Mermaid's Port: the Mermaid eased in alongside the eastern quay.
On the bridge, Daenerys Targaryen, hooded in a blue cloak, walked to the rail, amused as she watched the bustle ashore.
Gawen Crabb came to stand beside her and pointed south. "With a fair wind, a day and a night will put us at Dragonstone."
"Dragonstone…" Dany echoed, gazing that way.
She drew her eyes back, voice far away. "Gawen, Viserys told me my mother—Rhaella Targaryen—crowned him there, and later, in a night of raging storm, she died bearing me."
Her eyes reddened. "My brother said I stole his mother's life…"
She pinched her wrist and went on. "I always feared the day he remembered it. Every time he spoke of it, he woke his dragon's wrath. When his fists and boots came, I could only beg… What I feared most was the day he cast me aside, so I'd rather…"
A tear slid down her cheek. "Rather be the vessel of his rancor—so he'd have a reason not to abandon me. My worst despair was when he tried to sell me to savages for ten thousand men to take back the Iron Throne…"
She touched her cheek, and sighed. "Then Viserys suddenly told me to curry favor with some half-wild Westerosi lord…"
She broke off and laughed softly at herself.
Gawen smiled, drew her in. "His Grace Viserys made a wise choice."
Dany lifted her chin to him. "He became what he was—in part from other men's plots—but still I hated him, and still… I miss him."
"Am I a contradiction, Gawen?"
He shook his head. "No. You may loathe him for his cruelty and thank him for never leaving you. That's not only normal—that's fair."
She nodded, thought a moment. "Gawen, let my alias be Laila—of the Summer Isles."
South of Westeros in the Summer Sea, the Summer Isles sprawl, fifty green isles and more, each with its own princes and princesses; such titles are as common as coconuts. Until her truth could be veiled again, Gawen would pass her as a princess blown off course.
He knew why she chose the name. She was honoring her mother. Very Westerosi.
Gawen's mouth quirked. "Princess Laila—my Crabb men may prefer to call you Lady Crabb."
Dany blinked, then smiled. "It seems they're eager for your wedding."
Mermaid's Port—Governance Hall
"Herschel" bowed low, beaming. "Princess Laila—command me!"
His eagerness made Dany stifle a laugh.
The pudgy steward cut a hopeful glance at his lord. Gawen raked a hand through his hair. "We'll wed after the Vale is dealt with. Start planning."
"I'll begin tomorrow—" He glanced at the dusk beyond the window. "—no, tonight will do, my lord!"
"Go," Gawen said, shooing him.
Once Herschel scurried off, Daenerys couldn't help but laugh.
Next day — Whispering City, the baths
Housekeeper Sulana attended Dany at her bath. Her eyes dipped, taking in the future lady's "hairstyle," and she thought, Ah. So that's Lord Gawen's taste… that explains a few things.
Heat loosened muscle and mind. Dany closed her eyes and replayed what she'd seen since entering Crabb lands.
Her notions of Westeros were all Viserys's talk and Essosi rumor. This was her first step onto the continent, yet in Gawen's lands she had not found the filth she'd expected. White Mermaid's Port gleamed like Pentos in bright sun.
And under that sun, the white walls and blue spires of Whispering City looked like a castle from a song—simple within, but stone and timber combined into a beauty all their own (Gawen's tireless hand and a traveler's eye for clean lines).
This is the "half-wild" lord's demesne?
Why do they call the Crabbs half-wild?
She opened her eyes. The answer was Gawen.
"Lady Sulana, tell me his story."
"It would be my honor, my lady," Sulana said—direct as ever.
Whispering City — the lord's chamber
Gawen read Cersei Lannister's own hand. Return to the Red Keep? His brow knit.
He set it down. News of Stannis's armada driving south would have reached the capital. He read the phrasing again.
Plain enough words, but between the lines—Cersei was beginning to doubt him. What happened at court?
He opened another—Tyrion's own hand.
When he'd finished, he sat a while. So—the Spider wanted him back in the Red Keep.
There was one more letter in Tyrion's packet. The paper—Joffrey? He cracked the seal. When he'd read it, his mouth curved.
In the name of Emperor Joffrey, it bade Lord Gawen Crabb march against the Vale.
Tyrion Lannister—reliable as ever.
The door opened. Dany came in, veiled again, a soft pale-gold robe on her shoulders.
She moved through his gaze like a curve of light and set a cup of summerwine in his hand.
