Whispering Hall, the Lord's Council Chamber.
Lord Gawen, Ser Pell, Ser Marson, Maester Arl, Steward Herschel, and Aemparo sat together, discussing the "Eastern Advance" plan to reclaim the old Crabb lands.
Spread across the center of the table was a large map of the eastern Crab Claw Peninsula.
The plan was nearly finalized when Gawen, after a moment's thought, spoke:
"Reclaiming our old lands will be a campaign fought far from home. Securing supplies is paramount. At fixed intervals—measured at a half-day's march under normal pace—we will establish a fortified camp with wooden palisades, advancing step by step."
"House Crabb hasn't fought a long-range campaign beyond our borders in over ten years. In the past, all our battles took place near our own lands—resupply was easy, and the wounded could be treated at once.
"But once you step beyond your door, the only thing around you is the enemy. If supplies fail, we may collapse before a single battle is fought, losing before the war even begins. As commanders, you must put supply security above all else. The officers of House Crabb must remember this always."
The others answered gravely, "Yes, my lord!"
"Pell, your scouting corps will set out ahead to gather intelligence along the route. You'll also select sites for each camp in advance—terrain, water sources, all of it must be considered. In three days, I will lead the host myself."
Gawen rose; the others followed suit.
He swept his gaze slowly across each face. "To reclaim our old lands—united, we stand."
"Yes! To reclaim our old lands—united, we stand!"
"To reclaim our old lands—united, we stand!!"
"To reclaim our old lands—united, we stand!!!"
When the council broke up, the others left, save Steward Herschel, who stayed behind to brief Gawen on other matters of the domain.
The list was long, and Herschel reported them one by one.
Gawen was listening intently when the council chamber doors swung open and the tall figure of Sulana appeared in the doorway.
Bowing, she said, "Forgive the intrusion, my lord. I thought the meeting had ended."
Gawen's calm gaze shifted to her. "Sulana, is it urgent?"
"It's your cousin, Lady Lyanna Crabb…"
Before she could finish, another tall figure appeared in the doorway.
Slender of build and bearing a face with six or seven parts resemblance to Gawen's own, she was indeed the Lyanna Crabb Sulana had named.
Gawen had barely risen from his chair before the travel-worn Lyanna flung herself into his arms, sobbing in muffled gasps heavy with grievance.
He guessed at what might have happened, but said nothing—only laid a hand gently against her back, wordlessly soothing her.
After a while, Sulana came over, murmured a few words of comfort, and helped Lyanna into a chair. She poured her a goblet of red wine.
Gawen waited quietly until Lyanna had drained it in several gulps before speaking. "Lyanna, tell me—why are you so distressed? I am here."
Her tear-bright eyes met his. "Usor wants to dissolve our marriage… sob…"
Usor's full name was Usor Mecca, a merchant from Gulltown in the Vale. About four years ago, under Gawen's mother's arrangement, Lyanna Crabb had been married to him.
How had a noblewoman of Lyanna's standing come to wed a merchant?
After Robert's Rebellion, the Hand of the King and Lord of the Eyrie, Jon Arryn, had never slackened in suppressing the Targaryen-loyal Crab Claw Peninsula. The Vale's lords naturally followed his lead.
Gawen's mother had struggled to keep House Crabb afloat under that pressure. After ten years of strain, she had chosen a dignified compromise—marrying the just-bloomed Lyanna to a man who, while born a merchant, was said to maintain excellent relations with the Vale's nobility.
In truth, the match had been an insult from the Vale lords to House Crabb.
A decade of blockade and suppression had dulled their fervor; combined with this humiliation, it was enough to demonstrate loyalty to Lord Jon Arryn, and so the Vale eased its grip.
The marriage had indeed restored trade. Merchants once more entered Crabb lands with much-needed goods, and Crabb leather could be sold at fair prices.
But it had been Lyanna's marriage that bought this respite—a bargain that left a deep scar of resentment.
At the time, House Crabb was too weak for anyone to care.
"My cousin—why does he want to end it?"
Through sobs, she said, "I only learned later—a noble widow from Runestone set her sights on Usor! She has no children. If he divorces me and marries her, their legitimate heirs could inherit a title."
Gawen's long fingers tightened slightly against his knee.
Lyanna went on, "Our marriage was already mocked in the Vale. If I am cast aside… how could I live? I refused, of course. He struck me. I grew afraid, and when he went out, I fled with my maid back here… sob…"
Gawen's eyes narrowed. "It seems the Vale truly holds us in contempt."
Sulana, her voice heated with indignation, said, "Damnable Vale lords—may the Others take their heads! And Usor—that petty man! He thinks divorcing Lady Lyanna and marrying some shameless noble widow will make him one of them. He assumes House Crabb won't dare retaliate, that we'll swallow the insult."
Lyanna nodded miserably—yes, that was exactly his thought.
Gawen rubbed his brow, then met her gaze. "Cousin Lyanna, not a single soul in Whispering Hall has ever forgotten what you've done for us. You are my family. Your room has remained as you left it—kept clean, as if you'd never gone."
As the lord of the house, his words were clear. Tears welled hot in Lyanna's eyes. "Gawen…"
Her journey had been full of unease. When she wed, Gawen had been only eleven—shy and slight.
With his mother dead and his image in her mind faded, she had not dared hope for warmth now that he was lord. She felt she had disgraced the family and dreaded facing him—yet found she had nowhere else to go.
Only the much-maligned Whispering Hall felt safe to her.
So she had come without hesitation. And after four years apart, her once-boyish cousin had grown into a steady man who made her feel secure.
Gawen reached out and clasped her slender, cold hand. "Lyanna, this will always be your home."
Then, with quiet steel: "Tell me—would receiving Usor's head make you feel better?"
.
.
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