Crab Claw Peninsula
About two miles southeast of Whispers Hall lay Lyanna Manor, a gift from Gawen to his cousin, Lyanna Crabb.
The manor sat amidst green fields, surrounded by rolling hills that formed a natural barrier. Nearby stretched a forest, serving as a natural hunting ground.
Under the direction of an architect from the Reach, the main building of the estate had already taken shape.
In the lush woods, Yulia couldn't help exclaiming, "Lady Lyanna, you're not… pregnant, are you?"
Yulia wore a light blue, off-shoulder gown, her deep brown hair falling naturally over her shoulders.
Her wide eyes stared stiffly at Lyanna, her body frozen.
Lyanna gave a silent nod, her face betraying the faintest trace of bitterness.
With Dick sent to Essos on Gawen's orders and Yulia remaining at Whispers Hall, the manor still under construction, the two women—close in age—often kept each other company in the otherwise empty castle.
Today's sunlight was pleasant, and the two had been strolling through the woods when Yulia learned the startling news.
Her first instinct was to avoid the matter. Her brother Dick was "fighting for her" somewhere far away—she didn't dare cause the slightest trouble.
But before her stood Lyanna Crabb, the seemingly naïve young lady who happened to be the cousin of the lord of these lands.
Yulia shut her eyes in distress, only opening them after some time.
She drew a breath and spoke softly, "Lady Lyanna, what do you plan to do?"
Gritting her teeth, she added in a low voice, "I can get you moon tea."
At the mention of moon tea, Lyanna's face blanched, and she instinctively placed her palm over her belly.
She quickly shook her head. "No, I can't…"
Yulia took one of Lyanna's hands in both of hers, first offering reassurance: "Lady Lyanna, I only want to help you. No one here can force you to do something you don't wish to do."
Then she added, "Except Lord Gawen."
At Gawen's name, Lyanna looked at her, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Yulia, what should I do?"
Her fingers trembled with tension, her pale face marked by unease and helplessness.
King's Landing
"Apples! Finest apples! Worth twice the price, and still a bargain!"
"Come buy blood melons—sweet as honey!"
"Turnips, onions, potatoes! Come, come—turnips, onions, potatoes!"
Riding through the stinking city streets surrounded by his guards, Gawen saw a stilt-walker striding like some giant insect through the crowd, a gaggle of barefoot children trailing behind, shrieking shrilly. On the other side of the street, two ragged boys fenced with sticks until an old woman emptied a bucket of foot-wash water over them from a window above.
Turning into Iron Street, he took the winding road up the long slope of Visenya's Hill, passing blacksmiths at their forges, hedge knights haggling over armor, and a grey-haired ironmonger selling old swords from the back of a cart. Most of King's Landing's smiths worked here.
Gawen's party rode straight to the hilltop, stopping before a large timber-and-plaster building.
Its double doors, made of ebony and weirwood, bore a carved hunting scene. Stone knights flanked the entrance, clad in fantastical red steel armor shaped to give them the forms of a griffin and a unicorn.
Gawen dismounted, handing his reins to Matil, and led Mondon Waters inside.
A middle-aged man spotted the badge on Gawen's chest and hurried over with a broad smile. "My lord, Tobho Mott is at your service."
Mott wore a black velvet coat embroidered with silver hammers on the sleeves and a heavy silver chain at his neck, set with a sapphire the size of a dove's egg.
"If you're looking for new armor, my lord, you've come to the right place," Mott said warmly. "It's true my work is expensive, but I daresay you'll find no equal in the Seven Kingdoms. Visit every forge in King's Landing if you don't believe me."
He added, "Any village smith can pound out a suit of armor—but mine are works of art. You've seen the armor of the Knight of Flowers and Lord Renly; both were crafted here."
Gawen inclined his head and pointed at Mondon. "How is his armor coming along? Show me."
"With another month's work it will be complete," Mott said, "The main pieces are done, but they still need fine polishing."
He led them through a narrow courtyard to the forge hall.
The air inside was sweltering, reeking of smoke and brimstone. Smiths barely glanced up from their work, sweat dripping as they hammered and tongs-clenched steel; bare-chested apprentices pumped bellows with all their might.
Mott called over a tall, muscular youth.
