, my lord.” Galad inclined his head. “A man's victory is only as striking as the opponents he faces. You and Ser Jaime could have easily beaten me on another day."

"Modest too." Yohn nodded approvingly. For a second, the man’s eyes flicked to Ben, who stood aside waiting, before they went back to Galad. "Tell me, I heard you won't be serving under the Tyrells for long. Any truth to that?"

Galad tried not to show his surprise. Of those here in Lannisport, he had told only Lord Mace and Garlan of his plans. It would not surprise him if Mace had made some grand announcement he simply had not heard, it certainly seemed like the man, or if Garlan had let it slip. Children were not known for their discretion. It was no secret, in truth, but for a stranger to come ask him about it had him wondering.

"It is true,” he acknowledged. “I feel a hunger to see more of the world, and intend to journey around the Seven Kingdoms until such hunger is sated."

"Journey, huh?" Yohn's expression turned thoughtful. Around them, servants were beginning to light torches along the paths between tents as shadows lengthened. "I see. A shame. We could always use a man like you in the Vale. Plenty of work for knights when you live next to the scourge of the mountain clans." His face darkened at the topic, heavy brows drawing together. It seemed to take considerable effort to relax them again. "I suppose I cannot blame a young man for such appetites, eh? Do stop at Runestone if your wandering ever takes you east. You won't see finer country than the Vale."

Another offer to settle down somewhere, though not one with the gold and glamour Lord Tywin had promised. Galad could not blame the man for trying. "I'll keep it in mind, my lord."

Lord Royce gave him a firm nod and turned to leave. After a few steps through the dusty ground between tents, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Word of advice, ser?" His eyes flicked down to where Nightfall hung at Galad's waist. "Watch that sword on your travels. Plenty of men out there who would kill, or worse, for a fine piece of dragonsteel."

Then he turned and strode away, his broad back disappearing into the crowds still milling about the tourney grounds.

Galad watched him for a moment. He did not think it was a threat—Lord Yohn did not seem the type. But it confirmed what Lord Mace had already told him. Without the protection of a great house, he would always be a target for his sword.

The thought did not bother him overmuch. It would certainly make traveling more interesting, though he worried about young Garlan, who would insist on accompanying him with or without danger.

Ben approached then, his tanned face uncertain. They stood by one of the water troughs where horses were being led to drink, the animals snorting and stamping as stable boys worked brushes over their flanks.

"What was that about?"

"He wanted to offer his congratulations for my victory over him."

"Huh. Nice fella." Ben nodded, then seemed to fidget as silence stretched between them. His hand went to his sword belt, adjusting it unnecessarily.

Galad raised an eyebrow. He did not remember leaving things awkward with Ben since seeing him when he first arrived at Casterly Rock. The man shifted his weight, not meeting Galad's eyes, watching instead as a group of Lannister men-at-arms marched past in formation.

"I heard you've been busy with guard duty," Galad offered.

Ben seemed grateful for the prompting. "Oh, aye. I've been selected to guard the Lady Olenna with the twins. She's surprisingly busy for a lady of her age. I think I've stood outside more meetings than I've had hot meals. Makes a man feel small standing beside such giants." He finished with a weak laugh. But he still looked jittery, as if someone were watching over his shoulder.

"Is everything well, Ben?"

The man gave him an unconvincing nod, to which Galad only lifted an eyebrow. Ben sighed. Wetting his lips, he seemed to come to a decision as his eyes darted to either side of them, searching for eavesdroppers among the servants and squires moving between tents, before he nodded to himself and pulled Galad aside to a quieter area—a narrow space between two competitor tents where saddles and tack hung from wooden frames.

"It's..." Ben paused, swallowed. "It's about that. About her, Lady Olenna."

Galad waited patiently, listening to the distant sounds of the tourney grounds settling for evening, merchants calling last sales, horses whinnying, the creak of wagon wheels.

