Essos, City-state of Viserys, Governor's Palace.
Gawen stretched out his long legs on the floor, his back resting against the rim of the bath.
Splash…
Behind him Daenerys soaked in the tub while two handmaids washed her.
Before him, three hatchlings seemed to be asleep.
A faint smile played over Lord Gawen's face while his thoughts ran quick and sharp. His eyes slid to the three well-behaved little dragons.
A tremor crossed his brown gaze. Keep them… or not?
His thumb and forefinger drifted closer—then halted. He turned; his eyes met Daenerys's.
Her look held unhidden love, her voice small, as if afraid of breaking something.
"Gawen, this isn't a dream… is it?"
Her ash-smudged hand clenched the corner of his tunic—that was one reason he sat here now.
His fingers moved, then settled gently over the back of her hand.
"I'm here, my princess," he said, smiling with his eyes.
Moisture rimmed her lashes. She slid closer and wrapped her arms around him.
They held one another a long moment. She murmured, "Tell me it isn't a dream. Answer me."
"Princess Daenerys—"
"Call me Dany," she breathed, cutting him off.
They leaned together; somewhere, the handmaids tittered softly.
With his warmth and breath against her, her thoughts blurred; sleep rolled over her like the tide. At last, trusting, she let herself drift into a sweet dream.
When their lips parted and he saw her sunk in slumber, Gawen could not help a tender smile.
Splash… He lifted dripping Daenerys from the bath.
He paused, crouched again, and flicked a look to the maids: one of the princess's hands still needed… a proper scrub. The girls were well-trained—one washed and rubbed, the other dried with a warmed towel. Soon Gawen straightened once more.
—
He carried Daenerys to her bedchamber. When he returned to the bath room, a greatsword of dark ice lay in his hand.
He shut the door and dragged Ice toward the dozing hatchlings; the point scraped the stone with a shriek.
The racket woke the three. They hissed, puffing little tongues of smoke.
Gawen sat down before them and set Ice upright. Faint ripples slept within the steel; it was as keen as the day it had been forged.
He slanted the blade and took up a rough whetstone.
Shhhk—shhhk—shhhk—…
The bright, clean music of steel on stone gentled the dragons' protests.
Cheep—cheep—cheep—…
This Daenerys was not the woman hammered hard by grief and trial; his arrival had changed her course. She was still a newly steeled exile—bereft and brave. With the Iron Throne as my aim, Gawen thought, can I trust her?
She loved him—but what is love? A quirk of flesh and humors? The traveler and player in him rummaged old memories for an answer, found none he liked.
He drew the stone again.
Shhhk—shhhk—…
He often preferred foes who came with malice—such folk never slowed his draw. Kindly hearts could.
Perhaps time is needed—not for others, but for myself.
Steel sang; the hatchlings settled as if the sound had placed stones in their souls.
Gawen nodded inwardly. Beautiful music does deepen bonds.
Lesson over. Patiently, he rose. He knew "fatherly love" must be taught—from the start.
—
The next afternoon.
Sleep-heavy on the pillows, Daenerys blinked at Gawen sitting at her bedside.
He closed a book of Valyrian lore and smiled. "Dany—awake?"
She stared and nodded without a word.
When she kept staring, he chuckled. "Does my princess require the services of her squire Gawen?"
Her mouth curved. She nodded again.
He reached for her—and she followed his pull, falling into his arms.
"I missed you, my knight," she whispered, holding his waist hard.
He wrapped one arm about her and patted her back with the other. "I'm here, my princess."
She nodded against his chest and held tighter.
They stayed that way in quiet.
—
After a time she lifted her head. "Gawen… did you come for me?"
He nodded gently. "Dany, the first night I heard your voice in a dream. The second night, the same—and still I couldn't catch the words. The third, I heard you clearly. You were calling me for help. So I came."
Her answer was warm and eager.
—
Her breath grew rough. She pushed a palm to his chest; he rolled onto his back.
Dany straddled him and reached up, absently moving to sweep long hair over one shoulder—then froze.
Hands pillowing his head, Gawen watched her go still and the corner of his mouth tugged.
Fingers touched bare, tender scalp; her pupils widened. "My hair…?"
She felt again, disbelieving. "My hair?!"
He opened his mouth, but she was already off him, bare feet flying to the mirror.
She stared at the bald girl in the glass—and tears fell.
It should have been sad. Gods help him, it made Gawen want to laugh; he worked his face back to sober.
He rose. Seeing him in the mirror, she clapped both hands over her face.
"Believe me, Dany—you are radiant," he said.
