Whispers Hall, Great Hall.
Long tables lined the center and sides of the hall, groaning under platters of glistening roast meats, fresh fruits, and all manner of wine.
As he watched the fresh-faced serving girls bustle to and fro, Gawen's thoughts were elsewhere.
They wore knee-length, round-necked blue dresses.
In the old Whispers Hall tradition, maidservants' skirts had been long enough to trail on the floor—a hazard for tripping, kicking up dust, and generally making him wince. Privately, he'd dubbed them "floor mops."
Seeing them swish past him day after day, Gawen had finally had enough. Under the pretext of outfitting Karlea's maids, he'd had their skirts shortened to just below the knee, and paired them with soft brown leather mid-calf boots.
Add a headscarf, and the "Crabb maid uniform" was born.
Now, he thought, they looked proper.
He had borrowed Karlea's name for the change because if word got out he'd done it himself, Westerosi gossip would have saddled him with some humiliating title—"the Skirt Baron," perhaps.
Daenerys: "The blood of Old Valyria, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons!"Gawen: "…the Skirt Baron!"
No. Absolutely not.
The credit, naturally, belonged to the clever Karlea.
Laughter rang through the hall as goblets were raised again and again, the air thick with cheer.
Gawen sat alone at the high table reserved for the lord, with only Karlea beside him, clutching a wine jug.
By custom, only family or honored guests might share the lord's table.
"Karlea," he said, "leave the jug here and go enjoy yourself. See there? Your friends are at that table."
She hesitated, her small face uncertain.
Gawen smiled, taking the jug from her hands. "Go on. If I need you, I'll call."
"Then… I'll go for a bit. I'll be right back!"
She had barely left when a pair of slim, soft hands took up the jug.
Sulana poured for him. "My lord, you'll spoil Karlea."
"Lady Sulana, you always seem to appear exactly when I need you."
"I'm grateful for your regard. If you could also ease my workload a little, I'd be even more grateful."
Of late, she and Steward Herschel had been run ragged under a constant flood of orders.
"Is something troubling you?"
"They call themselves witch doctors. Do witch doctors not cut their nails? I swear they've never trimmed them in their lives—and they carry a stench that won't wash off. I've had no appetite since yesterday. The city's healers despise them, and putting them all together is a disaster. I've even thought of the short sword I haven't drawn in years."
"I see," Gawen said. "It seems they have yet to grasp they're prisoners."
He paused. "Sulana, we must admit—they have a rare skill in treating wounds and using herbs. Our soldiers need more healers; with better medicine, we can save many lives.
"Veteran soldiers are our most precious asset."
"You think ahead, my lord. I understand. I only wish to frighten the disobedient now and then."
"As I said, they're captives. You're on the right track. Whether it's cutting their nails or scrubbing them clean, put soldiers with swords to their necks first—you'll find it much easier."
"Thank you, my lord."
Her gaze flicked away, frowning slightly.
Karlea, cheeks flushed, was laughing with the other maids her age.
Following Sulana's glance, Gawen said, "Karlea learns quickly. As a mother, you should be proud."
"You have a kind heart."
"Seedlings must be given time to grow, Lady Sulana."
Only two from the Thorn Legion, Emparo and Rena, had earned the right to attend.
At first they were stiff, but after a few cups, the festive atmosphere loosened their tongues.
Sulana's eyes twinkled. "I hear you're pleased with her figure."
Maester Arl…
Gawen chuckled. "Emparo is a forthright warrior."
King's Landing, a dimly lit chamber.
Petyr Baelish's gray-green eyes gleamed under locks streaked with silver. Slender and neat in a dark gray robe, he could have passed for a septon.
"Baron Gawen Crabb," he murmured, a graceful smile on his lips. "A name I don't know."
"Yes, my lord. Her Grace seems quite taken with him. I've looked into it—fifteen years old, a half-wild noble from the Crab Claw Peninsula."
"A model loyalist of the Targaryens…"
Baelish's smile held, his gaze serene. "Never trust what floats on the surface. Anything unproven is as good as false. King's Landing's magic draws the ambitious at every moment."
"Shall I send someone to dig deeper?"
He shook his head. "No need. If Her Grace is interested, the boy will come to King's Landing soon enough. And the Red Keep has no secrets."
Then, softly: "Chaos is a ladder."
A month later…
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