"She, well, she selected me for her guard for a reason. She asked me about you, you know. Asked a bunch of questions that had my head spinning. Could hardly answer half of them and she didn't like that, let me tell you." Ben fidgeted again, his fingers working at a loose thread on his sleeve. "But, well, what she really wanted was for me to, erh, for me to spy on you!" He hissed out the words as if they were sacrilegious.

"Oh." Galad considered that. "What did you manage to find out?"

Ben's eyes widened. He waved his hands before him frantically. "Nothing! I swear. I haven't started yet. Well, I was supposed to. It's why I'm here, you see. She knows Lord Garlan will be going with you when you leave, and she wants me to go with!” His voice was rising with agitation. "To spy on you!"

Galad noticed dark pits of sweat under Ben's arms despite the cooling afternoon air. The poor man was suffering. He shrugged. "Well, do you want to?" 

"No! Gods no, I don't want to spy on you. You're my friend, man." Ben ran a hand through his hair. "A too-handsome, annoyingly-good at everything you do bastard, but a friend still. It ain't right."

"I meant, do you want to go with us?"

Ben's eyebrows jumped. "What?"

Galad gave him a gentle smile. "I asked if you wanted to go with us,” he repeated. “You would be away from Highgarden and your lady love, but I would be glad to have you. You can even spy on me if you like."

Ben's mouth hung open for a moment. "You... what? Why would you let me spy on you? You are not taking this seriously enough, ser."

"I am." Galad could understand the impetus behind Olenna Tyrell's actions. The idea made sense, if clumsily executed considering Ben was not the discreet type. Then again, Galad had decided to allow it anyway, so in the end she had achieved her goal. 

Could she have planned for all of it? Perhaps, though he did not care much one way or the other. It was better the spy you knew, and who told you he was asked to spy on you, than the one you could not see.

"I don't mind that House Tyrell wants to keep an eye on Garlan. And we could always use another sword on the road." With Lord Royce's warning still fresh in his mind, he decided it would be for the best. "You should know, however, that they will use your affection for Lady Victaria for their own means in this. They might lie and promise you future rewards, future connections." Meeting Ben's eyes, Galad kept his voice soft but firm. "And Victaria might be forced to validate these lies. Given her position, she will not be able to deny Lady Olenna, even if she dislikes it."

More than most, Galad had grown up embroiled in the Daes Dae'mar of the noble houses of Cairhien and Andor. He knew well how the Great Game was played. And when caught in the middle, love was usually the first casualty. Ben needed to understand that.

"They would?" Ben almost choked on the words. He seemed dejected for a moment, Then his eyes bulged and he grabbed Galad's arm. "How—How did you know it's the Lady Victaria that I love?"

Victaria herself had all but told him back during the feast a few days prior. But since Ben would be spying on him, he could have his fun too, could he not? "Well, you just confirmed it now, didn't you?"

Ben's face went through several expressions—shock, embarrassment, resignation—before settling on rueful acceptance. "Bloody hells. You're too clever by half, you know that?"

Galad smiled.  "So I've been told."

They parted ways as the sun began its descent toward the western sea, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Ben headed back toward the grounds beneath Casterly Rock where House Tyrell had housed their retainers, still shaking his head and muttering. Galad made for the road to Lannisport, joining the stream of people heading into the city for evening meals and entertainment.

The walk took him past merchant stalls being packed up for the night, past groups of knights still in their finery discussing the day's matches, past smallfolk families trudging home with tired children. Lannisport spread before him as he approached, its walls golden in the fading light, smoke rising from thousands of chimneys as cooking fires were lit.

Inside the city gates, the streets were packed. Galad navigated through crowds of sailors and merchants, past taverns already filling with patrons, past shops closing their shutters. The tailor's establishment sat in a better district, its sign painted with golden thread and needle.