Through her fingers she peeped at him in the glass.
"It was the fire…" she began, then faltered—caught again by the bald reflection, fresh tears brimming.
"Shall I have your maids find you a fine scarf?" he offered.
—
Westeros, the Riverlands.
A sworn knight of Lannister led bands of sellsword riders over the Westerlands' border into the Riverlands.
In scores of small columns, several thousand horse swept the Tully lands—burning, killing, looting.
At Lord Edmure Tully's command, bannermen had gathered to Riverrun—but on his next orders they scattered home to guard their own keeps from sudden Westerlands raids.
The heir of Riverrun swore to defend every inch of Tully ground and every soul beneath his banner.
With the Riverlords split, Jaime Lannister marched fifteen thousand east from the Golden Tooth. He beat the Riverlands forces piecemeal and drove straight for Riverrun.
Tywin Lannister led twenty thousand more down the Goldroad, over the Red Fork, crushing the dispersed foes. Where the Lions passed, keeps were stripped and villages razed.
Lady Shella Whent, lacking men enough to hold Harrenhal, yielded the castle to Lord Tywin; the Westermen garrisoned its black stones.
—
Outside Harrenhal's gate a gallows swayed. Corpses rocked; crows blanketed them, croaking and beating black wings when men drew near.
In a red pavilion, Lord Tywin sat at a table with quill in hand.
Past fifty, he was still a tall frame—long-legged, broad-shouldered, belly flat, arms wiry and sound. Once his fair hair thinned, he shaved his scalp smooth and took the razor to lip and chin, leaving only close side-whiskers. His eyes were pale green shot with gold. A fool had once jested that even Lord Tywin's shit ran with gold; the man was flung in Casterly Rock's deepest cell and—so they said—lived there yet.
Ser Kevan Lannister ducked in, a little out of breath.
"My lord—raven just now. Jaime's given battle beneath Riverrun. The Riverlords were routed. Edmure Tully and many lords and knights are taken."
Tywin's quill paused. He glanced at his thickening brother. "A moment."
Scratch, scratch. He finished the letter, set the quill aside, and held out a hand. Kevan passed Jaime's note. Tywin read, and nodded once.
After a silence Kevan said, "My lord, the Mallisters still hold Seagard, and Walder Frey is said to be mustering at the Twins—could they trouble Jaime's siege?"
Tywin shook his head. "Not unless they scent a certain victory. Old Walder never rides without it— and the air just now stinks of defeat. As for Jason Mallister, he hasn't the strength for a lone campaign. Once Riverrun falls, both will bend the knee."
He added, "If Stark does not march south, the war is won."
Kevan's mouth pinched. "The North has twenty thousand in the Neck. They could move at any time."
"A sword's edge is known only by trial," Tywin said at length. "The Stark boy is still a child. He'll love horns blowing and banners streaming. War is but slaughter. We'll see how long he stomachs it."
At the name Stark, Kevan rubbed his temple. "Had Cersei kept the wolf and his pups in hand, we'd have bent them without a sword drawn."
A vein jumped on Tywin's polished brow. He snorted cold. "Self-regard for wit, forever over-clever—cannot even rule a boy-king. When the war is done…" He moved to the map table, eyes down. "She cannot remain in the Red Keep."
Kevan never gainsaid his brother. He lifted a shoulder. "As you wish. I'll mind a suitable place."
A bare nod. Tywin studied the Seven Kingdoms a moment. "And how fares he in the capital?"
They both knew whom he meant—the son Tywin would not name: Tyrion Lannister.
"He's done well," Kevan said. "Cleared much of Cersei and Joffrey's mess."
Tywin's hmph was pure disdain. "He is a Lannister. That is his duty. Without us, he's but a dwarf for sport."
Kevan hesitated. "He's had… a notion."
He drew another letter from his pocket and handed it over.
Tywin read: Dear Father, Forgive a dwarf's hand. Last night I dreamed you almost threw your back out trying to embrace me…
The vein jumped again. He read on: My thanks for marching to the Reach for a half-nosed dwarf; though a proud father would never admit doing something so touching. To mark my Lannister station I've, on a friend's advice, spent handsomely for a golden nose. It's a marvel. Once men loved me for the dragons you gave me; now they love my nose even more…
Tywin valued ravens and parchment; some victories were won by quills as surely as by spear and blade. He finished the imp's courtesies and at last came to the point.
"He proposes a Dornish match?" Tywin frowned.
Kevan nodded. "Aye. He says his present difficulty is Cersei—she will not send Myrcella, and she is adamant."
.
.
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