In the royal hunting camp, within Gawen's tent.
After parting from Queen Cersei, Gawen learned from his retainers of Jaime's whereabouts.
It turned out Jaime had lately been instructing Princess Myrcella in riding.
Whenever Gawen and Cersei were left alone, he felt the Queen's teasing grew bolder by the day. He needed Jaime as a shield.
Cersei knew well that her beauty was her sharpest weapon, and in the art of seduction she possessed a natural talent.
Gawen understood perfectly that she was using her beauty to ensnare his loyalty and heart.
And the more achievements he piled up in her service, the more overt her temptations became.
Cersei sought to control him, step by step, through her charms—only then could she feel secure in relying on him.
Gawen, older in mind than in years, knew that any other young man in his place would long ago have been undone by such wiles.
But he would not forget his true purpose. He needed to keep the rhythm in his own hands.
And for that, he needed Jaime.
To Gawen's thinking, teaching the princess to ride was something he could easily do himself. Jaime ought to return at once to his proper post—ever at the Queen's side.
Ever the schemer, Gawen seized upon the matter of the Highgarden envoy as an excuse. With Cersei's approval, he dispatched some of the Lannister redcloaks to extend the outer perimeter together with his own Crabb bluecloaks.
Most important was the Queen's immediate guard. The goldcloaks could not be trusted. With part of the redcloaks sent off, a stronger protector was needed at her side. And Jaime was the perfect answer.
Gawen then volunteered to take over Myrcella's riding lessons in Jaime's stead.
Cersei barely considered before agreeing. She, too, missed Jaime's constant company; his recent absences had left her unaccustomedly alone.
And so, Gawen took the reins of the princess's white pony from a black-faced Jaime, and assumed the task of teaching Myrcella to ride.
Three days passed.
Though the noble maidens of the camp kept their distance, whether by chance or by design, the Crabb retainers had grown quite popular.
For generations uncounted, their forebears had been hunters—hunters' grandfathers, and their grandfathers before them. Hunting was in their blood, and under Gawen's orders they went out in turns, returning with rich spoils for the tables.
The camp resounded with cheers, everyone praising the Crabb men who kept the feast supplied.
That night, in the hunting camp.
Gawen sat beside the fire, watching the merriment in the distance.
Tonight's feast featured wild boar roasted with mushrooms and apples. The revel's stars were the ladies, each with a cup of summerwine in hand, the air warm with laughter.
His ears pricked at the sound of approaching steps. Out of idle curiosity, he gauged the walker's height and weight from their tread before turning his gaze.
Within the distance of a natural reflex, Gawen looked up at the newcomer.
It was a girl of fifteen or sixteen, brown-haired and brown-eyed, fair-skinned, of middling height, a touch plump.
She dipped a curtsey. "Good evening, Lord Crabb."
A rumor-monger!He recognized her at once, though his face showed nothing. Rising, he returned the courtesy. "Good evening, my lady. You are…?"
Her smile was well-measured. "Forgive my boldness. My name is Taenya Mooton. The Count of Maidenpool is my uncle."
Maidenpool was a chief port and trade center on the Bay of Crabs. The Mootons of Maidenpool were Riverlands nobility, their current lord Ser William Mooton.
The royal hunt was meant for the Crownlands' lords. Gawen had once "overheard" the matter and wondered why a Riverlands maiden should be among them, though he had not pressed the question.
After all, there was no law against Mootons residing in King's Landing.
When she mentioned her uncle the lord, a fleeting pride crossed her face.
At Gawen's invitation, Taenya Mooton seated herself beside the fire.
Above, the round moon glowed softly.
When he ordered wine brought, she refused with polite regret.
His brown eyes flickered, but he said no more, only had his own cup filled.
He sipped his summerwine and asked, "Why did you not join the feast, Lady Mooton?"
She brushed her hair aside. "You may call me Taenya."
Alone, a man and a maid, under the night sky—it was not hard for one as perceptive as Gawen to guess her intent.
A wry thought struck him. Had a slip of a girl just laid her snare for him?
He felt no annoyance at all.
He inclined his head. "As you wish. The honor is mine, Lady Taenya."
She smiled, smoothing her skirts, letting the hem ride up to show a glimpse of pale calf.
But after long exposure to Cersei's masterful seductions, Gawen could see plainly the gulf between queen and girl.
His expression calm, he merely drank again.
Her smile stiffened. Could he still not see her meaning?
The hour, the setting, the unspoken signals—surely she had made herself clear enough.
Lord Crabb, you may begin courting Taenya Mooton now.
Her temper soured. No matter how she adorned herself, he remained the half-savage noble—utterly without charm!
Composing herself, she answered his earlier question. "Since childhood I have disliked noisy gatherings. I slipped away quietly. Then, seeing you, I came without thinking. I hope I did not disturb you, Lord Crabb."
He shook his head, his reply thoroughly courteous. "Not at all, Lady Taenya. You are free to walk where you will. The guards will see to your safety."
She could only thank him.
To Taenya Mooton, Gawen was her chosen prey. And given the fixed image the Crownlands' lords held of the Crab Claw folk, her scheme was bound to succeed easily enough.
But on reflection, her ploy was riddled with holes.
So long as no one cared to look closely, no one would uncover them.
Gawen, however, thought of broader matters. The Crab Claw had no allies.
The North, descended from the same First Men as his folk, might feel some natural kinship—but the North was far, far away.
For the future "Guardian of the Crab Claw," the field of choice was narrow indeed.
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