Siren's Port, Administrative Hall.
Gawen finished reading Margaery's handwritten letter, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger.
Margaery's script was elegant, her wording… rather bold. Her grandmother's influence, no doubt.
Still, one had to give credit to the Little Rose. Fortunately, Lord Gawen had always been broad-minded, never one to fuss over trifles.
He tucked the letter away, rose to his feet, and walked to the window.
A gentle breeze rippled the seawater.
Under the sunlight, the surface shimmered like countless jewels.
Duke Mace, Duke Eddard, Duke Stannis, Duke Renly… as those names crossed his mind, Gawen's gaze wavered slightly.
Then he thought of Petyr and Varys—each with his own agenda, yet sharing the same goal: to see Westeros plunged into chaos.
The more he brooded, the more it wearied him. In truth, he much preferred a straightforward approach.
So, who in this world did Gawen envy most?
Naturally, it was the Dragon Queen with the script of a grand heroine in hand. Though she had been a pitiable figure in her early days, later… a life blessed with plot armor needed no explanation.
…
That king who could, with a single call, summon an army of over a hundred thousand—Robert Baratheon—was still very much alive. Best to play it steady.
No reckless moves early on! For the sake of his people, Chieftain Gawen roused himself once more.
He returned to his desk and picked up his quill.
First came military affairs.
For instance, he instructed the commanders of each regiment that he would personally visit their encampments to meet their recommended leaders of thirty and make selections on the spot.
Then came personal correspondence.
The first letter, to Queen Cersei: he had just arrived at Siren's Port and would soon return to the Red Keep.
The second, to Daenerys: he had safely reached Westeros and hoped she would take care in Pentos.
The third, to Margaery: he would soon be in King's Landing and looked forward to meeting the grandmother who wanted to tan his hide.
…
The following day.
With his legs crossed over the arm of his chair, Gawen lounged at ease while opposite him sat Brother Zary from the High Sept in King's Landing.
The middle-aged septon had a high hairline, a portly build, and a kindly face.
The Faith of the Seven was the predominant religion in the Seven Kingdoms, commonly referred to simply as "the Faith." In all Westeros, only three regions—the North, the Crab Claw Peninsula, and the Iron Islands—had minimal influence from the Seven. The North and the Crab Claw Peninsula favored the Old Gods, while the Ironborn revered the Drowned God.
Thus, to distinguish it from the ancient faiths, the Seven were sometimes called the "New Gods."
When Gawen had first begun reclaiming the former Crabb lands, the septons stationed on the Crab Claw Peninsula had already made contact with Whispers Hall.
The Crab Claw Peninsula, though technically within the Crownlands, had long stood apart from it.
Its people claimed to follow the Old Gods, but after centuries of ceaseless strife, they valued martial strength above all else.
Gawen needed the Faith of the Seven to help integrate the peninsula more fully into Westeros and to strengthen House Crabb's dominion there.
Yet he remembered the words of their former High Septon: the King's law was one thing, the gods' law another.
To Gawen, the Crab Claw Peninsula was his private domain. He was willing to dress it in fine trappings, but he would never tolerate anyone placing themselves above House Crabb's authority there.
"Honored Brother Zary, my concern is simple: does the appointment and removal of the local septon lie in my hands?"
Though his words were polite, his posture made his attitude plain.
Brother Zary's tone was calm and measured. "Lord Gawen, we are deeply grateful for your trust and support. May the Seven bless you."
Gawen raised a brow, thinking to himself: But…
The septon continued sincerely, "But the High Sept wishes to deepen this precious trust. Lord Crabb, we are united in our hope that the Seven's mercy will reach this land. We also hope House Crabb will bring lasting peace to the peninsula."
It was a fine speech, but to Gawen's ears it lacked substance.
Which was why he disliked anyone—besides himself—painting pretty pictures.
He leaned back further, frowning slightly. "Brother Zary, speak plainly—do you agree or not?"
After a pause, the septon replied, "To be frank… there has never been such a precedent."
Gawen shook his head slightly. "The peninsula's situation is unique, as you well know."
He went on, "My lands are preparing for another round of war. If all goes well, the Crab Claw Peninsula will soon know a rare peace. My duty will then shift to maintaining that peace."
Brother Zary smiled and nodded slowly. "Lord Crabb, thank you for your candor. We, too, long for peace. On that, we are united."
Gawen straightened in his seat, his tone equally earnest. "You're right—candor is vital. We must admit that over the past decade our mutual trust has eroded. You must also admit this is not just my personal view. We cannot ignore problems simply because we think they are past. My terms are not excessive—indeed, I have shown nothing but good faith."
The septon's genial smile remained, but he had no ready reply.
When flattering the King's Hand, who would have imagined the peninsula would suddenly produce a man like this?
The septons stationed there knew the land better than the courtiers in the Red Keep. Some even referred to Lord Crabb privately as the King of the Crab Claw Peninsula.
"We can feel your sincerity," Brother Zary said at last. "It is precious to us, and we value it greatly."
Gawen's brows knit. "So, you've brought me a 'no.'"
"I've brought you my utmost sincerity—" the septon began.
Gawen cut him off with a mocking tone. "No, Brother Zary, what you've brought are sweet words. All I hear in them is condescension and arrogance—exactly like memories I had almost forgotten."
The septon's composure faltered.
He opened his mouth, but Gawen impatiently interrupted again.
"Brother Zary, the Crab Claw Peninsula does not welcome arrogant guests. Yet I still respect your and your companions' rights as guests. You may leave my lands safely."
Why had he flipped the table so suddenly?
Brother Zary's face darkened. "Lord Crabb, we are servants of the Seven!"
Gawen's voice was cold. "Have you forgotten Lord Stannis?"
The septon froze. Stannis was a wound they could not speak of.
