Dragonstone, the Chamber of the Painted Table.
"Earl of the Crab Claw Peninsula, Gawen Crabb, pays you respect."
Below the raised dais stood several onlookers. Lord Stannis sat the high chair, and Gawen felt the weight of every measuring gaze.
Stannis's eyes lay in the shadow of his heavy brows; his voice was steady and cold, ringing in the hollow hall.
"Lord Gawen, do you recall what I told you here the last time? (Chapter 98.)"
Gawen straightened and looked up at him.
"I do. You said you would answer my doubts."
Stannis pressed his lips tight; his jaw worked soundlessly.
After a beat, he said,
"Are your doubts answered now?"
Gawen shook his head slightly.
"Forgive my dullness, Lord Stannis."
At once a stranger's cold sniff cut the air. A thin woman with a narrow, sharp face, jutting ears, and a knife-edged nose spoke in a voice like a lash.
"A cunning little earl of Whispers Hall, are you? Who does not know by now that the boy upon the Iron Throne is the queen's inces* spawn? You dare lie beneath the Lord of Light's gaze? No wonder you're that whore Cersei's pampered pet."
Gawen took the scolding without a flicker, merely turning to the Onion Knight beside him.
"Ser Davos—this lady?"
Davos lifted his brows, helpless. Glancing up at the dais, he whispered back,
"My lord Earl, you put me in a hard place."
Gawen only looked at him, waiting.
Davos sighed, bowed toward the dais, and said aloud,
"This is Lord Stannis's lady wife—Queen Selyse of House Florent."
His brevity earned a huff of displeasure.
A middle-aged man stepped out and declaimed,
"Earl of Whispers Hall, you stand before the lady of Stannis Baratheon, Lady of Dragonstone, descendant of Garth the Greenhand, Selyse of House Florent."
Garth the Greenhand, called the Greenhand or Green Garth, was a king of legend among the First Men, forefather to many Reach houses. His eldest son, Garth Gardener, founded House Gardener, first Kings of the Reach.
House Florent is an ancient and powerful Reach house, claiming descent through Florys the Fox, a daughter of Garth. They hold their blood closer to House Gardener than the Tyrells', and have long questioned the Tyrells' right to rule the Reach.
…
Davos shrugged faintly. Gawen turned back toward the dais; his gaze brushed a figure in red. Hand over heart, he said,
"My lady Selyse. Gawen Crabb gives you greeting."
Selyse's smile was ice.
"Answer my question, Earl of Whispers Hall."
Calmly, Gawen replied, voice even and steady,
"By the laws of the realm, until due trial is held, I keep my counsel as to any accused."
Selyse's tone sharpened.
"A petty half-wild house dares—"
"Selyse. Silence." Stannis's voice cut her off.
"Your Grace," she snapped.
Stannis repeated it with acid.
"'Your Grace.' A name steeped in mockery. What manner of king am I? Dragonstone—and a string of rocks in the Narrow Sea—is this my kingdom?"
Selyse hastened,
"By the Lord of Light's will, you are the one true king."
Stannis was no zealot like his wife. He frowned.
"I need armies, not blessings."
Selyse drew breath to speak, but Gawen's voice came first, mild.
"Forgive me, my lady, a correction. Serving the queen is the Crab Claw's tradition, not a point of law."
He felt their eyes return to him.
"You—"
Gawen lifted a shoulder.
"And so far as I know, Lord Stannis has not yet proclaimed himself king, my lady."
"You—"
He dipped to the dais, hand to breast.
"No doubt the surf outside muddled my hearing."
Whether meant or not, any talk of kingship in this room—Lord Gawen had heard nothing.
"'The Lord of Light cherishes chastity and punishes the fallen,'" a red figure intoned, gliding toward him.
She stopped before Gawen.
"Lord Gawen, I am Melisandre, a priestess of R'hllor, the Lord of Light."
She was willowy and poised, full and slender both, robed in silk bright as living flame. Long sleeves, a slashed bodice showing darker blood-red beneath.
"Good day, Lady… Melisandre?"
His eyes flicked to the red-gold choker at her throat, set with a great red gem. His fingers twitched.
"No need to fuss with titles," she said in a low, musical voice with the lilt of distant Jade Sea shores. She had deep red-copper hair, a heart-shaped face, eyes the color of embers; her skin was cream-smooth and flawless.
She fixed him with that red gaze; for an instant, Gawen thought he saw fire flash within.
Her fingertips drifted across his breastplate.
"So pure a power…"
Gawen: "…" He disliked the word.
They stepped back almost together.
At her touch he felt stripped bare and feared he might draw steel; better to retreat half a pace.
And Melisandre? A secret.