"Gawen, you look pleased."
"King's Landing has given us a royal writ to chastise the Vale," he said, swirling the wine.
He tipped his chin toward the letters. "Now it's all quite proper."
Dany settled on his lap. "My knight—worthy of celebration."
Her robe slid, her finger lifted his chin, one brow arched. "My lord earl, I hear you require an heir?"
Meanwhile, a valley northeast of Whispering City
Massen Beck, sober captain of the garrison, plopped onto his backside. "Dra… dragons?!"
Loosed from their special crates by Osanna and the others, the three little dragons bristled and hissed at the Crabb household knights—bold as princes.
Dawn at Storm's End
Across rain-wet fields and stony hills, the great castle rose to blot out the sea behind it.
The crowned stag leapt within a burning heart, suns-bright on banners that snapped beneath pale gray stone.
King Stannis Baratheon nudged his horse forward, a banner-bearer in scarlet robes and hood at his side.
Seeing Stannis ride toward him, Renly Baratheon smiled and put his fine mare to an easy pace. His banner-bearer was square-jawed Randyll Tarly, whose twelve-foot lance bore the crowned black stag on gold, the wind off the sea rippling it like water.
They halted with a horse's length between.
Renly wore a crown twined with golden roses and an emerald torque at his throat; green velvet doublet, a satin cloak lined with squirrel fur, and a scabbard crusted with black diamonds.
Stannis wore a crown of red-gold flames, quilted tunic beneath a studded leather jerkin, a belt set with garnets and topaz, coarse brown breeches and scuffed boots, and a sword-hilt with a great square ruby.
His jaw worked once. "Duke Renly."
"King Renly, brother," Renly corrected, merry as ever.
"I am your elder," Stannis said, tight as a drawn bow. "My place is before yours. In law I am the rightful king. You owe me fealty and obedience."
"But the Seven deny you, dear brother!" Renly spread helpless hands. "Old men mumble their denials with dying breath, babes deny you in their mothers' wombs, Dorne denies you, the Reach denies you, the Stormlands deny you."
He sighed. "Alas—no one wants you for their king."
Stannis ground his teeth. "I swore that while you wore that rebel crown I would have no traffic with you. I should have kept that vow."
"I'm curious," Renly said. "If you believe yourself rightful—King's Landing and Dragonstone lie almost at hand, yet you come so far to steal my Storm's End?"
"Your Storm's End?" Stannis snapped. "I am here to take what is mine by right."
Renly's face sobered; his hand dropped to his hip.
Stannis's fingers closed on his own hilt—until his brother produced… a peach.
"From Highgarden," Renly grinned. "Would you like one?"
Stannis's molars creaked.
Chewing, Renly glanced at the burning-heart banners. "Brother… whose badge is that, exactly?"
"My own," Stannis said, eyes narrowed.
Melisandre, the standard-bearer, intoned, "King Stannis's device is the burning heart of the Lord of Light—R'hllor."
"Excellent," Renly chuckled. "Else our hosts bear the same crowned stag, and half the slaughter would be by mistake."
"If you have only babble," Stannis growled, "our parley is done."
"Wait." Renly flicked the peach aside. "I have good counsel for you."
Stannis stared, blade-cold.
"Dismount," Renly said, smile gone. "Bend the knee. Swear to me."
"Never," Stannis said through his teeth.
"You served Robert," Renly said, puzzled. "Why not me?"
"Robert was my elder brother," Stannis said. "You are my younger."
Renly lifted a shoulder. "True. I am younger. I am the more beloved. I am kinder. I am more generous…"
"You are a thief, Renly. A usurper."
"The Targaryens called Robert 'usurper' too," Renly said lightly, "and it troubled him not at all. So—call me what you like."
Stannis drew a long breath. "I am the rightful king. You are a rebel. Rebels meet their ends."
"Brother, mind whom you name 'rebel,'" Renly laughed. "By the laws of the realm, Joffrey is Robert's heir—after him, Tommen. By your own reasoning… both of us are rebels."
"My letters state the truth plain," Stannis shot back. "Joffrey and Tommen are not Robert's get, nor the girl either. All three are bastards."
Renly's smile broadened. "I read your tale. A fine one. I concede—I never thought you had such a head for plots. If your story were true, then yes, you are Robert's rightful heir."
A vein jumped in Stannis's temple. "You think me a liar?"
Renly sighed. "The finer the tale, the firmer the proof it needs. Can you prove it?"
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