At thirteen, Stannis had watched the ship carrying his parents, Lord and Lady Steffon, sink in Shipbreaker Bay, killing them both.
From that day, Stannis had loathed the Seven who had, in his eyes, cruelly drowned his parents. He swore never to worship any god that had taken them from him.
He had remained steadfast ever since, especially on Dragonstone, where the memory was sharpest.
A man who moved within a certain region came to know it well, and the septons' channels for gathering information were broad.
Brother Zary remembered hearing that Lord Stannis held Lord Crabb in high regard—and had even brought in a red priestess of R'hllor.
At that thought, the septon's temper vanished.
He returned to a kindly expression. "Lord Crabb, please don't be hasty. The hardest thing between men is mutual understanding. We are full of good will."
He sighed. "Your devotion to peace is a noble quality. The Seven are merciful—may they bless you."
Pragmatism was a virtue, after all. He was only trying to create a new chapter in the Faith's history.
…
The next day, at the docks of Siren's Port, Gawen bid a courteous farewell to Brother Zary, who was bound for the High Sept.
Still regretting he could only see him off to the pier, he received new intelligence from the Pentoshi Trading Company.
Daenerys had stabbed Illyrio?
Had she awakened early?
Gawen's long fingers ran through his black hair. Could this be another version of the grand heroine's script?
The ever-driven Gawen set off toward the Administrative Hall.
…
King's Landing, Maegor's Holdfast.
Cersei Lannister, the red mark still fresh on her cheek, shouted in fury, "I'll wear this like a badge of honor!"
Robert Baratheon's voice thundered. "Then wear it quietly—or I'll honor you again."
The Queen lifted her chin defiantly, glaring at the King.
"Damn it—every time I return here, it's nothing but headaches."
Robert grumbled, then barked, "Jon's dead. Joffrey is my eldest son. I'll allow myself not to feign grief, but I'll not tolerate celebration! And you—sending wine and food to encourage his folly? Seven hells, what sort of mother are you? Gods, this foolish woman is my queen!"
Cersei snapped, "Joffrey is not only heir to the Iron Throne—he is the son of Cersei Lannister! The Red Keep is his home. He may do as he pleases!"
"You—!"
Robert's face turned crimson with rage. His hand rose again.
But instead of fear, Cersei stepped closer.
"Damn it. Damn you all."
Sanity prevailed, and Robert lowered his hand.
If he didn't keep his temper in check, he feared he'd be the first king to slap his queen to death.
Thinking of his son, then his wife… Robert wanted a drink.
Jon was suddenly dead.
Both his brothers were here, and even that puffed-up trout had come from afar to meddle.
And still no word from Ned. Did the direwolf need to hibernate for winter?
"Cersei," Robert warned, "don't let me see such foolishness again. If you do, I'll send Joffrey to Storm's End. And then, unless I'm dead, you'll never see him again."
"By what right?" Cersei demanded.
"By the right of the man who sits the Iron Throne."
Robert snorted and left the room.
Cersei's whole body trembled with fury as she watched him go.
…
Outside the chamber, Robert found Jaime Lannister blocking his way, glaring at him.
"Another Lannister?" Robert sneered. "What, Kingslayer—planning to practice your craft again?"
Jaime's eyes burned with barely checked fury, like an enraged lion.
"If you haven't the courage to stab me in the back, Lannister, then put away your useless rage," Robert said with contempt.
He shouldered past Jaime, leaving only a derisive snort behind.
Jaime's teeth ground audibly, the veins on his sword hand standing out.
…
The Great Sept of Baelor stood atop Visenya's Hill in King's Landing, the center of the Faith and seat of the High Septon.
A magnificent marble-domed structure, it boasted seven crystal towers.
In its corridors…
Varys, hands clasped, flattered, "Duke Mace, only the scent of roses can soothe the grief of losing our Hand. Your timely arrival has restored hope to the people."
Mace Tyrell stroked his beard. "We all hoped Lord Jon might recover. His death is a sorrow to us all. I can only do what little I can."
"You are gracious and humble," Varys said. "Compared to you, I am left with nothing but the panic of losing the Hand so suddenly."
Petyr Baelish, as neatly dressed as ever, could not hide the fatigue on his face.
"Everyone knows it was Lord Jon who made me Master of Coin…"
He shook his head bitterly. "I thought I was serving the realm. Now I see I was serving Lord Jon. My lords, I'm at a loss—unsure how to go on."
His sincerity moved Mace, who hastened to reassure him. "Petyr, you're too modest. I've heard of your talents even in Highgarden. Managing the realm's finances is no simple feat."
Baelish looked grateful. "Your Grace, your arrival has eased my doubts. Your praise is my greatest honor."
Mace patted his shoulder. "The realm depends on its councillors. I hope you'll soon move past your grief—the realm needs you."
Varys smiled. "Your words bring joy, Your Grace. You've inspired us without even meaning to. We will give our utmost."
Petyr smirked. "You see? You've inspired everyone. You are the realm's true pillar."
"As long as we work together, the realm will soon be at peace," Mace said, stroking his beard.
Well said! All murmured agreement.
A cold snort shattered the pleasant mood.
When Stannis appeared, stone-faced, the corridor fell silent.
"I could hear your laughter from far away," he said icily. "Is there a wedding here?"
Renly laughed loudly as he approached. "Stannis, I've seen you ruin the mood plenty of times, but I still admire it every time."
…
The sky awoke from darkness as the first light pierced the mist, casting King's Landing in a warm glow.
Da–da~ dada-da~ da~ dada-da…
Standing at the bow, Gawen gazed at the towering Red Keep and the city beyond, a tune from his past life echoing in his mind.
Gawen Crabb had returned once more.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: www.patreon.com/DrManhattanEN
👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.