"Ah, Ser Galad!" The man greeted him with a hasty bow, wringing his hands in front of his body. "I'm afraid the garments are not quite ready yet, ser. Another day at least. No, two days. Yes, two. The embroidery on the doublet is quite intricate, and we want it perfect for the champion, yes?"

Galad let out a sigh. He should’ve really sent a servant.

xxx

By the time he reached Casterly Rock, evening had fully settled. The castle corridors were quieter at this hour, most nobles already dressing for dinner or engaged in their evening entertainments. Galad's boots echoed on polished stone floors as he made his way toward his chambers, past tapestries showing Lannister victories and tall windows that looked out over the darkening sea.

He was approaching his chambers, a modest room in the same wing the Tyrells were installed, when a man intercepted him in the corridor.

The man was huge, heavily muscled in a way that spoke of violence rather than labor. His hair hung dark and stringy past his shoulders, but it was his face that drew the eye—half of it a mess of scar tissue, black flesh pocked with oozing craters, and a stump where his ear should have been. The torchlight from the wall sconces made the scarring look even more grotesque, shadows playing across the ruined flesh. He was young, though, Galad noticed, perhaps not even twenty beneath the scars.

The man stared at him, seemed to expect him to look away in disgust or fear. Galad only stared back into his dark eyes, meeting them calmly. 

"Come," the man growled.

"On whose orders?"

The man sneered. "The queen's, reachman. Now are you coming or not?"

Galad thought for a moment. Queen Cersei wanting to speak with him was... interesting. Potentially dangerous, but interesting. He decided to follow. If the man tried to lead him into a trap, which was doubtful, Galad would simply end him before the trap could be sprung.

They walked through the castle's corridors in silence, moving deeper into the Rock. The passages here were carved directly from the mountain itself, smooth stone walls interrupted by wooden doors and the occasional alcove holding a statue or suit of armor. Torches burned at regular intervals, casting their procession in alternating light and shadow. Servants pressed themselves against walls as the scarred man passed, eyes downcast.

The man did not speak much, but eyed Galad sideways, always scowling. His massive hands flexed occasionally, as if imagining what violence they might commit. 

They climbed a spiral staircase, ascending toward the better apartments. Here the corridors widened, the stone giving way to plastered walls hung with tapestries. Thick carpets from Myr muffled their steps. Candelabras of gold and silver replaced simple torch sconces, their light warmer and steadier.

Before they arrived at what Galad assumed were the queen's quarters—the doors here were carved oak rather than plain wood, the guards better armed and armored—the man finally spoke.

"You're the knight with the new fancy sword, are you?"

Galad looked down at Nightfall hanging at his side, the moonstone in its pommel catching the candlelight. "Yes."

The man was quiet for a long, stretching moment. Their footsteps continued down the corridor, past a window showing the last purple traces of sunset over the sea. Then: "Thought so.” His voice was a gruff, gravelly thing. “Watch yourself at the melee tomorrow, reachman. My brother will not be kind in getting what he wants."

Galad did not know who the man was, nor who his brother might be, but he understood immediately. If the man was following the queen's orders and he was not dressed in a white cloak, then he had to be a Westerlander. It seemed Lord Tywin would make his move for the sword in the melee, then. Through this man's brother.

He had expected it, but confirmation was good to have.

"Thank you," Galad said.

The man answered with a grunt.

They arrived at a door flanked by a kingsguard in white enamel plate that gleamed in the candlelight. Ser Meryn Trant, if Galad remembered correctly. The scarred man turned without another word and left, his heavy footsteps echoing back down the corridor until they faded into silence. Shrugging, Galad filed the advice away for later consideration and strode forward. 

If tomorrow was Tywin Lannister's move, what did his daughter intend for him today?

xxx

Cersei Lannister

The queen's chambers were lit by dozens of candles, their warm light reflecting off polished mirrors and gilded furniture. Cersei had chosen this room carefully when they first arrived at the Rock. Her childhood chambers, filled with memories of when the world had seemed limitless, when she and Jaime had been everything to each other. The walls were hung with Myrish tapestries showing golden lions hunting through crimson forests. A fire crackled in the hearth despite the summer warmth, because she liked the way firelight played across her skin.

