What was love between men and women in Westeros like? Very… direct.
Gawen Crabb glanced at the sleeping Daenerys, lifted the thin coverlet, and slipped from the bed.
Moonlight poured through the chamber windows, washing the marble floor in silver.
He moved to the casement and eased it open; the cool night wind kissed his face.
He stood there a while, rubbing his ink-black hair. Directness had its merits; the passage from strangers to something familiar could be… swift.
Next step… His long fingers tapped the windowsill.
What future would he and Dany share?
Should the two of them settle the matter of the Iron Throne in advance?
Did she, now or later, desire it?
If he asked outright, would she answer honestly? And even if she did… would today's answer be tomorrow's?
His gaze trembled on the black sky. Was it necessary to pierce the paper veil now?
He didn't know how long he stood there before his fingers stilled. A decision formed—crowned by expectation.
Lord Gawen—one of one.
First, begin at the bed. This wasn't scheming; this was Westerosi courtship.
"Gawen…" Daenerys called softly, perfectly timed.
He turned. The Princess of Dragonstone lay on her side, cheek in her hand. As his eyes met hers, she slowly lifted the coverlet.
Though the room was dim, her pale skin seemed to glow. She didn't merely display her grace—she crooked a finger.
Brazen… Gawen's throat bobbed.
He started toward the bed. Keen as ever, he'd already noticed Dany's stamina was beyond the ordinary—some mother-of-dragons buff, perhaps?
Time to show his true strength.
…low murmurs and soft singing…
Morning, at the Governor's Residence, on the training ground.
Gawen raised his custom heavy bow and drew it to the ear. His audience consisted of three baby dragons with a distinct case of morning temper.
Thrum! Thrum! Thrum! Thrum! Thrum! Thrum! Thrum!
Each shaft screamed through the air with a sound to prickle the scalp.
The three hatchlings stayed obediently where they were. After this morning's "music lesson," they seemed to feel the full warmth of Gawen's fatherly love.
He handed the bow to a squire and gestured. The well-behaved dragons were packed—one by one—into reinforced chests and borne from the yard.
Before long, Mondon and Angai came up and bowed.
Passing his hand towel back to a servant, Gawen asked, "Any signs she's with child?"
Angai and Mondon traded a look. Angai answered, "My lord, I consulted three different physicians. All agreed—Rhaeniel is not with child."
After hearing Dany tell Jon's romantic tale, Gawen had quietly placed newly arrived Rhaeniel under guard. To the cautious Lord of the Crab Claw, the story sounded a touch too beautiful.
He nodded. "Angai, find a suitable pretext and let Rhaeniel go. Then…"
He paused, then continued, "I need you to learn who stands behind her."
"You suspect…"
"Jon Snow's path across Essos reads like a play scripted in advance. That's not coincidence."
"Little Griff" was already dealt with; naturally, Gawen would strike first.
Angai bowed deeply. "Yes, my lord. I'll see to it. None of them will slip past my eyes."
Gawen clapped his arm. "Mondon stays to support you. I've no further specifics—if you judge there's a threat, you have leave to act as you see fit. I'll be waiting for the day I can knight you both with my own hand."
The Vale awaited Lord Gawen's arrival; he couldn't linger in Essos, yet he refused to leave dangers festering behind him. Hence: Mondon and Angai, together.
In the great hall of the Governor's Residence, Daenerys appeared on Gawen's arm, a fine turban framing her face. Her violet eyes shone like stars; she looked radiant, charged with life—her joy was infectious.
Courtiers bowed in turn, and she returned each greeting in high spirits.
She stopped before a broad-shouldered, white-haired, white-bearded old man, studying him briefly. "Whitebeard Arstan? The champion of the tourney?"
Arstan Whitebeard cut a glance at Gawen at her side and bowed. "It is my honor to behold you, Princess of Dragonstone of House Targaryen."
"I heard," Daenerys said, "that in the fire that night you struck down the ringleader of the rebel sellswords. Brave work."
She turned her head. "Ser Jorah."
Ser Jorah Mormont strode up and touched fist to chest. "Princess."
"I would have you dub Arstan a knight," Daenerys said.
Jorah stared at Whitebeard, suspicion darkening his face. "You look familiar… Old man, tell me your true name."
Arstan straightened, his reply cold. "A knight better than you, ser."
Then he looked to Gawen. "Lord Gawen, I hadn't thought to meet you here. I have long wished to thank you face-to-face. Without your clemency, I might have remained in the Red Keep forever." (Ch. 168)
Daenerys's brows knit. "You're a knight?"
She lifted her chin to Gawen. "Gawen, do you know him?"
Gawen inclined his head. "He is Ser Barristan Selmy."
Color flooded Jorah's cheeks. "I knew it!"
Steel hissed. His blade flashed free, the tip coming to rest at the hollow of Barristan's throat.
"Barristan the Bold! Lord Commander to the Usurper Robert Baratheon! A traitor to House Targaryen!"
Head high, Barristan ignored the blade. "A crow calling the starling black. You, speaking of treachery?"
Gawen's voice carried a warning. "Ser of Bear Island, who gave you leave to bare steel before the princess?"
Jorah flicked a glance at Daenerys's frown. He hesitated, then drew his sword back.
"She cannot trust him," Jorah said as he sheathed it. "He served the Usurper."
A disdainful snort from the old knight.
Why was Jorah so uncharacteristically rash? Gawen's brow twitched. He feared Barristan would unmask his hidden past.
This was Dany's own "holding," after all. It wasn't Gawen's place to rule in her stead. Some things must be faced—call it the price of growing.
"Dany," Gawen said, "Barristan was cast from the Red Keep by the Lannisters. His station now is…"
He eyed the old knight. "A hedge knight?"
Barristan dipped his head to Gawen in thanks, then sank to one knee. "Princess Daenerys—if you will have me, I will be your loyal knight all my days."
He paused, then added, "If not, let me serve a knight you trust—as his squire."
Daenerys's fists tightened. "You wore my father's white cloak and fought beside my brother on the Trident. Later you betrayed Prince Viserys in exile and bent the knee to the Usurper. By your knightly honor—why?"
"I stained the white I wore," the old knight said. "No fair words can wash it clean."
He lifted wet eyes. "Had that wicked boy upon the Iron Throne not stripped me of my cloak, perhaps I would still be serving in King's Landing. Shameful to admit—but true."
"When the Lannisters took the white from me and set hunters on my trail, the film fell from my sight. I knew I must seek a road of atonement—even should it cost my life."
Gawen's eyes trembled. Why had he not said he sought the true king?
It was said madness and greatness were two faces of the same coin, and every time a Targaryen was born, the gods tossed the coin and the world held its breath to see how it would land.
Was he keeping the observer's mantle now—watching to learn whether Daenerys would become a second Mad King?
So it was: in Westeros, noble blood was what the people expected to follow—crowned by expectation.
Gawen felt no ripple within. From the first he had known the game he'd chosen to play was set on the hardest board in hell.
He was cheerful enough about it. If the difficulty weren't high, how else would his excellence show? Ahem.
The future Emperor Gawen—utterly unafraid.
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