Ser Pell's voice carried pride. "My lord, I can command a hundred men as easily as moving my own arm."
A mere centurion, and yet so pleased with himself—Gawen scoffed inwardly.
In his previous life's games, he had commanded hundreds of thousands without breaking a sweat.
But this was the real-life version of Age of Empires—a different world entirely.
The perpetually war-torn Crab Claw Peninsula was sparsely populated. By the standards of large-scale warfare, it was backwater country. Battles here were more like brawls between clans.
No one here had ever seen a truly grand battlefield—that was a problem.
Yet for someone like Pell, who had fought half a lifetime and had the rare ability to command, in this region he was, in some sense, invincible.
It was something to be proud of. Gawen could understand that.
He smiled in satisfaction and continued walking with the knight.
Inside Whispers Hall, after a period of strict management, the place had become cleaner, its foul odors fading.
These small changes lightened Gawen's steps.
Perhaps tonight he would have the kitchen serve them an extra dish—occasional rewards were a good motivator.
In the castle's training yard, more than twenty men stood together, each tall and broad-shouldered, like towers of iron.
These were House Crabb's finest—men who could fight in full plate from head to toe.
The hill tribes called them Ironclads.
When they saw Gawen and Pell approach, the men stopped and saluted.
Gawen took a wooden training sword from the rack, gave it a few swings, and said, "Who will spar with me?"
Silence. They looked at one another.
Gawen pointed at one at random. "Yes, you."
The man, initially stiff, relaxed as he stepped forward. "My lord, my name is Froy… but someone might get hurt."
Gawen smiled faintly. "If you hurt me, I'll have a roast lamb leg added to your lunch."
"A fatty one, dripping with juices."
The big man swallowed and nodded.
News that the young lord was sparring in the yard spread through the castle with astonishing speed. People gathered quickly, almost absurdly so.
By the time Gawen shed his outer robe and handed it to a squire, a crowd had already formed.
Cheers rose. "Ohhh!" "Hooo!"
Tempted by the lamb leg and the crowd's energy, Froy's morale soared.
He moved quickly, but held back—he was no fool. Hurting the young lord might mean the lamb leg would taste like ashes. Better to give him a dignified bout.
Froy brought his sword down from above, but Gawen blocked easily with one hand and pushed forward. The sudden force drove Froy back three steps despite his bracing.
"My warrior, take this seriously. Show me your true strength."
A roar from the crowd. "Froy! Didn't the tavern keeper's wife keep you overnight? No wonder you're weak!"
"Shut your mouth! Die, you bastard!"
"Ha! Weak and weary!"
Froy's dark face flushed.
These idiots don't get it—my lord's strength is real!
Adjusting his grip, he entered the battle-hardened stance of a man trained in blood and fire.
Thump! Crash!
Dust rose and drifted away to reveal Froy flat on his back, eyes empty of hope.
I really did try…
Silence—then an eruption of cheers.
Gawen kept a dignified smile, raising his hand to acknowledge his people's enthusiasm.
Since his mother's death, Whispers Hall had been sunk in gloom. Now, that mood seemed to lift in an instant.
The shadows were gone.
Ser Pell was stunned by the skill Gawen had shown.
His own swordsmanship was seasoned enough to see that Gawen had been holding back—winning with ease.
Froy's swordplay might not match Pell's, but his strength was formidable. Even Pell would have to fight cautiously against him, aiming only for a draw.
The young lord had grown stronger. House Crabb's future was bright.
From the wooden viewing platform by the yard, Surana stood with her elder daughter, Karlea, watching Gawen's figure recede.
"My daughter, Lord Gawen is strong. His children would be as sturdy as calves."
Karlea's hair was the inky black common to the Crab Claw Peninsula, her long waves well-kept for a steward's daughter.
She stood nearly five foot three, her dark green eyes turning toward her mother. "But, Mother… a bastard child? I want to marry a gallant knight, not be the mistress who bears his bastard."
"Every girl in Westeros dreams of marrying a gallant knight. But, my poor girl, your station is not high enough. Wealthy knights won't look at you. Those who would are the penniless ones—or widowers. Could you live with poverty? Would you serve an old man?"
Karlea stayed stubbornly silent.
"I would not harm you. Love cannot feed you. It changes."
Karlea turned away in anger. "Then why not strip me naked and throw me into my lord's bedchamber?"
"You…"
To most, Surana was a cold, unsmiling figure—a walking statue of ice.
All her warmth was saved for her most beloved child—Karlea.
Surana blinked, took a step, and rested her chin gently on the top of her daughter's head.
"If it were that simple, your mother's life would be much easier."
"I tested the waters yesterday—seems I was refused. I don't think Lord Gawen has his eye on you."
Karlea pulled away, staring into her mother's eyes to see if she was joking.
I'm the prettiest girl in the village, she thought, incredulous.
Are you serious?
Surana studied her daughter's beauty with satisfaction, stroking her cheek.
Her skin was as white and smooth as milk.
"Your mother is only a steward. I have my place here in the Crabb lands, but no lofty rank. If you were plain, I wouldn't worry so much.
"But as you've grown, you've bloomed like a flower. And flowers draw eyes—many eyes, for many reasons. Sooner or later, your beauty will become your curse.
"My years have taught me how cruel this world is. Among those I know, only Lord Gawen would both treat you well and protect you."
Karlea's eyes reddened as she hugged her mother, breathing in her familiar scent. "Mother…"
Surana stroked her hair. "Perhaps there are better men out there. But I don't want you to leave, and I can't trust the world with you. Would you leave your mother?"
No—never. Karlea shook her head fiercely in her mother's arms.
"I mentioned you to Lord Gawen yesterday… but he gave no sign at all. I tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep."
Karlea only gave a muffled sound against her mother's chest.
That afternoon, Gawen spent hours moving between the smithy, the carpenters, and other workshops. After supper, he spoke at length with Ser Pell about the wildling problem.
By day's end, he sank into the steaming water of a wooden tub, letting his muscles relax.
Breathing out contentedly, he thought of tomorrow's meeting with the most famous spearwife in the domain—Empajo, reputed to be a deadly huntress and an exceptional archer.
Creak.
The door's opening was loud in the still night.
The footsteps were soft, unfamiliar.
Gawen's instincts flared; his hand went to the short sword propped beside the tub.
The steps drew nearer.
His brown eyes flickered.
The girl's olive-green dress was thin, the linen clinging to her, the neckline cut low. "Forgive my intrusion, Lord Gawen."
She bowed slightly. "I am Karlea, daughter of Steward Surana."
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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