After waiting a moment and judging the distance just right, Gawen Crabb gave Petyr Baelish a discreet look.
Petyr dipped his chin slightly, and the two of them took the initiative to walk toward Stannis Baratheon, who was approaching.
Petyr curved his lips in a faint, elegant nod toward Stannis.
Gawen offered a respectful greeting. "Good day, Lord Stannis."
He then inclined his head toward Davos Seaworth, who stood beside Stannis.
The Lord of Dragonstone's gaze was sharp, as though it could pierce straight into a man's heart and uncover his deepest secrets.
His eyes shifted slightly—first on Petyr, then moving to Gawen.
"At least the two of you remember there's a funeral taking place here. Lord Crabb, have you completed your task?"
Gawen replied seriously. "My lord, using the intelligence provided by Lord Varys, I took my men to Pentos. I had barely stirred the waters when the Governor of Pentos perished in a great fire.
"The situation in Pentos is tense at the moment; any outsider is liable to become a suspect. To avoid unnecessary conflict, I've temporarily returned to King's Landing."
Stannis gave the faintest of nods. "Handle every matter you encounter, and cherish the opportunities to hone yourself."
Petyr's brows lifted slightly. Did I just see Lord Stannis offering encouragement to Gawen?
Was I imagining things? This was nothing like the Stannis he knew.
First Duke Mace, now Lord Stannis… Petyr felt a faint sting of envy toward Gawen.
The feeling passed in an instant, and Petyr almost laughed at himself.
By now, the courtiers flattering one another had also noticed the low-pressure presence of Stannis, and their voices gradually died down.
Varys had already released Mace Tyrell's large hand, folding both of his own neatly and bowing his head slightly.
Mace stroked his beard, smiling at the stern-faced Stannis.
Neither of them had forgotten the Siege of Storm's End.
King Robert had been willing to pardon those who had fought against him during the War of the Usurper—so long as they swore fealty—but Stannis, with his unbending nature, would never compromise.
Mace knew Stannis's character well. He had once driven the man to survive on rats, a grudge neither could forget.
Stannis swept the room with his keen gaze, and the chamber fell utterly silent.
With a cold snort, he turned toward the doors. Everyone hastily stepped aside to clear a path.
Once he had gone, Mace sighed and said warmly, "That's simply how Lord Stannis is. He's not targeting anyone in particular.
"This is a time when we must all pull together. You are all pillars of the realm, and the kingdom depends on your labors. I trust you understand this well."
The moment Mace finished speaking, the atmosphere in the room eased again.
Gawen thought that if Mace Tyrell were Hand of the King, the Red Keep's political climate would be one of constant harmony.
But if Stannis Baratheon held the position… gods! The lords of the realm might all be strung up before long.
And if Lord Stark became Hand… best not to dwell on that.
Petyr came to stand beside Gawen, both of them watching the crowd grow lively once more.
In a hoarse voice, Petyr asked, "Lord Crabb, who do you think will be named the new Hand?"
Gawen sighed lightly. "Lord Petyr, you know better than I do—our opinions hardly matter. It comes down to King Robert's final choice."
Petyr was mildly surprised by Gawen's candor; the smile on his lips deepened.
After a moment's hesitation, Gawen lowered his voice. "I've heard that His Grace is quite close to the Warden of the North. We can't ignore that."
Petyr's lips curled. "So, the answer remains uncertain. And let's not forget Queen Cersei—she seems rather partial to the Lord of Highgarden."
Still talking, the two of them drifted away from the crowd in unison.
Gawen ran a hand through his hair. "Lord Petyr, to be honest, I find it… difficult to read Her Grace's thoughts."
Petyr gave a knowing smile. "Ah, you're not alone. Every member of the Small Council faces the same problem."
At that moment, Varys approached with his usual smile.
He inclined his head to them. "Lord Petyr, Lord Crabb—seeing you two in such an engrossing discussion, I couldn't resist joining in. Forgive my intrusion."
Gawen shrugged. "Lord Varys, as the Master of Whisperers, your joining us can only make this discussion simpler."
Varys seemed genuinely pleased. "Why, that's delightful to hear!"
Petyr's smile was elegant but shallow. "We were speculating on who the next Hand of the King might be."
Gawen spread his hands. "We were speaking of His Grace's personal friendship with Lord Eddard Stark."
Varys folded his hands. "Lord Eddard has been close to His Grace since the age of eight, when they were both fostered at the Eyrie by Lord Jon Arryn. Their bond is as close as brothers.
"Whether it was the great war over a decade ago, or the Greyjoy Rebellion nine years past, Lord Eddard has always steadfastly supported King Robert."
Crab Claw Peninsula – Western Front
Night had fallen, dyeing every banner black. Over a hundred campfires burned in the Crabb encampment, where soldiers rested by the flames. Some of the younger men trained in parries and thrusts under the dimming twilight, their chests slick with sweat.
In the command tent, Ser Pell Pelly pinched salt between thumb and forefinger and sprinkled a generous amount over the roasted meat.
"Emparo, you need to eat."
The day's march had been long, and Emparo looked a touch weary. She grabbed a piece of meat. "Ser, the Thorn Legion is ready. I imagine the hill tribes to the west will be in for quite a surprise."
Pell's mouth quirked in a faint smile. "We're well supplied this time. Let's keep our own casualties to a minimum. We'll need our strength—the war between House Crabb and the Vale won't be far off once we finish in the west."
Emparo chewed her meat, glancing toward the marsh-marigold banner hanging in the tent.
The two were both people of few words; the only sound in the tent came from the occasional crackle of the brazier.
After a while, feeling full, Pell dusted his hands. "Emparo, when the day comes for you to be knighted, Ser Morsen and I will both be there to witness it."
