The firelight flickered in the hearth, casting dancing shadows along the walls.
Gawen first glanced at Margaery, then fell silent for a moment before saying,
"Lady Olenna, the Crab Claw Peninsula needs more than grain and weapons—we also need farmers and blacksmiths."
Olenna's clouded eyes studied him for a while before she spoke.
"Child, you seem rather impatient. Ruling a land requires patience."
Her tone was gentle, carrying the warmth of an elder encouraging the younger to speak his mind.
"Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery," Gawen continued, his brow furrowing,
"the hatred between the Crab Claw Peninsula and the Vale is a secret that's not so secret."
He went on, his voice sharpening:
"After the great war more than ten years ago, the Vale lords, with the tacit approval of the former Hand, blockaded and oppressed the Peninsula for over a decade. The chaos only grew worse.
"To fight over what little we had, we spilled a great deal of blood—and that was exactly what the Vale lords intended. The Crab Claw Peninsula and the Vale are bound by a sea of blood and vengeance."
After a pause, he spread his hands.
"It won't be long before House Crabb secures its rule over the Peninsula. Normally, this would usher in a rare peace not seen for centuries."
Gawen shook his head slightly.
"But in truth, the opposite is more likely. The Crab Claw Peninsula is… unique. Without Vale blood to satisfy the grudge, even if I cement my rule, I cannot erase my people's hatred for the Vale. Blood must answer for blood—that is a tradition even I, as their lord, cannot stop."
Margaery listened quietly, taking in his words, but found them incredible.
The Baron of Whispers Hall, a Crownlands noble, daring to provoke a war of vengeance against the 'Kingdom of the Vale'? This was…
Her rose-colored lips parted slightly.
"Lord Gawen, you mean to go to war with the Eyrie?"
He gave a small shrug.
"Lady Margaery, it's unavoidable. Even a lord cannot go against the united will of his people."
Then, almost with disdain, he added,
"And I will not forget they once drove House Crabb to the brink of extinction. What's missing now is simply the right moment."
He spoke with such confidence, as though he could shatter the powerful Vale with a single blow.
To Margaery, this sounded like flinging an egg at a boulder—suicidal and wholly at odds with the calculated image he had always projected.
Surely Gawen Crabb was too clever not to see the consequences of challenging the Vale. Was his hatred blinding him?
She considered urging him toward other paths of revenge, but with her grandmother beside her—and knowing this was House Crabb's "private matter"—she held her tongue.
Olenna's voice was slow, but edged with concern.
"The thoughts of young men never fail to startle this old woman. You must know the Seven Kingdoms will not allow your revenge… So this 'moment' you speak of is crucial?"
Gawen nodded.
"Yes, my lady. If you agree to my proposal, I will set everything in motion. You need only watch and wait. When the time comes, we will both have what we want."
Olenna chuckled.
"And I, the old woman, only need to sit back and enjoy the show?"
Gawen took up his wine cup, gesturing toward Margaery.
"The Golden Rose can avoid needless strife, and simply wait for the right opportunity."
Olenna's deep gaze held his for a moment before she said,
"Lord Gawen, the Golden Rose likes your proposal—and your candor pleases me."
Margaery glanced at her grandmother and saw the faintest nod.
In a solemn tone, she said,
"Lord Gawen, no fourth person will hear what we discussed today. That is the Tyrell promise."
Gawen inclined his head in equal gravity.
"Lady Margaery, within six months, you will see that moment. That is House Crabb's promise."
With the agreement struck, Olenna tapped the table.
"Margaery, your grandmother does not like leeks. Have the servants take away the soup and bring me some cheese."
Under King's Landing's night sky, the stars glittered like scattered diamonds.
After the meal, Gawen took his leave of Olenna, with Margaery personally walking him out.
The night was still.
As they walked, Margaery suddenly said,
"Lord Gawen, forgive my boldness, but you must understand the consequences of war with the Vale."
Her steps were light, her green gown simple yet perfectly flattering her graceful figure.
The full moon hung high, and her beauty seemed to shine even brighter in its light.
Gawen slowed his pace, speaking in a mild tone.
"You mean well, and I am grateful, Lady Margaery."
A flicker of hesitation passed over his fair features before he added,
"Some things are unavoidable. The outcome will be worth seeing."
Margaery tilted her chin toward him.
"Lord Gawen, I hear you have no betrothed?"
His brow arched. He could almost smell a feast being laid before him.
"You met her at Highgarden," she continued.
"Her name is Ermesande Tyrell—my cousin. She's charming, and clever as well."
Ermesande Tyrell?
Gawen recalled the slim, pretty girl among Margaery's ladies-in-waiting.
She could not be more than eleven or twelve this year.
He chuckled lightly.
"Lady Margaery, a delicate flower of the South would not thrive among the wilds of the Crab Claw Peninsula."
It was a polite refusal.
Inwardly, he mused that his prospects for marriage had quietly improved… The thought stirred a quiet pride.
But then reason quickly reasserted itself.
Olenna or Margaery? He leaned toward it being Olenna's idea.
The old woman must have her eye on House Crabb's soldiers—perhaps using this deal to groom him into a loyal sword for the Golden Rose.
Marriage, he realized, was a very useful political tool.
Margaery's doe-like eyes blinked; she hadn't expected such an answer, and could not guess his reason for refusal.
Since he had declined, she changed the subject.
"Lord Gawen, the Tyrell merchant fleet will soon deliver supplies to the Mermaid's Port."
Gawen inclined his head in thanks.
"You are most considerate, Lady Margaery."
In the godswood at Winterfell stood an ancient weirwood, its trunk carved with a solemn, long face, its eyes deep-set and filled with dried sap that looked like red tears, watchful and strange.
Beneath its boughs, Catelyn and Maester Luwin found Eddard Stark.
The Lord of Winterfell sat upon a moss-covered stone, oiling the blade of Ice.
The greatsword glimmered dully; though four centuries old, it was as sharp as the day it was forged.
"Ned…" Catelyn called softly.
He looked up.
"Catelyn? Where are the children?"
It was always his first question, and she had long been used to it. Yet today, hearing it made her heart tighten unexpectedly.
She quickly smoothed her expression, smiling warmly.
"They're all in the training yard."
His lips curved faintly.
"We depart tomorrow. The household is in your hands, Catelyn."
Her eyes grew hot, but she nodded silently.
Turning to Luwin, Ned said,
"Maester Luwin, I have always considered you as kin. In all matters great or small, advise Catelyn well, and teach my children what they must know. Do not forget—winter is coming."
Luwin bowed, hand to chest.
"My lord, I will fulfill my duty. May the gods grant your swift return."
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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