She stood before her mirror, examining herself with a critical eye. The deep crimson silk dress clung to her curves perfectly, its generous neckline displaying the swell of her breasts. A golden necklace sat high against her pale skin, the lion pendant resting in the valley between. Her golden hair had been arranged in an elaborate style by her handmaiden, cascading over one shoulder in artful waves. She looked magnificent. She knew it.

Men had been falling at her feet since she was twelve. Knights, lords, and kings. One common-born woodsman would be no different.

A knock came at the door.

Cersei arranged her features into a confident smile, the one that had melted stronger men than this. "Enter."

Ser Meryn Trant opened the door, his homely face twisted in its usual sneer. "Ser Galad of Dunstonbury is without, Your Grace."

"Let him in."

A pause. She heard voices in the corridor, Ser Meryn's tone sharp. Then, almost growling: "The man is not willing to part with his sword, Your Grace."

Cersei's smile did not falter. Not yet, she thought. "Tell Ser Galad he may enter with his sword. What have I to fear of a knight of such good standing?."

When the door opened fully and Ser Galad stepped into her chambers, Cersei quickly forgot about the sword.

The sight of him so close sent a shock through her that she had not been prepared for. He was even more beautiful than she had expected. She had seen him from a distance at the tourney, helmetless after his victory, but proximity made the difference. His skin was tanned from the sun, his jawline sharp enough to cut. Dark hair kept shorter than most men, wind-swept and lustrous. And those eyes, violet as amethysts, framed by dark lashes that any woman would envy.

How had she not noticed him during the feasts? He must have been there, sitting among the Tyrell contingent, but she had been too focused on other matters. Too blind to see what had been right before her.

"Your Grace." He bowed low, his movements graceful despite the sword at his hip. "I came as summoned. To what do I owe such honor?"

His voice was pleasant, cultured despite his common origins. Not the rough accent she had expected.

"There is no need to be so stiff, ser." Cersei gestured for him to rise, her smile warm and inviting. "Please. I know that the relationship between you and my family did not have the best start." She moved closer, letting her skirts whisper across the floor. "But I wish to extend a hand of friendship now. First, by congratulating you on your victory over my brother, as well as against Ser Lyle Crakehall and Lord Royce. I heard they were magnificent bouts."

The knight's face remained stone-still. "Thank you, Your Grace."

That was it. Just those three words, delivered in that same pleasant but completely neutral tone.

Cersei felt a flicker of surprise. She had dressed in her best, had arranged the lighting to flatter, had prepared her most winning smile. But the knight had not looked anywhere except her eyes. Not once had his gaze dropped to the neckline of her dress, not once had she seen the familiar hunger that usually clouded men's faces when they looked at her.

For a long moment, she only stared back at those violet eyes, which looked unflinchingly back at her as if she were not the queen of the Seven Kingdoms. As if she were just another woman. And despite herself, she felt something clench deep inside her—a mixture of intrigue and irritation.

She swallowed, forcing the smile back onto her face. "Do you know who you will be riding against in the final day?"

The knight nodded. "There are only four of us now. Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Jorah Mormont, and Lord Jon Umber. I am to face Ser Barristan first."

"An unenviable task for any knight." Cersei took another step closer, watching for any reaction. "But for the man who bested my brother, perhaps not an impossible one."

"Ser Barristan will be a challenge," he said simply.

Silence stretched between them. Cersei had expected him to be a stuttering mess by this point—overwhelmed by her beauty, by the privilege of a private audience with the queen, by the scent of her perfume that filled the chamber. The fact that he was not threw her off in a way that she was not used to. A way that was not entirely unpleasant, to her surprise.

