The old knight's sincerity moved Daenerys Targaryen in spite of herself.
Seeing this, Ser Jorah Mormont said darkly, "Lay down your life? I could help you with that."
"A traitor deserves no better—"
Ser Barristan Selmy lifted his bowed head and went on, "But… Princess Daenerys, at least I am honest. Before Robert's pardon, I fought bravely upon the Trident."
He turned to Jorah. "You, though—you are an enemy to House Targaryen, are you not, Mormont?"
Facing Daenerys again, Barristan said, "Your Highness, I hid my name to draw near because I knew there were eyes upon you. King Viserys and you were watched by the Small Council for years."
"For a long time, Varys, the Master of Whisperers, reported Viserys's every step to the council. And since you left Pentos, a spy has traveled at your side, selling your secrets to the Spider for gold and promises."
His finger leveled at the knight of Bear Island. "That spy is Ser Jorah Mormont."
Steel clattered. Jorah's sword slipped from his hand and rang upon the paving-stones, as if to seal the charge.
"No…" Daenerys breathed, staring at him in disbelief. Why?
Gawen slipped an arm about her waist; he felt her trembling.
Daenerys managed a fragile smile and told the old knight, "You are mistaken."
She looked to Jorah. "Tell him he's mistaken. Tell him you are no spy. Tell him how badly, how utterly, he errs."
A flush climbed Jorah's neck. "May the Others take you, Selmy!"
He turned to Daenerys, face burning—anger or shame, who could say? "I tried to tell you the truth—"
Daenerys shook with hurt. From Pentos to Qarth she had trusted him, set tasks upon him, taken his counsel—because she believed. His sudden confession of feeling had once made her wary, but never of his loyalty.
Why wake the true-dragon wrath within her? A red glimmer seemed to kindle at the base of her eyes—then stilled as Gawen's palm smoothed her lower back, gentle as rain.
She lifted her chin. She met a calm, kind face, and the ice within her thawed.
Gawen dipped his head—a silent reassurance: I'm here.
So good… The corner of Daenerys's mouth quirked up before she could stop it.
Her fury cooled, but not her anger. Violet eyes hard, she faced Jorah. "Tell me what they promised you, ser."
He tried again, "Princess… that was only at the start—before I truly knew you—"
"Enough."
She cut through his plea. "Answer me. What did they promise?"
Jorah's lips worked. At last he forced it out. "Varys said I could go home—to Bear Island."
His head sagged, unable to meet her gaze.
Daenerys clenched her fist. She too had promised—to restore his honor. What a foolish vow.
"I swore I would restore your lands and name," she said, voice cold. "You repaid me with betrayal. I will not forgive you."
Jorah shook his head, flustered. "No—you don't want this. You should forgive—"
Why did he not even see his fault? Why not beg pardon? Did he not know what becomes of traitors? Her eyes burned. "I cannot."
"Princess," Jorah pleaded, "I guarded you, fought for you, killed for you—"
She turned her face aside. If she wept, she would soften.
She did not weep. Yet she softened all the same. Her voice trembled. "Ser, you are banished. Go to King's Landing and seek your pardon."
"Princess, I beg you—listen—"
She would not heed him. She looked to the kneeling old knight. "Ser Barristan, I have had my fill of Westerosi knighthood's hypocrisy. You… go as well."
He rose stiffly, moving like a man his years at last. Grief edged his voice. "Princess, Barristan is grateful for your hearing."
"Please…" Jorah whispered, almost broken.
Her skirts flared as she turned her back on them both. They were in the wrong—so why could she not bear their pleading eyes?
Gawen spoke. "Dany, you should rest. Leave the rest to me."
I have Gawen. Peace returned to her center. She nodded once to him and departed.
When the princess was gone, Gawen gestured. Servants and guards withdrew until only three remained.
He spoke almost conversationally. "Ser Barristan, I heard you cast your sword at Joffrey's feet and swore to serve the true king. Have you come for King Viserys?"
Barristan drew his eyes from the doorway and took a long breath. "Lord Gawen, I am still searching."
Gawen's fingers tapped his sword's pommel. "Honest words, ser—but they cut two ways."
A puzzled look crossed Barristan's face. Gawen continued, "By your own account, even if the princess accepted you, the moment you judged another the 'true king,' you would forswear her and ride away… yes?"
Barristan opened his mouth. No answer came.
Gawen shook his head slightly. "I can guess your heart. We all know—"
Movement broke his sentence. Jorah shifted at last.
Gawen stepped into his path. "Spy, where were you going?"