"This is Gendry. Don't let his age fool you—he's a fine hand with a hammer and works hard." Turning to the boy, Mott said, "Show the lord the armor you've finished."
Gendry's dark blue eyes flicked briefly to Gawen's calm face. Brushing sweat-matted hair back, he said, "Only the helm is polished."
Without waiting for a reply, he fetched a silver, bucket-shaped helm.
Gawen tested its weight and examined it. It was at least half again as thick as a standard helm—simple in form, yet solid and well-made.
He handed it to Mondon, then patted Gendry's arm. "Good work."
Gendry's thick, black hair was in disarray; a hint of stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked faintly embarrassed, lips twitching.
"My lord, forgive him—his tongue's clumsy. He only knows iron," Mott said.
Gawen smiled, shook his head, and gave Gendry another pat before leaving.
Outside, he commissioned a suit of armor for himself. His ancestral armor was too plain—he wanted something splendid for the upcoming tourney.
Mott accepted a bag of gold dragons with a broad smile, thumping his chest in assurance that the armor would please him.
That night, the old smith called Gendry into his room.
Mott's cheeks were flushed with wine. Filling a cup, he pushed it toward the boy. "A smith lives on wine, lad."
Gendry drained it in one go, earning a hearty laugh.
Sobering, Mott said, "Remember the young noble in the blue robe from today?"
Gendry nodded.
"Best avoid him," Mott said gravely.
Though Gendry showed nothing, he rather liked Gawen—unlike other lords, he didn't put on airs. Sensitive despite his silence, Gendry felt this lord was different.
"It's an old smith's instinct," Mott said. "He's dangerous—like standing beside a naked blade. Best steer clear."
Gendry nodded.
After a pause, he muttered, "I'm just a lowborn bastard."
Mott blinked, then laughed. "Aye—but you're a good smith."
Gendry's lips curved faintly.
Around the same time, Gawen had Mondon brought to his study.
Mondon's belly rippled with every movement, drawing a smile from Gawen.
"I have a task for you," Gawen said.
Mondon nodded, his dull eyes on him.
"His name is Gendry, the young smith we met today. I want you to get to know him."
Mondon scratched his head but agreed. Making friends was easy enough.
When he'd gone, Gawen tapped his desk, eyes drifting to the Stormlands on the map.
Next day – Maegor's Holdfast
Watching Mace Tyrell depart, Gawen's eyes flickered.
He had stood by as Queen Cersei received the Duke of Highgarden.
Cersei barely hid her impatience, though Mace seemed oblivious, his deference only increasing.
Pity, Gawen thought. A Duke of Highgarden who won't cross swords with the Queen. Still, that kind of pliancy was a political gift.
At least Mace knew how to flatter her, and Cersei was in fine spirits after lording it over him.
She glanced from Jaime to Gawen. "Lord Gawen, walk with me in the garden."
Amid the roses, Cersei's pleasant mood vanished.
"I don't like golden roses," she said coolly. "And I hate having Margaery Tyrell in King's Landing."
She snapped a golden rose's stem without hesitation.
The little rose? Did she sense the Tyrell ambition for the throne?
"Your Grace, are you concerned for Prince Joffrey?" Gawen asked.
Her look of satisfaction told him he'd guessed rightly. "I will not allow Margaery to be Joffrey's bride."
"Are you afraid King Robert might bypass you and arrange a match with the golden rose?"
"That drunkard is capable of any folly!" she snapped.
Gawen suspected her dislike of Margaery was tied to the prophecy of her youth.
"In the current climate," he said, "I doubt the king is thinking of the Tyrells. When Lord Eddard arrives, with their old friendship, Robert may prefer a Stark match."
Marry my son to a northern savage's daughter? Cersei's brow creased.
"Why would he do that? A wolf's daughter is no match for a lion's son."
"To bind the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale," Gawen explained.
Her eyes narrowed in thought, then lit with understanding—and anger. "So he fears the Lannisters! The coward has lost all a warrior's courage."
"Yes, Your Grace. You alone can protect Prince Joffrey. When he inherits the Iron Throne… the North, Riverlands, and Vale will only bind him."
"This is only your guess," she warned.
"Then perhaps check Lord Eddard's retinue," Gawen suggested. "If a Stark girl is among them, Robert's intent will be clear."
.
.
.
🔥 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.