At sixteen years old (298 AC), Lord Gawen found himself deep in thought after hearing Sulana's advice.
Before long, House Crabb would have firmly secured its rule over the Crab Claw Peninsula, and the domain would need a legitimate heir—nothing united a people more firmly.
Marriage and children were an essential duty for the lords of Westeros; nothing was valued more than the continuation of the family line through the generations.
A certain figure flashed through Gawen's mind, and he rubbed his thumb against his forefinger.
He reflected on himself—he did seem to like, or perhaps habitually choose, the more difficult road.
Rising from his chair, he walked to the window and looked down at the household guards sparring in the yard.
Sulana followed, speaking respectfully. "There are quite a few noble ladies of marriageable age on the Crab Claw Peninsula. Their lords would be more than happy to form an alliance with House Crabb."
She meant the noble houses of Boggs, Brune, Cave, Hardy, and Penne, among others.
Gawen's eyes shifted slightly. "Sulana, what I want is their submission to House Crabb."
Not the sharing of spoils… though he did not say this part aloud.
With the respected Jon Arryn gone, Gawen would naturally take up his will: to continue sealing off and suppressing every noble house on the Crab Claw Peninsula outside of House Crabb until they willingly integrated into the Crabb Legion's structure.
Turning to her, his voice softened. "Lady Sulana, I will give this matter my full attention."
Sulana soon departed to see to the many arrangements required before her departure as steward.
Red Keep
The Duke of Winterfell had yet to arrive in the capital, and King Robert was not in residence either, but the royal decree appointing him as Hand of the King had already been issued.
Gawen learned of it upon entering the Red Keep, from a gold cloak standing guard at the gate.
Even if the guard hadn't told him, he would have heard the news soon enough once inside.
He flipped the smiling guard a silver stag—kind-hearted Lord Gawen encouraging the zeal of a loyal sentry.
Amid the flattery, he swept his blue cloak and strode toward the audience hall.
For better or worse, the coming days belonged to Eddard Stark.
As for Mace Tyrell, Gawen thought it best to let Robert trouble himself over how to arrange for the far-traveled Lord of Highgarden.
King Robert was also to host a grand tourney in celebration of the new Hand's appointment.
The joust's champion would receive forty thousand gold dragons, the runner-up twenty thousand; the melee's winning team would receive twenty thousand; the archery contest's victor, ten thousand.
Now that was good news.
Gawen, who had already seen what fifteen thousand gold dragons looked like, quickly steadied himself.
Approaching the audience hall, he spotted two figures beneath a distant pavilion—one tall and lean, the other short and stout; one in fitted clothes, the other in loose; one with hair, the other bald. Petyr Baelish and Varys looked as though they had been born to be opposites.
The two had long been quietly working to plunge Westeros into chaos. Righteous Lord Gawen's opinion of these two schemers was… well, best not said aloud. Strictly speaking, they were in the same trade.
He made his footsteps deliberately louder.
Sensing their gaze, Gawen gave a slight nod, and when close enough, he bowed politely. "Good day, Lord Petyr, Lord Varys. Forgive my interruption."
Varys folded his hands and smiled. "Lord Petyr and I were just having an entertaining conversation. Your joining us is a pleasure, Lord Crabb."
Petyr glanced at the smiling Varys. "Perhaps 'dull' would be the more accurate word."
Without waiting for Varys to respond, he turned to Gawen, lips curling. "Lord Crabb, if I'm not mistaken, you're here to see me."
Their verbal sparring was common knowledge these days.
Gawen shrugged. "Lord Petyr, your wisdom is admirable. I've just heard that the Duke of Winterfell has been named the new Hand of the King by Robert…"
He smiled slightly—some things needed no saying between them.
Varys chuckled. "The royal decree came suddenly. A new Hand means new changes, and I can't help but feel a little apprehensive."
Ever dutiful, Gawen offered genuine comfort. "Lord Varys, your service is irreplaceable. The new Hand will need your aid."
Varys replied humbly, "To serve the new Hand would be a great honor."
Petyr's gray-green eyes slid toward Varys, his rasping voice warm with irony. "One can't help but envy your position, Lord Varys."
Gawen tilted his head. "Lord Petyr, you seem troubled?"
Petyr gave a bitter smile and shook his head.
Varys explained, "Lord Crabb, the Master of Coin is vexed over how to raise the gold needed for the tourney in such a short time. You've heard, haven't you? The prizes alone total ninety thousand dragons."
