The Crab Claw Peninsula had once known its share of legendary heroes—one named Clarence Crabb.
In the days of King Jaehaerys I, grandson of Aegon the Conqueror, there had even been a Kingsguard knight from the same house: Ser Clermont Crabb.
During the Battle of the Trident in Robert's Rebellion, the noble houses of the Crab Claw Peninsula fought to the bitter end at Prince Rhaegar's side. The people of the peninsula proudly claimed to be the model bannermen of House Targaryen.
When Robert Baratheon emerged victorious, the already small House Crabb was devastated. The only surviving male heir was Gawen Crabb, still in his mother's womb.
Whispers Hall, a crescent-shaped military fortress built against the hillside, with scattered houses surrounding it.
The Lord's Hall.
Seated on the high-backed lord's chair was the fully "integrated" transmigrant—Gawen Crabb. Behind him hung the great banner of the Marsh Marigold.
To his left and right stood a man and a woman.
The man, about forty, bald and stout, stood around five foot seven and wore a blue round-collared robe.The woman, in her mid-thirties, the same height, had long brown curls and wore a blue gown with a deep-slit neckline.
They were Herschel, the steward, and Surana, the housekeeper.
At that moment, an old farmer knelt respectfully in the center of the hall, speaking with careful deference.
"Yes, my lord. I swear… In broad daylight, while I was in the fields, my neighbor Matil would sneak into my home to… engage in heavy breathing exercises with… my woman. It's happened many times."
Gawen listened patiently to the halting account, his expression unchanged, lips pressed slightly together.
The hall fell silent.
Seeing that his young lord did not speak, Herschel cleared his throat and asked, "Old Peel, from what you're saying, you've caught them in the act. And you… didn't do anything?"
The old man hesitated. "I was angry, but I'm no longer young. Matil is younger, stronger—I can't best him…"
"And your wife?"
"I can't best her either…"
Ah, the women of the Crab Claw Peninsula—formidable indeed.
By the local customs, the old man would soon earn himself a colorful nickname—something like "Peel the Weak."
A good lord had a duty to protect the weak; such protection was the soil in which loyalty grew.
And Gawen understood that, from another angle, everyone was someone's "helpless little one" in need of protection—including himself.
The fifteen-year-old lord's voice still carried a note of youth. "Old Peel, your lord has heard your petition. I will assign two swordsmen to go with you."
Turning his grey eyes toward a tall, armored middle-aged knight standing to one side, he said, "Ser Pell, choose two quick-witted men. If there's no trouble, arrest—"
Gawen tilted his head toward Herschel, lowering his voice. "Where could we use more men? Somewhere… dangerous."
The steward was ready with an answer. "My lord, we can always use strong hands for heavy work, but I suggest giving him a sword. The hill tribes are stirring again—you need more fighters. You are merciful; it is only right to give your subjects a second chance."
Very well. Young and strong, fond of seducing others' women, full of vigor? Here's a sword—go fight the wildlings. If you survive, thank your merciful lord.
Be grateful. Hold your sword tight. And next time, try again.
Gawen nodded and waved a hand.
Tears welled in Old Peel's eyes as he bowed deeply. Though bent, he felt his back straighten, his body filled with strength. Silently, he vowed to work his fields well for his lord. With a good harvest, he could pay more wheat in levy this year than last.
The lord looked too thin—surely because he wasn't eating enough. If the land prospered, the lord would eat more, put on some weight.
"Next."
"My lord, my tools are broken…"
"My lord, my son's belly has been aching for days, I beg you…"
"My lord, that was my game—the hill tribes stole it from me…"
"Merciful lord, the wildlings are prowling near our village again. The folk are worried…"
"Yes, they usually move in groups of five or six."
By midday, the petitions were done. Gawen no longer had to maintain his picture-perfect noble posture. Stretching, he rose from the heavy wooden chair—curse that rigid, "portrait-worthy" pose.
"Lady Surana, have a basin of hot water brought to the study. Lunch as well. And have Maester Arl ready the ravens for when I finish writing."
In the castle study, after eating and tidying up, Gawen picked up his quill.
This would be the third letter today.
The recipient: the current Queen, Cersei Lannister.
After Robert's Rebellion, Gawen had been the only surviving male of House Crabb's main line. Still unborn at the time, his mother had been spared by King Robert thanks to the chivalrous Eddard Stark's persuasion, preserving the family's bloodline.
But afterward, Robert's Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, had spent the next ten years systematically suppressing the peninsula's once-loyal houses, House Crabb among them.
Next year, the great game of A Song of Ice and Fire would begin in earnest.
There was much to be done.
To join the game, a crownlands noble first had to ease relations with the Red Keep.
Jon Arryn was old now, his vigor fading—according to the story, his days were numbered.
House Crabb could finally breathe a little.
But Gawen would not drift with the tide or settle for the status quo.
Mocked as "half-wildlings" in the past, the Crabbs might once have been ignorant of such maneuvering—but Gawen was here now.
He steadied his thoughts and summoned his "flatterer's spirit."
To Her Grace, the Queen, embodiment of courage and beauty:
Out of admiration, I offer my most sincere greetings, begging pardon for the intrusion.
The war lies fifteen years behind us. At the time, I was yet in my mother's womb, quietly enjoying a warmth I cannot remember.
Since I came of age, I have ever been grateful for the realm's mercy in allowing House Crabb to endure.
I dare not grow complacent, nor forget our family's motto: United, We Stand.
With the passing years, I have come to understand that at its heart, our motto means loyalty.
The dragons have been gone fifteen years. House Crabb endures, yet has lost its way. Once, in loyalty, we marched knowingly to our deaths.
For that same loyalty, in this new world, we lost the realm's trust.
Without trust, our loyalty has no place to rest.
Noble as you are, will you not grant House Crabb a chance?
I have heard that Your Grace will soon ride with the Kingsguard on a royal hunt. It would be House Crabb's honor to serve you on such an occasion.
Your guard, humbled by your beauty,Gawen Crabb.
Setting down the pen, Gawen thought: Step one—either the Queen… or the Dragon Queen.
.
.
.
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