Emparo swallowed and inclined her head. "Ser, it would be my greatest honor."
Pell, usually unsmiling before the men, gave her a rare smile.
"In time… the entire Crab Claw Peninsula will be House Crabb's war camp. Lord Gawen will need more loyal and steadfast knights at his side. You've proven yourself such a knight, Emparo."
The Next Morning
The sky shifted from darkness to soft blue, a tranquil beauty as though the world itself awaited the day's beginning.
The low, mournful blast of warhorns sounded, like the chill wind of winter cutting to the bone.
As the horns faded, the archers loosed a rain of arrows.
The Thorn Legion's shafts fell like hail upon the enemy—hundreds, thousands, in an instant beyond counting.
Many of the hill tribesmen dropped where they stood, their shouts turning to screams.
The second wave fell, and the Crabb longbowmen were already nocking their third.
On the eastern flank, Pell stood before a phalanx of a thousand men.
Thanks to the steady stream of gold dragons Lord Gawen poured into his troops, their arms had improved in quality; in the dawn light, they gleamed like a steel rose slowly unfurling, each spike glittering.
The Thorn Legion's arrow storm slowed. Pell roared, "Sound the drums!"
Boom, boom, boom—the war drums thundered.
With a ringing hiss, Pell drew his longsword. "For Lord Gawen!"
A thousand voices answered as one: "Long live House Crabb!"
In perfect unison, the soldiers marched forward in great strides toward the enemy.
Ahead of the Thorn Legion, the spearmen formed a half-moon bristling with steel points like a giant hedgehog.
Emparo gauged the distance to Pell's position, then called to Rena beside her. "Pass my order—loose the last three volleys!"
Spears thrust from every direction. A warhorse went down in a crash, blood gushing from its mouth.
A screaming tribesman charged Pell, only to take a Crabb soldier's axe to the chest and fall dead on the spot.
The man raised his bloodied axe high and bellowed, and the cry was answered from all around the gore-soaked battlefield.
Winterfell – Lord's Chambers
Eddard Stark sat quietly by the hearth, his neatly trimmed beard now streaked with gray.
He looked up. "Catelyn, you will remain at Winterfell."
For some reason, the words struck a pang in Catelyn Tully's heart.
Fear welled up. "Ned, please—don't leave me here."
His tone was firm. "No, you must stay."
Catelyn's face was set in stubbornness.
After a pause, Ned explained, "Winter is coming. I can't rest easy about Robert. I'll ride south as quickly as I can. In my absence, you must govern the North. Winterfell must always have a Stark in residence.
"Robb is fourteen now—nearly a man grown. He must learn to rule, but I cannot be here to teach him.
"You must have him sit in on your councils, so he learns to take command. He is my heir, and he must be ready for anything."
His words were like ice in her chest.
This was not a farewell—it was preparation for the worst.
Terror gripped her. Would she never see him again? Never feel his arms around her?
Taking a breath, she asked the question she dreaded most. "And the other children?"
Ned rose, came to her, and took his trembling wife into his arms. "Apart from Sansa and Arya, the others will stay here with you and Robb."
The warmth of his embrace soothed her unease. "Arya?" she asked.
Thinking of his youngest daughter, Ned's lips curved faintly. "It's time she learned the customs and courtesies of the South. In a few years, she'll be of marriageable age… I only hope it's not too late."
Catelyn chuckled despite herself. Arya certainly needed the lessons.
Ned kissed away the tear that clung to her lashes. "I know this is hard, my dearest Catelyn. Thank you."
She shook her head, eyes closed. She could not bear to part with any of them.
After a moment, she suddenly opened her eyes and fixed him with a look. "And Jon?"
She meant Jon Snow, Ned's bastard son.
From birth, she had known that noblemen fathered bastards—it was no surprise to learn, soon after their wedding, that Ned had sired one during the war with the Targaryens.
She had stayed in safety at Riverrun while Ned fought. They had spent little time together in those early years, and her heart had been focused on the infant Robb, not the near-stranger she had married.
She could even understand a man seeking comfort amid the perils of war. If he had left a child behind, she could accept that—so long as he cared for it.
But the Starks were different. Ned had brought the boy home and publicly named him his son.
No matter how she pleaded, Ned refused to send Jon away. She had told herself that, whoever the mother was, Ned must have loved her deeply—something Catelyn could never forgive.
She had learned to love her husband wholeheartedly, but so long as the boy was in Winterfell, he was a constant thorn in her side.
Worst of all, Jon grew to resemble Ned more than any of her own sons.
Ned hesitated. "He and Robb are close. I was hoping—"
She cut him off sharply. "He cannot stay. He is your son, not mine! I will not have him here. Jon must go."
It was harsh, but she meant every word.
Keeping Jon in Winterfell without Ned would do the boy no good.
Ned's mouth tightened. "You know I can't take him south. There's no place for him in King's Landing. A bastard boy would be shunned—you know what people would say."
But Catelyn would not yield.
"I hear your beloved Robert has plenty of bastards in King's Landing, and they get by well enough!"
Ned's voice flared. "Catelyn! How can you be so hard? He's just a boy!"
She saw the pain in his eyes, the silent plea.
Her heart ached, but she steeled herself. She would not give way.
Family. Duty. Honor.
Everything she did was to protect those she loved most.
Ned turned to look out the window, long face in deep silence.
At last, he sighed, weary. "I'll take him south with me."
Catelyn was overjoyed but kept her face composed. She knew the direwolf needed time to think; too much eagerness would only irk him.
She would simply prepare extra gold dragons for Jon's keep—enough to see the boy well fed and clothed in King's Landing.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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