Joffrey turned to Gawen, lifting his chin in disdain.
"Hmph. That would make them rebels. I'll personally lead an army to take the Eyrie and hang the heads of the traitors from the Bloody Gate."
Gawen thought to himself that children had their dreams, and at times like this, one should encourage them, not pour cold water on them.
"Your Grace, your victories in battle are beyond all doubt."
He paused, then added, "The men of the Vale are a timid sort. Perhaps they'll do no more than grumble in secret. At the very least, we should wait and see how they react."
Resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, he went on, "If the Vale dares trouble Ser Jaime, I'll muster my levies at once and volunteer as the vanguard in your campaign against them."
One of Joffrey's hands trembled faintly. He looked at Gawen, nodded in satisfaction, and said, "Then we'll give the Vale a little time."
He turned to Sandor. "My dog—keep your eyes on their movements. If you can't even manage that, I will not forgive you!"
Sandor inclined his head. "As you command, Prince Joffrey."
Joffrey let out a proud, dismissive snort—a signal that, for now, he would overlook Sandor's earlier disobedience.
Joffrey's expressions were almost identical to Cersei's.
Set aside his personality, and in looks, he was a smaller version of Jaime.
King Robert was still very much alive and well. Seeing Joffrey grow more and more like him—would Jaime feel uneasy? Gawen shook his head inwardly. Nephews resembling their uncles was nothing strange, especially when the uncle and the boy's mother were twins.
Ser Jaime was not uneasy in the least—Gawen was overthinking it.
…
"Lord Gawen, I hear you've been instructing Tommen in the sword?"
Joffrey's green eyes shifted. "I admire your loyalty. From now on, you and Jaime will both be responsible for my sword lessons."
Hand to chest, Gawen bowed. "Your Grace, to serve you is House Crabb's honor. I thank you sincerely for your trust."
With a haughty tilt of his chin, Joffrey said, "I'll speak to my mother."
He strode off, and Sandor cast Gawen a glance, their eyes meeting briefly before the Hound followed after the prince.
As "Tutor" Gawen watched Joffrey depart in a gust of self-importance, he suddenly wondered if he looked like some conniving courtier. He shook his head at once—surely a mere illusion.
…
Outside the Red Keep's gates, Gawen swung into the saddle and glanced at the sky. "Matil, ride straight to the Crabb Estate and deliver my order: by tomorrow morning, every Crabb soldier is to muster outside the Gate of the Gods."
The Gate of the Gods was the northwestern gate of King's Landing, closest to the Kingsroad.
Gawen remembered that the mighty Lord of Winterfell had once ridden south to King's Landing with only a few dozen men. Perhaps it showed Eddard Stark's trust in King Robert—but to Gawen, it was recklessly dangerous, its drawbacks outweighing its merits.
He ruffled his hair. Would the wolf even think of such things?
Matil Beck's excitement was plain. He couldn't help asking, "My lord, are we going to war?"
Gawen gave him a look of mild distaste. "Squire Matil, carry out your orders."
"Yes, my lord!"
Before riding off, Matil sneaked a glance at Gawen. Seeing his lord lift the riding whip, he spurred his horse away at once.
The Becks had been Crabb household knights for generations, so naturally Gawen looked after them. He had hoped to shape Matil's temperament by keeping him close, but the results were poor.
Matil's long confinement while trying for an heir had left him more impulsive than before.
Better to divert than to block, Gawen thought—he was no stubborn fool. In time, he would send Matil west to the battlefield, placing him under Ser Pell Pilly's charge for a while.
The other Crabb household knightly family was the Pillys, whose head was Ser Pell, commander of the Expeditionary Corps.
Pell's eldest son had died of illness soon after marriage, leaving no legitimate heir.
Thus, his cheerful second son had been dragged home, and rumor had it he was now waging a nightly campaign in the bedchamber.
The golden rose needed more branches and leaves to strengthen its hold.
The two household knight families each had several daughters of marriageable age, and Gawen intended to arrange alliances with other Crab Claw Peninsula noble houses.
Once, their status had been too low for such matches—but with House Crabb's rise, they were now fit to wed well.
Left to his own devices, Gawen would simply have eliminated the other peninsula lords. But this was Westeros—he couldn't have them all meeting "unfortunate accidents."
For now, he would use the political tools of Westeros.
Pulling his thoughts back, he tugged the reins and turned his horse.
…
Crab Claw Peninsula – Western Front
Encouraged by Maester Arl, Samwell Tarly had come to the Crabb western front with his guards, full of confidence.
He intended to observe House Crabb's longbowmen in action, to study ways to improve their design in the future.
Reality proved cruel—he had wet himself before long.
Now, bare-legged, Sam sat slumped in a tent, staring blankly at his discarded robe on the ground, reeking of urine.
He wiped at the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. He felt he had shamed everyone.
It was too humiliating—he could not bear to keep eating and drinking at Crabb expense after this.
He longed to see his mother in far-off Horn Hill.
As he sat in misery, the tent flap lifted and in walked the towering Ser Pell.
The scars on Pell's face had faded somewhat. His sharp gaze swept over Sam's mound-like frame.
Startled, Sam fumbled to his feet and stammered, "S–Ser Pell? Good day…"
He dared not meet Pell's eyes, hanging his head in shame.
The chill on his lower body reminded him of his predicament—he clapped his hands over himself, wishing he could shrink into nothing.
Pell's brows knit. He said nothing, the silence in the tent heavy.
Thump-thump. Sam could hear his own heartbeat.
On the Crab Claw Peninsula, folk valued courage—no one liked the craven.
Pell could not understand why their lord and the maester saw promise in this coward.
