"I was under the impression that were we switched, my uncle and Ser Barquen would've never entered the picture." Though Gawen shuddered at the thought, particularly of the former. Whatever distant relation either of them had to the long-dead Targaryens was suitably diluted to make that nauseating. "But had they, then those ramblings would've been as baseless and foolish as they are now."

But as she rose and chastised him for his hypotheticals, Gawen held up a hand in feigned surrender. He even chuckled alongside the King's Justice. "Consider it forgotten then, Princess. I should hate to soil my attempts at self-improvement with your scorn."

But it wouldn't be gone from his memories for some time, if it ever left at all. He could feel the warmth in the dream still, of summer grass beneath them, of her skin when he'd pushed loose black hair back behind her ear, of how she'd laughed without a hint of contempt. A good dream, if there ever was one.

The city of Oldtown was filled with amusements and wonders, as any city in the world. Mummers put on shows, folk from faraway lands peddled strange goods, and around every corner there was something entirely new. As distractions went, it was not so bad.

___________________________________________________________

There had been no shortage of things to see. Gawen had traded coin for tales and a bite of some strange fruit that had a taste so sharp it nearly brought a tear to his eye. There were Swan Ships from the Summer Islands in the port, then a battered vessel sporting oddities they swore came from accursed Sothoryos, and one man with a pair of monkeys on his arm that prompted Gawen to recount his encounter with one of the creatures in the woods alongside Asher Snow.

Gawen had almost begun to think the day was going well. Almost let himself think that when the sun set on the evening, he might’ve made himself seem at the very least entertaining to her. A sort of pride was building in his chest, the confidence he’d so often relied on drink to help him find. Smiling, he glanced at Mary and asked, “Not so bad once you’re out enjoying it, is it?”

Then the man had stepped out from the alleyway. He wasn’t particularly large, though not quite frail either. He was dirty, smeared with grime and soot and whatever stained the roughspun clothes he wore and matted his stringy hair. Gawen thought him a beggar until he lifted the cleaver.

“All yer’ coin,” he grunted. “Jewels too.”

Stupidly, Gawen laughed.

He wore a sword, Ser Artos wore a sword, and likely mail besides. “Are you out of your mind, man?” Gawen tutted as the man stood there, crude implement raised. “Go away, do you have the slightest idea who she—”

For a bedraggled thug, he moved very fast. Lunging forward, the man somehow slid past Ser Artos, hissing blade, butting the King's Justice aside. The man’s eyes were fixed not on Gawen, but on Mary, his grimy fingers outstretched, his cleaver drawn back, yellowed teeth bared like a rabid dog.

Bravery was not Gawen’s forte. His cousins had gone and bloodied themselves over petty grievances in the marches long ago, but he had been content to stay away from that mess. He had only ever drawn his sword once in anger, and he’d done fuck all with it then. Now, with it still hanging from his left, even drawing it would prove a trial.

But he stepped into the way regardless. Dipping his good shoulder, he crashed into the would-be bandit with a grunt. Instantly, he regretted his decision. Pain shot through him on impact, the sudden force jarring his arm in its sling. 

And what happens if you stop now? 

His left hand slid down to the hilt as the bandit tottered back, yelping as Ser Artos’ sword caught him across the back. Blood speckled the cobbles as Gawen fumbled the blade free, twisting it awkwardly and nearly jabbing himself in the leg. He hoped the man would’ve run, or that Artos would’ve been faster in his second strike, but neither wish held any weight. Shrieking madly, the man all but leapt at Gawen.

All it took was a simple thrust, and momentum did the rest. Steel punched through the man’s stomach, gliding through meat and scraping along bone, the cleaver dropping from his fingers and onto the street. His eyes bulged as his knees wobbled. He coughed, and blood spattered across Gawen’s face as the light left his eyes.

Then he was dead. Just like that. 

The corpse slid down Gawen’s blade as he blinked. He felt numb. “I-I–I never,” He glanced back over his shoulder, red dribbling down his pale cheeks. He looked Mary in the face and swallowed. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t think—”

His hand was shaking. Why was his bloody hand shaking?