"Earl Gawen Crabb?" Margaery Tyrell's brown eyes widened in surprise.
Lady Olenna's gaze was deep. Her thin, wrinkled fingers tapped the arm of her chair. "I always thought that boy cozied up to my pig-headed son because he found him easy to flatter—puffing him up with a clever tongue. But the Little Savage has been earnest toward the Boar Duke all along. Even this old woman starts to doubt her own judgment…"
She turned to her granddaughter. "My Margaery, is your father favored by the gods? Otherwise I can't find a proper reason to explain why one helper after another keeps appearing at his side."
Margaery's mind drifted to that man who seemed to see only Queen Cersei—Gawen Crabb—and she kept a measure of skepticism about his sincerity.
She quickly remembered that dawn when they "escaped" King's Landing. Gawen had no intention of letting Renly go; she had to step in—and before she could even say much, he chose to let them pass… The charm of the Light of Highgarden? Perhaps a little. More precisely, it was the charm of the Duke of Highgarden.
The Little Rose's lips curved. She recalled her father stroking his beard with unconcealed delight upon hearing it, repeating more than once: Gawen is a good lad.
So… was the Earl telling the truth? Did he truly revere her father? At that thought, Margaery's heart grew restless.
Lady Olenna spoke slowly. "Before I left King's Landing I met that little fox in private. At parting he said something I won't forget—he believes that under Duke Mace's leadership, the Golden Rose will always have the right to choose."
Margaery's pupils tightened. "Why would Earl Gawen say that to you?"
Olenna's look turned fond. "My Margaery, it wasn't a hint of right or wrong. That is why I say Gawen is an oddity—an outlier raised in a den of savages."
Thinking on her grandmother's words, Margaery murmured, "He acts like a southern knight."
She frowned slightly, and Olenna seemed to read her thoughts.
"My Margaery," the Queen of Thorns said, "in this game of thrones you must learn to be flexible. The end itself may depend on it."
Margaery inclined her head.
Olenna patted her soft, fair hand. "Even without Renly, your grandmother has ways to set a crown upon her granddaughter's head."
Seeing Margaery's widening eyes, she continued, "Mind you, I do not yet see any path where Renly fails. So—when he sits that iron chair in the Red Keep, I'll come again, my Margaery."
"Grandmother…"
"At that time, I'll teach you the final lesson."
Margaery's eyes turned a little red. She rested her head against those small, bony shoulders, full of reverence and gratitude.
Olenna stroked her hair. "What worries me is that Renly and your father are treating this war as a game—a grand tourney. Like children drunk on songs and stories, imagining themselves all-powerful."
She sighed. "I see danger and yet cannot point to it, while your father is lost in the vision of a future where his grandson sits the Iron Throne. At such a time, any counsel from his mother he will take for nagging."
The old lady huffed. "I won't waste myself on useless things."
After a pause she added, "Again—the future shows no path where Renly fails. I won't be the tiresome old crone."
Margaery soothed her gently. "Grandmother, Father won't take your advice as nagging. He's only too happy."
Olenna snorted. "Margaery, even if you believe you'll see a dragon tomorrow, don't you trust that blockhead of a father."
Margaery couldn't help a soft laugh.
Olenna gave her hand an affectionate pat and, rare for her, smiled. "Clever girl. Remember your grandmother's words."
She rose, trembling slightly. "I travel at dawn. Get your rest."
They walked a few steps arm in arm, and Margaery asked, "Grandmother, can Earl Gawen be trusted?"
"So long as you keep your guard," Olenna replied as they walked, "you can trust anyone, my Margaery."
Margaery nodded—an old lesson, never forgotten.
Olenna mused under her breath, "He speaks well and acts well. An outlier indeed."
Crab Claw Peninsula, Siren's Port, Civic Hall.
Reclining in his chair, Earl Gawen Crabb once more picked up Daenerys's letter—lines brimming with purest affection, the love between a man and a woman.
Normally steady, the lord's long fingers tapped the chair's armrest—brow furrowing and easing in turn.
Gawen's eyes were fixed on the stepping-stone to the Iron Throne—the Vale. After long, careful maneuvering among the great powers, the Crab Claw finally faced its chance to challenge the Vale. But by the measure of the peninsula's overall strength… there would only be one chance.
If he won, his power would leap forward. But if he lost—or the war ground into stalemate—the Crabb hold on the Crab Claw would suffer true, marrow-deep wounds… and with it they would lose both the strength and the initiative to contend for hegemony.
He'd been moved by beauty now and then, but never let such thoughts weigh seriously. A lord's marriage is more than romance.
He pushed the vision of a peerless face from his mind and forced himself back to cold reason: what would a Crabb–Targaryen match bring to Westeros in its chaos?
What future did Daenerys paint? Gawen aids Viserys to the Iron Throne, and once the work is done, he and the silver-haired princess spend the rest of their days happily in the bountiful Vale… Beautiful, yes—moving, even. But it is not Gawen's dream.
Could Viserys hold the Iron Throne? Dany's brother could not… Gawen rose and paced to the window.
Outside, the sea stretched grand and blue, a sapphire set upon the world.
