After leaving the Hall of Governance, Gawen found a shaded spot nearby and came to a stop.
The performance wasn't over just yet—only the final act remained.
He stood for a while, brows furrowed. Then his ears picked up approaching footsteps.
"Lord Gawen," came Varys's voice.
Snapping back to reality, Gawen looked toward him, a puzzled tone in his voice. "Lord Varys?"
Varys gave a nod, hands folded before him. "Forgive me. It seems my careless words troubled you. That was not my intent."
Gawen shook his head. "No, the fault is mine. Your words made me consider things I had never fully thought through."
They stood in a relatively quiet and open part of the Red Keep's courtyard—ideal for conversation.
Varys's eyes drifted to a fixed point in the distance, his tone cool. "It's human nature to avoid confronting unpleasant truths—even I am guilty of it. Most of us still enjoying our stations were once oathbreakers to the Targaryens."
He turned to Gawen, voice softening. "It's been barely more than a decade, and the memories remain vivid—especially for me. But you are different, Lord Gawen. The Targaryens are strangers to you. Everything you know of them comes from records and hearsay."
He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Yet, I saw your expression shift. I believe that what changed wasn't reason—it was blood. The values of House Crabb, passed down through generations, have etched themselves deep into your soul. You may have realized that today."
Gawen exhaled. "Perhaps House Crabb was right to stay distant from the Red Keep. I shouldn't have left the Crab Claw Peninsula. I shouldn't have left home."
Varys offered a consoling smile. "And yet, you had to. The Red Keep has always eyed the Crab Claw with suspicion, and mistrust runs both ways. But it sits within the royal domain. Once you saw the blade hanging above your head—one that might fall at any moment—self-preservation became the only rational choice."
He stepped closer. "So yes, I support your decision. Survival is a natural instinct—no shame in it."
Gawen's eyes flickered. "I appreciate your words, Lord Varys. But, forgive me… are you hinting at something more?"
Varys pulled out a letter and handed it to him. "Your eyes can still tell right from wrong. That's rare. Take this. As I've said before: sympathy is not pity—it depends on how you view it."
Gawen took the unsealed envelope, frowning. "What is this?"
"Open it," Varys said, nodding with a slight smile.
Gawen did so, his eyes falling to the page. His brown irises trembled.
It was a letter addressed to the Magister of Pentos.
In it, Varys praised Gawen's character and explained that his intentions were to foster trade between Mermaid's Port and Pentos.
Gawen read it quickly, then put it back into the envelope.
Varys, hands clasped as always, said warmly, "This letter should at least ensure your safety in Pentos. You need not trouble yourself unnecessarily—at least not yet."
Was he acting too well?
Inviting a wolf in—was Varys not afraid he might actually slay the dragons?
Varys continued, "Even though time has passed, Illyrio Mopatis and I once shared a friendship. I doubt he would trouble you without cause. I still have some eyes and ears in Pentos—I can offer limited help. But only if you place your safety above all else."
Gawen knew full well: with only a few dozen men, he couldn't take Pentos.
He had openly floated the idea of a surprise strike, and Varys had picked up on it. If Varys knew, Illyrio would too. They were careful men. Even if Gawen's words sounded reckless, they would prepare for the worst.
And with Varys's little birds everywhere, no anomaly would escape notice.
Reading between the lines, Gawen could see the veiled threat beneath Varys's seemingly kind counsel.
Being threatened by a bald man? Gawen didn't mind.
In the game of thrones, only results mattered.
Varys gently patted his arm, eyes warm. "Go, Lord Gawen. The Red Keep has little tolerance for noble loyalty these days. You have three years. Use them wisely. Perhaps you'll find a new answer—one that no longer troubles you."
Crab Claw, House Crabb's New Residence
Around midday, Anguy returned safely from his mission to Storm's End, greeted by House Crabb's steward, Layton.
"Welcome home, Anguy!" Layton opened his arms.
Dust-covered, Anguy hugged him. "Thank you, Layton. It's good to be back."
"You're just in time. Would you like a bath first, or a meal?"
Anguy rubbed his stomach sheepishly. "I'm starving. If I take a bath now, you'll find me drowned in it."
Layton laughed. "Let's avoid summoning the Silent Sisters then. As you wish—it's your right, by your lord's law."
Why mention the lord's law?
After assuming his title, Gawen had codified numerous customs and rules to reform bad habits—especially drawing from traditions on the Crab Claw Peninsula.
Among them: when a soldier returned from a mission, he was to be formally welcomed, served meat and wine at his first meal, and given a hot bath.
