On Gawen Crabb's desk lay three coins: a gold dragon, a silver stag, and a copper star.
[For reference: a full suit of plate armor starts at 16 gold dragons, chainmail at 6, a quality warhorse at 10, an Unsullied at 100 (not counting transport costs). A meal with meat and a mug of ale costs 20–30 copper stars. A peasant's yearly income is about 1 gold dragon.]
House Crabb's treasury currently held just over 2,000 gold dragons in ready coin (not counting goods stored in the lord's warehouse).
But there was also a debt of 5,000 gold dragons, with 500 gold dragons in interest already paid last year.
After Robert's Rebellion, at the behest of the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, the lords and merchants of the Vale had "helped" the lords of the Crab Claw Peninsula through "hard times" by issuing compulsory loans.
This was also part of the peace terms after the war.
The reality: you would never see a single gold dragon of that loan. Vale lords and merchants simply took your land as the "principal."
That was the deal. Refusal was possible—if you didn't mind Baratheon steel marching in, and Robert still itching for a fight.
House Crabb's lands were valued at 5,000 gold dragons. Over the years, interest payments had already totaled 7,500 gold dragons.
According to the contract, they would owe another five years of interest—2,500 gold dragons—plus the principal of 5,000 in the final year.
It was the Red Keep's way of keeping the peninsula's nobility weak and cautious.
Dressed up as "postwar reconstruction interest," the sums were calculated precisely: enough to survive, not enough to grow strong—preventing desperation, but also stifling development.
For the Baratheon crown, a weak and obedient Crab Claw lord was the best kind of lord.
House Crabb's two thousand-odd subjects had to keep two hundred men under arms at all times to guard against constant wildling raids.
That was the limit of the limit.
Years of warfare had skewed the population toward more women than men.
The women here were big-boned and sturdy; most worked the fields and hunted like men. Many were spearwives.
With weapons in hand, spearwives could be called to war—plundering gold… and men.
Almost the entire domain could take up arms. Leaving only craftsmen and the very old or very young, Gawen could, in an all-out muster, field 1,500.
The wildling lords of the surrounding valleys had warbands ranging from a few dozen to a few hundred—and they were divided and disorganized. Against a united Crabb force… they could be crushed.
Forget farming. As said before, the Crabb family motto was temporarily changed to: "Force is better than toil."
The first target: the wildling tribes that had joined together to raid the lands of the young heir.
This war would be the start.
The next day, heavy clouds hung low.
Whispers Hall, a crescent-shaped castle, was built roughly but solidly.
It was large enough to shelter over a thousand of the nearby smallfolk in times of war.
Standing atop the 20-meter-high walls, Gawen looked out, Steward Herschel and Ser Pell at his back.
When Robert died, it would mean nothing but unrest—Whispers Hall should be planned ahead of time.
His gaze turned south.
The southern terrain was flat—enough to build a first ring of defenses for a city of ten thousand, then a second… Gawen chuckled. Not "rings." Call them inner walls.
"Herschel, make a note."
"Fishing Village will henceforth be called Siren's Port."
The steward dutifully wrote it down.
"The siren has the upper body of a maiden, the tail of a fish. Her beauty would draw praise even from the Seven."
Herschel hesitated. "My lord… might such a description be seen as blasphemy? Some septons are unfriendly toward us as it is."
An atheist at heart, Gawen had wanted to say "even the Seven would be driven to distraction," but this was already the toned-down version.
"Thank you for your counsel, Herschel."
He paused, then said, "Minstrels—find a few reliable ones. Give them the gist, and let them compose the verses. They're the professionals."
"Herschel, continue the record: Sirens love to sing songs passed down through generations. They are shy beyond measure, and only surface to sing on lonely nights. Their voices are… divine."
(He had originally thought to say "kissed by the Seven," but restrained himself.)
"A siren is carefree, kind, and optimistic. Only in deepest grief does she weep, and her tears become the most lustrous pearls in the world—one tear, one pearl."
"A siren can only love once in her life. When she truly loves, she will swear an oath of love."
"That oath… make sure it's recorded carefully. It's important."
'I am willing to be the beloved of [name], to love what he loves, think as he thinks, bear his pain, endure hardship with him—in poverty or wealth, in lowliness or greatness, in times of war or when the gods turn away—I will live for him, die for him, never abandon him, for all eternity!'
Herschel and Ser Pell's mouths hung open, their faces animated.
Gawen thought he'd moved them. Perhaps they really believed it.
Could it be? Was Fishing Village a hidden land of legend?
Seeing their reactions, Gawen adjusted his plan.
A secret is only truly a secret if you keep it to yourself—better to let them believe too.
Now, he believed in the siren legend as well.
And most importantly: sirens were the shyest race in the world. Not finding one was… normal.
Come, then—come to Siren's Port, and be driven mad for the sirens!
"This is a secret passed down orally from lord to lord of House Crabb. I tell you now because you are the two I trust most."
Both men straightened with pride.
Yes—no one in the world more trustworthy than them.
"First, mobilize all the villagers to build a simple dock nearby. Location matters—distance is fine, but it must suit large ships."
"Second, build a lighthouse to guide ships in."
"At the same time, open taverns, inns, and shops. We need not demand much at first, but all functions must be present. We will earn every copper star we can."
"All the able-bodied must be armed. The old and infirm can be given suitable work in the shops. Above all, we must keep friendly guests safe."
"Siren's Port must become ever more beautiful, ever more comfortable—we cannot let those who come for the legend leave disappointed."
"These things are important."
Herschel seemed to understand. "My lord, the longer and wider the siren legend spreads, the more people will come to Siren's… Siren's Port. Our leather can be sold directly, without middlemen cutting the price. And not just leather—Siren's Port will become a trade hub."
"No wonder you want the legend to spread…"
"Yes. Rules are dead things. For the sake of the domain's growth, some sacrifices are necessary."
"It must spread in secret, naturally. I leave that to you."
Gawen turned his back to them, clasping his hands behind him, and sighed.
The hem of his cloak fluttered in the wind.
Herschel bowed deeply, solemn as ever.
Ser Pell, clad in plate, the veins standing out on his hand gripping his sword, bowed with him.
.
.
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