Petyr sighed. "And that's far from enough. There will be other costs—Robert will certainly want a great feast. That means cooks, carpenters, serving girls, singers, mummers, jugglers… Our king is ever generous. From experience, we'll need at least one hundred and sixty thousand gold dragons."
Gawen's eyes glinted. "Lord Petyr, are you thinking of the Lannisters?"
In other days, turning to the golden rose would have secured a loan easily, but now… This tourney was for the new Hand. It would be unseemly to rub salt into Lord Mace's wound.
Lannister versus Tyrell—Cersei had lodged a thorn in the Tyrells' pride.
Stark versus Tyrell—Mace Tyrell had lost the Hand's seat he'd coveted.
It seemed the Tyrells had suffered enough… yet perhaps a little more fire was needed. The Westerlands and the Reach were neighbors; Gawen saw it as his duty to help deepen their "friendship."
As for Stark versus Lannister—that was Cersei's battlefield. The clash of direwolf and lion was inevitable.
The Vale, the Riverlands, and Dorne… Gawen's burdens were many.
Blinking away his thoughts, he continued, "The Queen isn't well acquainted with Winterfell, so her warmth may be… lacking."
The three exchanged a glance; Petyr and Varys smiled faintly, their expressions laden with meaning.
Petyr shrugged. "The Red Keep already owes the Lannisters over three million dragons. Borrowing a few hundred thousand more is nothing… When I saw the royal decree, I thought to call on Queen Cersei—if I had her understanding, things would be simpler."
He spread his hands with a sigh. "I happened upon Lord Varys, and accepted his kind offer… and then you arrived."
Varys smiled. "It's just a small courtesy, nothing more. When the Queen is troubled, it is loyal to spare her further disturbance."
Petyr's eye twitched. "That much is obvious. But unlike our Master of Whisperers here, we don't have eyes and ears everywhere."
Varys' smile deepened, his voice humble. "I only happened to overhear. My little birds can't bribe White Walkers, my good Master of Coin."
Something stirred in Gawen's mind—could Petyr have been reaching into Varys' network?
He kept a trace of curiosity on his face but held his tongue, content to observe.
Petyr's smile was elegant, but his tone edged with mockery. "Don't you always say your little birds are everywhere? Gold can only buy those whose loyalty is already thin."
Varys feigned alarm. "Ah, just a jest. I'm not nearly so capable."
He even reached out as if to clasp Petyr's hand in sincerity, but Petyr smoothly avoided the gesture.
Petyr looked toward Maegor's Holdfast, smoothing his hair. "I wonder when the Queen's mood will brighten. Soon knights from all over the realm will gather here; we mustn't dull the King's generosity."
Varys' smile never wavered. "Why, there is a minister here whom the Queen trusts above all."
Petyr nodded to Varys, then turned to Gawen. "Lord Crabb, my friend, have you any suggestions?"
Gawen nodded sincerely. "Lord Petyr, to be of help would be my honor."
After a moment's thought, he glanced around to be sure no one else was near.
Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Have either of you taken note of the Duke of Winterfell's entourage?"
Petyr and Varys exchanged a look, then turned to him.
"Both his eldest and second daughters are among them," Gawen said plainly. "That is what has darkened the Queen's mood."
Varys covered his mouth in mock surprise. "Surely they don't intend to—"
Petyr's eyes gleamed; his lips curved briefly before he sighed. "This complicates matters. It seems we'll have to bargain with the High Septon again."
Gawen hesitated, then said, "In truth, Queen Cersei cares greatly for the realm's governance, Lord Petyr."
Petyr's gaze sharpened. "Oh? You have a way?"
He was not feigning—he truly hated dealing with the High Septon, whose haggling skills rivaled any fishmonger in Dorne.
Gawen smiled, raised his right hand, and extended two fingers—then opened the rest, palm toward Petyr.
Petyr's mouth twitched. After a pause, he reached out as if to press down Gawen's thumb and forefinger.
The thumb yielded easily, but the other four fingers did not budge.
Petyr did not persist; he withdrew gracefully.
Varys watched their silent exchange with amusement.
Petyr sighed. "We don't yet know the new Hand, but I doubt he'll be so easy in future."
Gawen spread his hands. "Call it an advance. I've no wish to have the Hand's attention on me as before."
His smile turned warm. "Lord Petyr, I will remember your assistance."
Petyr shrugged. "Mutual aid. Everyone knows our King has little patience."
Gawen nodded in agreement, then asked Varys, "Lord Varys, do you know where the Duke of Winterfell is now?"
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