It was classic Gawen—using meticulous laws to build cohesion and morale.
He believed that, over time, even laws that seemed minor now would become time-honored traditions of the Crab Claw.
After lunch, Anguy lay in the tub, eyes closed, face filled with bliss.
In his mind, he thanked the fat stranger—Mondon Waters—for the best decision he ever made.
As a former sellsword, Anguy had been cautious. But something about Mondon's silly smile and strange sincerity at the docks of the Blackwater had lowered his guard.
The gods had not abandoned him.
He had become Lord Gawen's personal guard—and had never been more trusted.
Mondon had also told him that the local girls were warm and forward.
Anguy wasn't exactly a romantic—his only experience with women was pulling gold dragons from his coin pouch.
But maybe now, back in the Crab Claw, he could marry and finally complete his life.
A Week Later, Crabb Manor
Dick's days had been both painful and sweet.
Sweet, because every evening, he shared dinner with his sister, Yulia.
Though she smiled less than before, her warmth had only grown.
Dick soon learned that if he applied himself to Joffrey's lessons, Yulia would receive better clothes, finer jewelry, and richer meals.
At first, Dick tried to slack off—as was his habit—but when he saw Yulia eating dry bread in roughspun the next night, he realized Joffrey missed nothing.
Yulia didn't complain. She chewed the hard bread and spoke happily about childhood memories Dick could barely recall.
"You don't want Yulia to suffer because of you, do you?"
That phrase finally struck home.
From that day, Dick studied in earnest.
The hardest part wasn't swordplay—it was etiquette.
While he grew to love the blade, he dreaded the presence of Suranna, the sharp-eyed housekeeper who carried a short sword and a wooden stick.
If he slouched, she struck.
If his posture faltered, she struck again.
"Remember: a nobleman does not—"
Smack!
He wanted to protest—he wasn't even a noble, just a bastard—but instinct warned him to stay quiet.
He endured.
Smack!
"Ow!" Dick clutched his head.
Expressionless, Suranna said coldly, "You've improved, but your eyes still betray you. Every time you think, you look like a thief. No one will trust you with eyes like that."
Dick rubbed his swelling scalp and muttered, "I'm sorry, Lady Suranna… but how do I change a habit like that?"
He didn't doubt her judgment. If she said he looked untrustworthy—he probably did.
Still, if his face broadcasted deceit, hers surely bore the mark of trust.
Suranna nodded. "Apologies are good. Humility is a virtue—but never mistake it for weakness."
"Lord Gawen asked you to learn. I want to finish teaching you, and be done with it. Don't test anyone's patience. Think of your sister."
Dick swallowed hard. "I promise—I swear—I'm not slacking!"
Smack!
"You forgot your posture again."
He resisted the urge to rub the pain, knowing it would only earn him another blow.
He asked, "Sorry, milady—what posture?"
Suranna realized he hadn't reached that part of the lesson yet.
No matter. She smoothly moved on to the next topic.
"Lord Dick, I have prepared a mirror for you. It will help you become a gentleman."
Across the Sea – The Shores of Dragonstone
Waves crashed against jagged rocks. White foam sprayed skyward like thunder.
Gawen, having just disembarked, looked up at the looming shape of Dragonstone, its towers carved like dragons.
The island was sparsely populated, its vassals few, and its fortress nearly impregnable.
"Good day, Lord Gawen. Welcome to Dragonstone."
To his surprise, it was Ser Davos Seaworth himself who greeted him.
Didn't he say he was leaving for Storm's End?
Had Gawen misremembered?
Regardless, he smiled and embraced him like an old friend.
"Good day, Ser Davos. I didn't expect you to meet me personally. I'm honored."
Davos remained humble. "I was reporting to Lord Stannis when I heard of your arrival. I volunteered to welcome you."
He gestured to a tall, slender young man. "This is my third son, Matthos Seaworth. First mate aboard the Black Betha."
Matthos, much like his father, bowed respectfully. "Good day, Lord Gawen."
Gawen returned the gesture. "Good day, Ser Matthos. If the Black Betha is your father's pride, then surely you are as well."
Matthos flushed with modest pride.
Davos patted his shoulder. "The sea is harsh. He still has much to learn."
They ascended through winding steps and dragon-carved halls. Dragonstone, though no longer ruled by Targaryens, still bore their mark in every stone.
Eventually, they reached the famed Chamber of the Painted Table.
There, Gawen finally came face to face with Lord Stannis Baratheon.
Expression solemn, Gawen placed a hand to his chest.
"Good day, Lord Stannis. It is an honor to meet you."
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