His eyes trembled slightly… There is only one Iron Throne. To Targaryens and those who back them, if the one upon it is not a Targaryen, then that person is their enemy.
The Targaryen card had been Gawen's final step in his own climb to the throne—but Daenerys's love added a great uncertainty.
Would that change bring more gain than loss, or more loss than gain? He judged it half and half.
Time… He chuckled under his breath. How do you calculate hearts with precision? A young girl's love comes quickly and goes quickly; by the time he received the letter, she might already have found someone new. This is a world of ice and fire.
He drew back from wandering thoughts. Truly, beauty can slow the drawing of a blade.
Knock, knock, knock.
At his summons, Herschel—belly a shade rounder than before—came in cheerfully with a laden tray.
Once the dishes were set, Gawen sat and said, "Thank you, Herschel."
The butler dipped his head, his plump face all smiles. "My lord, it is my honor."
Gawen sipped his wine. "Herschel, expect the Blackwater blockade to last for another half-year or so. I want you prepared."
Herschel couldn't help a sigh. "Without this blockade, Siren's Port would be in surplus this year. I had planned to pour those coins into next year's harbor works."
Gawen set down his cup. "With Duke Renly proclaiming himself king in the south on Highgarden's support, I expect Reachmen transports will soon be barred from the Blackwater."
Herschel's pupils tightened. "My lord, we are still far short on war provisions."
He meant the grain the Reach merchants shipped to Siren's Port—stores the Crabb lands had been laying by for the coming war in the Vale.
Gawen leaned back. "It isn't ideal, but what we have will suffice."
Herschel bowed a hand to chest. "My lord, I await your orders."
"Blackwater Bay is, for all intents, at war," Gawen went on. "With Stannis commanding the royal fleet, they will no longer give their whole attention to hunting pirates—there is a greater enemy now."
"All the more reason not to relax the port's defenses. A single lapse and the Siren's Port we've bled to build could go up in flame. Remember this, loyal Herschel."
The butler answered gravely, "You have my word, my lord. I will remember."
Essos — City-state of Viserys (Qantis), Governor's Palace.
With her maid's help, Daenerys eased into the steaming bath, luxuriating in the heat as her fingers brushed the fossilized dragon's egg set beside her.
Since receiving the green, white, and black eggs, she had grown fond of tales about dragons. She had heard they first came from the East—from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai and the islands scattered across the Jade Sea. Perhaps, she wondered, in those wild and uncanny places, some dragons still lived.
Drawing her hand back, she asked her new handmaiden, "Do you think I will ever see a dragon?"
The girl knew many things about dragons. As she scrubbed Daenerys's back, she said, "Your Highness, they say the dragons all died—long, long ago. They're gone."
"All gone… even those in the East?" Dany sounded a touch disappointed.
It was said that when doom fell upon Valyria and the Lands of Always Summer, magic retreated from the West—no spell-forged blades, no storm-singers who could call wind and rain, no dragons. Yet the East was different, or so the tales claimed: manticores still prowled the Jade Sea isles; basilisks still lurked in the jungles of Yi Ti. If so, why could dragons not survive?
The handmaiden moved to lift Daenerys's slender, pale arm. "Your Highness, every part of you is so lovely…"
With the other hand she took up a towel. "Heroes slew the dragons. They were terrible beasts—so they were wiped out."
"And a Qartheen merchant told me dragons crawled from the moon."
"The moon?" Dany's purple eyes were puzzled.
The maid nodded. "He said the moon is an egg. Once there were two in the sky, but one strayed too near the sun and burst from the heat. Thousands of dragons poured out and drank the sun's fire—that's why they breathe flame."
"One day, the remaining moon will kiss the sun and burst as well—then dragons will return."
By the hearth, Borona, warming a towel, said, "I've heard others say the moon is a goddess—the sun's wife. I cannot believe it is an egg."
Dany laughed lightly. "Perhaps either could be true."
Her gaze drifted to the fossil egg. If only it were a true egg.
Later, in a silk nightdress, she toyed with the deep-green egg on her bed. Beneath the moonlight, its scales gleamed with a bronze sheen—so beautiful. At times she fancied she could draw strength from the petrified hatchling within, to make her bold and brave.
Daenerys Targaryen fell asleep with a gentle smile.
At first light, Ser Jorah Mormont asked for an audience.
Dany had slept well for once and greeted him in high spirits. "Good morning, ser."
The big knight bowed hand to breast before her. "Good morning, Princess Daenerys."
She smiled. "What brings you, Ser Jorah?"
He glanced at her cheerful face. "Your Highness, because of King Viserys's tourney, too many outsiders have poured into the city. There were many robberies last night. The people are uneasy."
Dany set down her cup, frowning. "Many outsiders? About how many?"
"Perhaps a thousand," Jorah answered.
"And it's not only the peace," he added. "Sanitation is failing too. The stench lies over the streets. Discontent is growing, and that is dangerous, Your Highness."
Dany thought for a moment. "Do we lack the men to keep order?"
Jorah sighed. "We must keep a portion back as guards to maintain order at the tourney, Princess."
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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