They let the moment pass as if it were a mirage. Then she spoke softly,
"Lord Gawen, the Lord of Light's guidance led you here…"
Arms opening, she chanted,
"We must all choose—man and woman, old and young, high and humble. The choice is the same: light or darkness, justice or evil, the true god or false."
Her eyes lingered on him, then she turned away to the foot of the dais and bowed to Stannis.
"Born alone and dying alone, we mortals stumble through shadowed vales. Yet by our fellows we are gathered and led; by the true god we are filled and overflow."
Stannis nodded slightly. He rose, descended the steps, and halted at the Painted Table—carved with the Seven Kingdoms as in Aegon the Conqueror's day. Rivers, mountains, castles, cities, lakes, forests—all in meticulous relief, the varnish shining with three centuries of polish.
He brooded there a while, then beckoned Davos and Gawen forward.
They traded a glance and came to either side of him.
Stannis's brow furrowed.
"My brother left me Celtigar, Velaryon, and Bar Emmon—men of little use. Beyond them, the Lysene pirate Salladhor Saan will bring me his bill, the Myrman Moroqso will prattle of tides and autumn gales to chide my caution. Lord Sunglass of Sweetport will pray in the Seven's name, Lord Celtigar will press me which Storm's End lords will join, and Lord Velaryon will threaten unless I sail at once. What am I to tell them?"
His hand swept over Blackwater Bay.
"I have thirteen hundred men on Dragonstone and three hundred at Storm's End. I've no coin for sellswords, no hope of plunder or glory to draw freeriders. What should I do? I want counsel—from you both."
Davos sighed inwardly. Dragonstone was old and strong, but its bannered houses were few; their isles were rocky and thinly peopled—far short of Stannis's needs.
Gawen lifted his eyes to the rafters.
"…."
This was military intelligence—and he had never sworn Stannis service. Lord Gawen was speechless.
Davos, noticing, ventured,
"My lord, your true foe is Lannister—the enemy of both you and Renly. If you will it, I'll go to Storm's End and win you an alliance."
"Storm's End… Renly…" Stannis's snort was bitter.
"By rights, the Stormlands are my vassals."
He went on, flinty:
"I never asked for Dragonstone—I did not want this wretched rock. I took it because Targaryen remnants infested it and Robert ordered me to clear it. I built him a fleet, beat his enemies, did my duty as a brother. My younger brother should have done the same for me. And how did Robert thank me?"
"He named me Lord of Dragonstone, and gave Storm's End and its incomes to the youngest. For three hundred years Storm's End was Baratheon's seat. Robert took the throne—the seat should have been mine."
"I will not deal with Renly, save to hear him forswear his crown. We both know the boy's ambition. If he names himself king, I will show no mercy. Renly!"
He spat the name like poison. Playing the distracted listener, Gawen lit a candle in his heart for the younger Baratheon.
Davos did not press. Stannis once resolved was granite.
After a time he said,
"News says Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell, marches south for vengeance. Stark and Lannister will soon be at war. If we aid him, you could win Winterfell and Riverrun to your cause."
"Support a green boy's revenge? For Eddard Stark, torn by a mob?" Stannis's fury echoed.
"Why should I avenge Eddard Stark? Robert loved him—called him brother. I heard it a thousand times. He was nothing to me."
"I was Robert's brother, not Stark. Yet from his treatment you'd never know it. In the war, I held Storm's End for him and watched loyal men starve while Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne feasted outside the walls. Did he thank me? No—he thanked Stark, for lifting the siege when we had naught but rats and roots."
"I built him a fleet; in his name I took Dragonstone. Did he clasp my hand and say, 'Well done, brother—without you I was lost'? No—he scolded me for letting Willem Darry carry off Viserys and the babe—as if I could have stopped them."
"I served as Master of Ships, helping Jon Arryn govern while Robert drank and whored. When Jon died, did Robert make me Hand? No—he ignored my claim and every lord's counsel and dragged Eddard from the far North to gift him the honor. And those two—played like puppets by a Lannister whore. Shameful!"
Davos cast a worried look at Stannis's rigid face and said respectfully,
"My lord, though the past wronged you, the dead are dead. If Stark joins with you, great as you are, you can be the final victor—and the realm reborn in your hands."
Hand to breast, he bowed.
"For your kingdom, my lord."
Stannis's hard stare held Davos a long moment.
"…Very well. I will consider."
He brooded a while longer, then his keen eyes slid to Gawen, who had kept his peace.
Melisandre drifted close and laid a hand upon Gawen's arm.
"The Lord of Light will guide my lord Stannis to glory's summit. Lord Gawen, to aid the king is R'hllor's will. Hear the counsel of the Lord of Light."
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