But he was a straightforward soldier—what he didn't understand, he wouldn't dwell on. His loyalty forbade questioning his lord's decisions.
And he did trust both lord and maester.
…
"Many new recruits do worse than you the first time they see battle," Pell said at last.
The peninsula's harsh environment meant nearly everyone was a capable fighter.
Pell had only heard of such poor performances from traveling singers—his words were a white lie.
He would not allow someone valued by his lord to crumble on his watch.
When Sam kept his head down, Pell barked, "Samwell—look at me!"
Sam flinched, half-thinking his dreaded father had appeared. He raised his eyes to Pell's stern face, then quickly looked away.
Pell's fist clenched. After a pause, he said, "When you feel like this, think of Lord Gawen's faith in you."
Sam trembled. The thought of disappointing Gawen frightened him—but he wanted only to flee the peninsula.
Pell's cold snort suggested he'd guessed Sam's thoughts.
"You know our military code. Do you recall the punishment for deserters?"
Sam nearly disgraced himself again. How does he know what I was thinking?
"I–I won't run," he blurted, then added hastily, "Ser, I'm not a soldier…"
Pell's eyes turned icy. Sam shut his mouth at once.
"This is wartime, and here, I say who is and isn't a soldier."
Turning to go, Pell said over his shoulder, "Tomorrow, I'll have someone train you—personally."
Plenty of soldiers remained in camp, and Pell would choose one to deal with this coward.
A man who wet himself in fear would sleep beside corpses each night until cured—or broken.
If, after a month, there was no improvement… Pell's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
In that case, Sam would be sent to his old friend, Captain of the Garrison Mason Beck.
…
Two days later – Dawn
The first rays of sunlight broke through thick clouds over King's Landing.
Outside the Gate of the Gods, Gawen breathed in the fresh, earthy scent of morning.
One hundred and twenty Crabb soldiers sat their strong destriers, clad in silver plate over blue surcoats, an imposing sight.
The light gleamed coldly on their armor.
Last year, when marching east, Gawen had looked at the Brune family's plate and… best not recall it.
Slowing his horse, he let his gaze sweep the rectangular formation.
With a shake of the reins, his horse snorted and moved along the front line.
Every soldier who met his eyes struck a fist to his chest in salute.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The sound of gauntlets on breastplates grew louder, faster.
A soldier with a battle-axe slung across his back suddenly shouted, "Long live our lord!"
The cry caught like wildfire—"Long live House Crabb!" "Long live Whispers Hall!"
Gawen nodded faintly. For a moment, he thought he could order the assault on King's Landing right now—ahem.
Casting a glance at the distant Gate of the Gods, he wondered if the noise had reached the goldcloaks on duty.
He raised a hand to still them. The shouts faded, replaced by disciplined silence.
"Move out!"
…
The hundred riders' clamor startled many peasants at work. Gawen had the troops split into smaller groups to travel.
Near the Kingsroad, he spotted a familiar figure and frowned.
Margaery?
He signaled for the soldiers to slow.
The little rose of Highgarden had clearly been waiting here. It would be rude to pretend not to see her. He rode over alone.
Margaery, with two handmaidens behind her, was mounted as well. She seemed to have just noticed him and turned her gaze his way.
"Good day, Lady Margaery."
The sunlight softened her milk-white skin, tinged with a faint blush.
Her tone carried pleasant surprise. "Good day, Lord Gawen. I didn't expect to meet you here."
Gawen could not tell if her delight was real or feigned, but he knew if she asked to ride with him, it meant King Robert and Lord Eddard were near.
Seeing no other riders, he asked with concern, "Lady Margaery, where are your guards?"
She shook her head. "I rose early and felt like riding. I took only my maids… and somehow ended up here. Fortunately, I ran into you."
"That's the joy of riding," Gawen said with a smile. "But…" His tone grew more serious. "Forgive my boldness—next time, do bring guards. The roads outside the city are not safe."
Her smile bloomed like a flower. "Thank you for your concern, Lord Gawen. I'll remember."
Her hair glowed gold-red in the light, warm and full of life.
Gawen wondered if Lord Renly had a hand in this. Few could track Robert's movements so precisely.
Varys would never risk revealing such information—if exposed, Robert would smash his spymaster's skull with a warhammer.
So either the golden rose had her own sources, or Renly had whispered in her ear.
Glancing at the Crabb blue cloaks nearby, Margaery laughed lightly. "Lord Gawen, are you out for a ride as well?"
He shrugged. "The Lord of Winterfell has shown great kindness to House Crabb. He should be nearing the city, and I mean to ride out to greet him, as is proper."
She nodded—he had mentioned the Stark debt before, back in Highgarden.
Lowering his voice as if sharing a grave secret, he said, "Truth is, the last Hand left me in a shadow. I'd like to win our new Hand's favor early."
Whether true or not, Margaery only smiled, her eyes bending like crescent moons.
Ever considerate, Gawen offered, "It can't be far. If you'd like, you're welcome to ride with me—I'd be honored to act as your guard."
Her doe-like eyes blinked. After a moment's hesitation, she smiled. "Lord Gawen, I cannot refuse such kindness."
Renly had long schemed to set her in Cersei's place, using her resemblance—so he claimed—to Robert's lost love, Lyanna Stark, to weaken the Lannisters and forge a Stormlands–Reach alliance under his lead.
Gawen already knew she looked nothing like Lyanna. Eddard Stark's honesty would see to that soon enough.
The golden rose of Highgarden would not sit idle. They would never place all their hopes on Gawen—and he was not surprised.
If this was her own maneuvering rather than Renly's, he'd be even more pleased.
Strife between the golden rose and the golden lion could only be to his advantage.
Smiling, Gawen said, "It's an honor, my lady. Let's be on our way."
.
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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