Word from the villagers was that the mountain clans had grown more active in the nearby hills.
Gawen, ever inclined to thoroughness, had intended to give his forces a few more days to drill together, polishing the details.
But the people's nerves were fraying. He sensed that delay would only harm him now—war could no longer be postponed.
Any further hesitation, and the smallfolk would start to think their lord was too timid to face the clans.
After inspecting the Thorn Legion's volley drills, Gawen walked with steady steps toward the Lord's Hall of Whispers Hall.
Whispers Hall, Lord's Hall.
Seated high in the lord's chair, the Crabb marigold-in-the-marsh sigil carved into the tall back, Gawen accepted a goblet from Karlea and took a sip of the red wine, frowning slightly.
Truth be told, he'd gotten used to this sour red—it had a way of getting into one's head.
The Crabb retainers stood lined along either side of the hall.
Ser Morsen was first to speak. "My lord, the parley with the clans is arranged. The time will be sunrise tomorrow."
"How many have they gathered?"
Ser Pell, commander of the Scout Corps, answered, "Around a thousand, by our estimate."
Gawen rested the back of his hand against his cheek and gave a short, sharp laugh.
At the sound of their lord's mocking tone, the hall fell quiet for a heartbeat before filling with scornful jests at the clans' expense.
Such disdain served a strategic purpose—it lifted morale. The habit was long ingrained in Crabb lands.
Tactically, however, Gawen never underestimated them.
He gestured for silence. "Herschel, are the shields ready?"
The steward's tone was as respectful as ever. "Yes, my lord. Thirty iron-rimmed shields from the storeroom, plus seventy oak shields from the carpenters—one hundred in all—already delivered to Ser Morsen."
Gawen passed the goblet back to Karlea. "Well done, Herschel."
The steward bowed low.
"I'll repeat the battle plan."
"The Thorn Legion's one hundred and twenty longbowmen will carry two quivers each. Arrows to be prepared in advance."
"The Crabb Longbow's range is more than enough—you've all seen it."
"When the clans charge us, the first thing they'll meet will be the Thorn Legion's volleys."
"Morsen—Phase One is yours. Take those hundred shields, hold the line, and protect the archers until my next order. Not one step back."
"When the volleys are done, Phase One is complete."
"After a few waves of arrows, how much of the clansmen's foolish courage will remain? Check, and see if any of them have pissed themselves."
The hall erupted in laughter.
Gawen went on. "Phase Two—men in plate to the front, the household troops advancing steadily behind. Close-quarters combat until the clans are broken."
"Meanwhile, the Thorn Legion will hold position and await my command."
When he finished, he had each commander repeat their role aloud.
This was unlike the hasty councils of the past. As lord, Gawen knew he needed the patience to confirm, over and over, that his captains truly understood his intent.
One had to take the first step; time was his ally.
Tapping his knee, he decided—yes, this would do.
The Crabb forces' first formal combined-arms operation, hurried by necessity, was set to begin.
Lunch was roast lamb with onions, vegetable broth, honeyed bread, and a jug of ale.
Gawen took a sip of the ale and frowned again.
Bitter—unpleasantly so.
Why did it taste different every time? Last time, it had been quite good.
He set the cup down, unwilling to drink more, but loath to waste it. The frugal lord poured what was left back into the jug.
With a warm smile toward Karlea, he said, "Today's ale is excellent. Herschel's been working hard lately—take this jug to him."
Broad and heavyset, Herschel took it as a mark of his lord's favor.
Karlea inclined her head and carried out the order faithfully.
Dining with the others in the hall, Herschel accepted the jug from her hands amid the envy and cheers of the onlookers.
He had indeed been run ragged these past days—Gawen's commands had him rushing about until his legs were worn thin.
This was his lord's acknowledgment of his worth. His fatigue vanished, replaced by fresh energy.
The taste of ale made Gawen think of Siren's Port, and the importance of drink as one of its main sources of income.
Relying entirely on imports could lead to trouble. Better to have a renowned brew of their own, like Arbor wine.
Given the resources of Crabb lands, ale was the natural choice.
He'd long noticed that outside the castle, the people had no concept of hygiene.
He suspected the ale's inconsistent flavor had much to do with a lack of cleanliness in brewing.
Fortunately, a lord's decrees needed no lengthy explanations.
Otherwise, just teaching people what "hygiene" meant would be enough to exhaust him.
For brewing, sanitation rules could simply be set in law—no one would openly defy them.
Problems would arise in practice, of course, so supervision and enforcement were essential.
Which made him all the more pleased that he'd just given Herschel an extra duty.
The ale would also need a strong, refined name. A good name was half the battle won.
Mermaid Ale?
No—the connection was too weak.
Marigold Ale of the Marsh?
That worked—the brew's golden color fit.
But drop the "marsh"—it cheapened the image.
It would be simply—Marigold Ale.
After lunch, still a bit drowsy, Gawen received a reply from King's Landing—and was instantly wide awake.
He read the letter's contents several times over, then snapped his fingers in satisfaction.
According to the queen's message, in midyear—about two months hence—Her Grace would depart the capital for the royal hunt, and Gawen would be entrusted with part of her escort.
He was to raise twenty men from his own lands for the task.
His aim was to use Queen Cersei's patronage to gain a place in the Red Keep's public eye.
The game of thrones was about to begin, and the Crab Claw Peninsula lay too far from the heart of it.
Seeing her usually reserved lord in such high spirits, Karlea couldn't help but be infected by it. "My lord Gawen, since you're in such a rare good mood—shall I bring you a cup of red?"
Gawen turned toward her. "Yes. And one for you as well. Let's have a small celebration."
He raised his cup toward her in salute and drained it in a single swallow.
Thank you, Your Grace.
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