She walked closer still, close enough that her skirts nearly brushed his boots. "I have heard a rumor you were a woodsman before you became a knight. Tell me, ser, is that true?" Letting her voice drop to something softer, more intimate, she added, "Looking at you now, I find it hard to believe."

His eyes tracked her movement but he did not step back. Did not blink. "It is no rumor, Your Grace. I am what I am."

Cersei's lips curved up. She reached out and took his hand in both of hers, turning it palm-up. His hand was large with long, elegant fingers, but the skin was rough with calluses—the kind earned from years of hard labor, not the soft hands of a noble playing at swordwork in a practice yard.

Looking down at her holding his hand, the knight frowned slightly.

Cersei enjoyed that—finally, a reaction. "By your hands, I believe you. A remarkable rise. One to be admired." She traced one fingertip along his palm, feeling the rough texture. "From a mere woodsman to a knight winning glory in war and tourneys. You even wield a Valyrian steel sword now." Glancing up at him through her lashes, she asked sweetly, "May I see it, Ser Galad?"

The man hesitated only for a second before releasing her hand and taking Nightfall from his belt. He held it before him, pulling it partially from its sheath to show the rippled steel beneath.

The blade was striking, the pattern seeming to dance in the candlelight like water flowing over stones. Dark metal with silver highlights that caught and threw back the flame.

A beautiful sword for a beautiful man, Cersei thought. A shame her son had need of it. Then again, perhaps she could resolve this situation even more elegantly than she had originally planned. Why settle for just the sword when she could have both?

"It is magnificent," she breathed. "It suits you far better than it would any Ironborn reaver."

"Thank you, Your Grace. But Ser Harras was a formidable enemy. A worthy wielder for such a blade."

"Of course, of course." Cersei waved a hand dismissively. She moved to stand beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, pretending to examine the sword more closely. "Have you ever thought that, now that you hold a Valyrian steel sword, you could serve a greater cause?" Turning to look up at him, she let admiration fill her voice. "A woodsman turned knight is a good story, ser. But a woodsman turned kingsguard? They would write songs about you, Ser Galad. All the maidens in the kingdoms would swoon seeing you in white."

She stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his scent—manly, like horse and leather, with something underneath that was purely him. Placing one hand on his chest, she felt solid muscle beneath the linen of his shirt. "I would love to see you in white myself, ser."

She batted her eyelashes at him, tilting her face up toward his, lips parted slightly.

The knight stepped back.

The movement was smooth, not rushed, but it put distance between them as surely as a wall. When Cersei looked up again, it was not to the same violet eyes as before. They seemed to have darkened somehow, grown colder, though his expression remained perfectly controlled.

"The offer is appreciated, Your Grace. But I have no intention of becoming a kingsguard." His voice was calm, almost gentle. "My answer is the same to you as it was to Lord Tywin, as it was to Lord Royce earlier today."

Cersei stood frozen for a moment, stunned by the rejection. Men did not reject her. Men did not step away from her touch. They fell over themselves for a chance at what she was offering.

"Do you realize what I am offering you, ser?" Her voice came out sharper than intended. "I am the queen. Which woodsman in the history of the world has ever been granted such... connection with royalty?"

Then she saw it. The way he looked at her shifted again. It was not indifferent, as before, or hardened. It was worse.

It was pity.

This man, this no-name knight who had been chopping wood for his supper a year ago, pitied her.

"Will that be all, Your Grace?" he asked.

Cersei's face twisted into a scowl. How dare he? How dare he look at her like that, like she was some desperate woman throwing herself at him instead of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms bestowing an incredible honor?

"There is a kingsguard outside that door," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "A word from me would have you seized and thrown into the deepest, darkest dungeon in my father's castle. Do you understand that?"

He did not answer. Just stared back at her with that same expression, something that looked almost like benevolent disgust, as if he were a maester observing a particularly unpleasant specimen.