Jorah stared at the man who barred him. "I must speak to the princess. Stand aside—"
He never finished. Thud. Gawen's fist slammed into his gut. Pain blossomed like fire; the big man folded in upon himself.
"Do not mistake the princess's kindness for weakness," Gawen said, voice like iron. "You look very like a bully who preys on the gentle."
Shock flickered across Barristan's face. The strength and speed the young lord showed—he thought of the Mountain… then shook the thought away. No, stronger than that: a power that crushed the will to resist.
Jorah's face went chalk-white, twisted by pain. "I… am not…"
"See that you're not. Do nothing rash, man of Bear Island."
Gawen turned back to Barristan. "Who is the 'true king'? If you mean Stannis or Renly, you would not be here. And the realm knows: Princess Daenerys is the last of House Targaryen."
Embarrassment flickered and died. The old knight gathered the tatters of his pride and raised his chin.
"Lord Gawen," he said, "I am in your debt. But by what right do you question me?"
Barristan the Bold was famed across the Seven Kingdoms; Gawen, for all his repute, was but a lesser lord. He meant to refuse him with rank.
"Your words are clumsy, ser," Gawen said with a thin smile. "You do not see I am your only chance. Walk out now, and your so-called road to redemption becomes a jape for all Westeros."
Silence stretched. At last Barristan sighed, yet a new light stirred in his clouded eyes.
"I am ill-suited to such games," he murmured.
He pressed fist to breast in apology and said plainly, "You are shrewd, my lord. You have the right of it. In truth, I have already sworn: the rest of my life belongs to Princess Daenerys."
Gawen glanced at Jorah, who was slowly straightening. "Whatever the reasons, facts remain. You cannot pin your hope on the princess's softness. Prayers will not buy back lost honor."
Barristan's eyes trembled. Robert had been a great knight. He had been grateful for the pardon… charmed by the man. Excuses, all of it. The truer reason? Prince Rhaegar lay dead, and the boy Viserys, even as a child, had shown the stamp of the Mad King's son—so unlike Rhaegar in every way.
That was the truth. He had been a fool—clever in his own esteem—and forswore his vows while pretending he chose for all the realm. Now the punishment would come due. The gods had been too gentle with him.
Gawen patted his arm. "Ser, a knight's honor lives in the sword he bears. That is your true gift."
He raised a hand to forestall any reply. "My inquiries turn up a threat in Essos—one that touches the princess's safety and the true cause of King Viserys's death."
His gaze slid to the white hair and he frowned a little. "I will not hide it—this task is perilous. Any but a man without fear would fail."
He could feel a hint of condescension—pity—beneath the young lord's words. Does he not know my name? Barristan drew himself up, chest still hard as oak.
"My lord," he said, "a knight fears nothing."
At his brave declaration, Gawen's face showed a trace of regret. Though he had expected it, the old knight's heart still pricked with heat.
"Hear the charge before you answer," Gawen said gently.
Barristan repeated, slow and steady, "A knight fears nothing."
Gawen considered. "The Golden Company."
At once the old knight's eyes narrowed. "The company whose word is as good as gold?"
"Gold above," Gawen answered, "cold steel below."
A small smile touched Barristan's mouth. "As you say. Since I cast my blade at Joffrey's feet, I have not worn a sword. I will wear one again only if I take it from Princess Daenerys's hand."
He drew a long breath. "Tell me what you would have me do."
Jorah rubbed his belly and coughed. "Old spy, you seem short one strong right arm."
A contemptuous snort from Barristan; he would not bandy words with the ignoble knight of Bear Island.
Gawen nodded, untroubled—that was why he had let Jorah remain and "overhear" state business. Mondon and Angai would be his hidden cards; Barristan and Jorah, the ones set upon the table.
"There is a name you both know," Gawen said softly. "Aerys the Second's Hand… Jon Connington…"
The Governor's Residence, the hatchlings' room.
Gawen entered to find Daenerys feeding the three little dragons.
She looked up, a gentle smile lighting her face; brighter still when she saw him. "Gawen," she called, beckoning him closer.
He sat beside her. "The handmaid says they can swallow several times their weight in food each day."
She indicated a dish of bloody meat. "When I was little, Viserys told me only dragons and men eat cooked flesh. He was right—see how they refuse raw meat?"
She paused, frowning slightly. "And suddenly they're quieter… better behaved?"
Gawen chuckled, then said, "Dany, I've set the two of them a dangerous task. They may lose their lives in it."
She nodded without a word and leaned into him; he drew her into his arms.
They sat in the hush for a time. Then Gawen asked, "Have you chosen their names yet?"
.
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