Gawen Crabb lowered his gaze. Melisandre's hand was long-fingered and slender, the joints clean, her fingertips like fine harp strings, gleaming faintly.
He looked up; brown eyes met the priestess's red ones.
"Lady Melisandre, I doubt Lord Stannis's ships brought me here to debate a foreign faith."
With that, his eyes flicked once more to the ruby at her throat, and he stepped past her to the Painted Table.
Melisandre's low voice followed.
"Lord Gawen, the Lord of Light watches every mortal upon the earth."
Gawen studied the great carved map.
"True god or false, I am a small lord. I care whether my smallfolk have bread."
He paused, then added, looking toward her,
"The new High Septon of the Crab Claw is aboard my ship. He would be pleased to honor your power."
Candleflame seemed to dance in her blood-red eyes.
"Sacred fire protects the faithful and purges all evil."
A chill flashed in Gawen's eyes. His right hand drifted toward the hilt at his hip.
Stannis Baratheon's cold voice cut in.
"Enough…"
He murmured the word, then said more clearly,
"The Painted Table is no preaching hall."
Ser Davos Seaworth shifted, placing himself—almost without thinking—between Gawen and Melisandre's line of sight.
He glanced to Gawen, his tone friendly.
"My lord Gawen, if you don't mind—your counsel. I've long admired your soldier's sense."
Stannis's eyes moved back to Gawen—beneath those thick brows, they looked like two wounds.
Gawen dipped his chin, paced a few steps along the Seven Kingdoms carved in oak.
"Lord Stannis, as a well-intentioned guest, forgive my boldness."
Stannis gave the smallest nod.
Gawen pointed to the Vale.
"There—the culprit who poisoned Lord Jon waits judgment. Before that judgment comes, the Vale is likely to tear itself—too busy with its own strife."
His finger traced to the Riverlands.
"Here will soon be the battleground of lion, wolf, and trout."
To the Stormlands.
"This land—you know better than any man."
At last, he tapped the Reach.
"As matters stand, the golden rose may decide the war's end."
Hands braced on the table's edge, he lifted his eyes to Stannis, who was staring at the Reach.
"Lord Stannis, I know what you endured at the siege of Storm's End. But with my poor wit, I must say: the Tyrells' support is crucial."
After a silence, Davos sighed.
"My lord… that will be hard."
Stannis snorted.
"Cowards hide behind walls, waiting to see which way the wind blows. The bolder flock to Renly. And why? At Council he trades jests with Littlefinger; at the lists he dons pretty armor and is knocked from the saddle. That is the sum of my brother Renly. What sin of mine chained me to such kin?"
Lady Selyse Florent's sharp voice cut in.
"Stannis, their so-called advice is foolish. You are the lawful heir to the Iron Throne. Must you wag your tail and beg?"
Stannis turned a baleful eye on the woman called his wife.
"When have I begged, woman?"
Clip-clop; Selyse came closer.
"Then I'm relieved to hear it. By the Lord of Light's will you are true king of the Seven Kingdoms—of Andal, Rhoynar, and First Men. House Stark, the golden rose, your brother Renly—these should bend the knee. To ask their aid, to bargain for it—would that not stain your dignity?"
Stannis's jaw worked soundlessly. He had never gone easily with women—not even with his own wife. While he served in the Red Keep with Jon Arryn, he left Selyse and their daughter on Dragonstone; his letters were few, his visits fewer, and each year he performed his marital duty but once or twice, and without joy.
After a beat his voice came flat and cold.
"More 'will.' My lady, again—I need armies, not blessings."
"My brothers and uncles have armies. House Florent will fight for you."
"Your two thousand Florent men? I do not share your faith in them. Your lands lie too near Highgarden; your kin will not dare cross the rose."
Selyse leaned in and took his hand.
"It is fated. You will sail from this lonely rock and sweep all before you—like Aegon the Conqueror. Your time is at hand. R'hllor, Heart of Fire, is your strongest ally."
"How many soldiers will your god give me?" Stannis asked, face like stone.
"Melisandre has seen it in the sacred fire… as many as you require—beginning with the hosts of Storm's End and Highgarden—"
Gawen coughed softly, cutting her off—and drawing every eye. He was preparing to take his leave.
Selyse snapped, voice like a whip.
"Half-savage earl! Unforgivable insult!"
Stannis narrowed his eyes at him. Gawen spoke evenly.
"My lord, if you are fated to be king, then marriage may prove more reliable than 'will.'"
Davos glanced at Selyse—Melisandre had stayed her with a touch—then looked to silent Stannis.
"Lord Gawen… you mean?"
Gawen shrugged.
"If kingship is fated, my lord Stannis needs a queen who brings a hundred thousand spears."
Selyse shrilled,
"The one true king already has his one true queen!"
Stannis strode forward until he stood before Gawen.
"Lord Gawen, I do not like dissemblers."
His stare was knife-keen.
"When you offered counsel, you already knew I would not accept it."
Gawen met his eyes and nodded frankly.
"My lord Stannis, your sight is keen—that is one reason I respect you."
Hand to breast, he went on.
"Under a dozen years of Vale embargo and suppression, the Crab Claw knew only turmoil. House Crabb won peace by war, paying in our weakness. We cannot bear another defeat. So—just as you are just—permit the weak to shelter behind their walls and watch the wind."
He paused.
"And this I promise: whether from respect for you, or the realm's order of succession, the Crab Claw will never serve Lord Renly."
Silence pooled. Then Stannis asked, voice cold,
"And the Lannisters?"
Gawen did not hesitate.
"Cersei Lannister has heaped honors on House Crabb—but in my eyes she is not 'the Lannisters.'"
"Then this—will you be loyal to Cersei to the end?"
Gawen's gaze did not waver.
"My lord Stannis, I am yet a knight who has not lost the heart of honor."
Stannis turned away, eyes returning to the Painted Table. Gawen held his tongue.
After a long stillness, Stannis spoke with his back to him.
"You may withdraw. Remember your word, Gawen Crabb."
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