Fire filled her chest. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

"Do you understand me, woodsman?" She repeated, the title coming out like a curse. "I could say you attacked me in my own rooms. That I invited you here to congratulate you on your victories and you—a lustful lowborn knight—could not hold back and assaulted me." She let out a sharp laugh. "Who would they believe? You?" Another laugh, higher, more brittle. "Do not fool yourself about who you are and where you belong."

"I am not the fool in this room, Your Grace."

His voice remained calm and soft despite everything. Despite her threats, despite her rage, despite the way her hands had clenched into fists at her sides. It only made her madder.

"If you wish to have me arrested, then do so at once and let us end this farce." He met her eyes steadily. "But be sure to choose your champion wisely. For though I may be a woodsman, I am also a knight—and as is my right, I will defend my innocence with steel."

Cersei could only stare at him, mouth falling open. He was threatening trial by combat. Calmly, politely, but unmistakably threatening it. And somehow, just by looking at him now, she knew it. Knew with absolute certainty that, if it came to that, he would win. 

He waited for another ten seconds of silence, his expression never changing. Then he inclined his head in a small bow. "Your Grace."

And he left.

The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded like thunder in Cersei's ears.

For a long moment, she simply stood there in the middle of her beautiful chambers, surrounded by candlelight and luxury and the scent of her expensive perfume. Then the rage took her.

She grabbed the nearest wine cup and hurled it at the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash. Another followed. Then a plate. Then the pitcher. She swept her hand across the table, sending everything crashing to the floor—cups and goblets and the remains of the light supper she had arranged but never served.

How dare he? How dare he reject her, pity her, threaten her?

She was Cersei Lannister. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The most beautiful woman in Westeros. Men killed for a chance at what she had offered him, and this—this common-born nobody had looked at her like she was nothing.

By the time someone knocked on her door again, some half hour later, Cersei had broken every piece of pottery she could find. Shards of expensive ceramic littered the floor around her feet. Her chest heaved with exertion and rage.

"What?" she snarled.

A maid cracked the door open and stepped inside, her face pale and frightened. "Your Grace, I... I have news. The king's... that is, there is a girl. The one His Grace has been..." She swallowed hard. "She is with child, Your Grace. And it can only be the king's."

For a moment, Cersei could only stare at the cowering girl. Then the rage that had been burning in her chest transformed into something cold and sharp and calculating.

She crossed the room in three strides and slapped the maid hard enough to send her stumbling. "If you ever tell anyone about this, I will have your tongue cut out and your privates torn off. Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes, Your Grace!" The girl fled, the door slamming behind her.

Cersei stood in the wreckage of her chambers, breathing hard. Then slowly, deliberately, she began to smile.

Robert's bastard. Growing in the belly of some castle wench. Another stain on the Lannister name, another reminder of her husband's infidelity.

But also... an opportunity.

A way to rid herself of two inconveniences in one move.

She walked back to the door and opened it. Ser Meryn Trant still stood guard outside, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the destruction visible behind her.

"Gather Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Amory Lorch," she said, her voice perfectly calm now. "Tell them their queen has need of their services."

"At once, Your Grace."

xxx

Later that night, after the small feast she attended only because it was expected of her—and where she notably did not spot Ser Galad of Dunstonbury among the Reachmen present—Jaime came to her chambers.

He looked beautiful in the candlelight, his golden hair gleaming, his green eyes warm with desire as they always were when he looked at her. He made love to her on her bed, whispering how much he loved her, how no woman could compare.

But when he was above her, moving inside her, it was not his green eyes she saw in her mind. And when she reached her peak, crying out and clutching at his shoulders, it was not of Jaime she thought.

It was of a common-born knight who had looked at her with pity and walked away.

And that, more than anything else that had happened that night, filled her with a rage that burned hotter than dragonfire.

xxx

AN: I do have a question about the very last little scene. Do you think that passes in a site like Spacebattles? Or should I make it even more pg while keeping the meaning of the scene?