Gawen had originally planned to have his household troops encircle the Stark party in a way that wasn't too provocative—just enough to remind them of the dangers of King's Landing and to display the Crabb family's military strength. It would be a first step in preparing to maneuver between the Lannisters and the Starks.
But Margaery's unexpected appearance changed everything. She made it clear that King Robert himself was traveling with the Starks. The last thing Gawen wanted was to invite unnecessary trouble, so he was forced to abandon his plan.
Her skirts billowed in the wind as Margaery Tyrell kept a graceful posture atop her horse, riding with remarkable skill.
She seemed to sense Gawen's gaze. Those doe-like eyes turned toward him.
Sharp as ever, the little rose. Gawen raised his voice in casual praise.
"Lady Margaery, your riding posture is truly captivating."
Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
The steady rhythm of hooves filled the air. Margaery, mindful of her image, didn't speak—she simply smiled and inclined her head in acknowledgment.
They rode for over an hour before Gawen glanced at the sky and then toward a tavern along the distant roadside.
Pulling up in front, Gawen studied the place. It was worn down, but fairly spacious.
Startled by the sudden appearance of so many riders before her tavern, a buxom middle-aged woman dared to push the door open and step outside.
She spat into the tavern before coming out. Gawen chuckled as he noticed a thin, balding man following her, trembling.
The woman's eyes quickly swept over Gawen and Margaery, clearly recognizing the nobility in their bearing. Before she could even think of curtsying, her plump hand shot out instinctively to catch a coin pouch tossed her way.
The mouth of the pouch gaped open, revealing the glint of gold. She weighed it in her hand and her face blossomed into a smile.
She slipped the pouch deftly into her generous cleavage and said in a fawning tone,
"Welcome to Barlis Tavern, my lord!"
Then she yanked the man beside her forward and introduced,
"I'm Barlis, and this is my husband."
Gawen nodded.
"Lady Barlis, clean the place up. I'll be receiving honored guests here."
Such pleasant words from a young noble… Barlis couldn't help but look at him again before quickly lowering her gaze.
Honored guests hosting someone even more honored? That didn't feel glorious at all—it made her tense and alert.
Turning to Folley, Gawen ordered,
"Take some men inside. Give each patron a silver stag and have them leave willingly."
The kind-hearted Lord Crabb had no intention of making Barlis and her husband handle the eviction themselves.
Drifters were rarely decent folk; having his own men handle it was the simplest and safest course.
Folley grinned, swung off his horse, and strode inside with a few soldiers.
A bit of noise followed, but the job was done quickly.
Gawen dismounted and stepped to Margaery's side, offering his hand.
She had been quietly watching his actions. In her mind, Lord Gawen Crabb was a contradiction. He seemed to show little deference to nobles—save for Queen Cersei—yet displayed genuine compassion toward commoners.
Which was the real Gawen?
"Thank you," Margaery said, accepting his hand and stepping down lightly from her horse.
Inside the tavern, Margaery descended the stairs after changing her attire.
Her wavy brown hair was braided into a loose, voluminous plait that hung over her chest, swaying gently with her movements.
She now wore a light-blue gown with a low-cut neckline. The design was simple, but it flattered her figure; her skirts swayed with each step like a flower in bloom.
Gawen turned his head toward her and arched a brow. This pale blue… the color of the winter rose—Lyanna Stark's favorite blossom.
He recalled the scene: Rhaegar Targaryen, newly crowned champion of the tourney, spurred his horse past his own wife, Princess Elia of House Martell, and placed the crown of "Queen of Love and Beauty" woven from winter roses upon Lyanna's lap. The smiles of the crowd had frozen in that moment.
The crown had been blue as frost… a herald of the false spring.
If Renly and his golden rose succeeded in their schemes, it would be another false spring.
Pushing the thought aside, Gawen rose, invited Margaery to sit, and then took his seat again.
"Lady Margaery, you always overturn my understanding of beauty."
The compliment was genuine, with no hidden sentiment.
Fifteen-year-old Margaery bore the weight of her family's ambitions. She was both beautiful and brave. This was the game of thrones, and they were both players in it.
Margaery smiled demurely, sipped her wine, and then asked,
"Lord Gawen, may I ask you a question?"
Gawen glanced out the window at the sky.
"We have time," he said, returning his gaze to her.
"Please, I'd be honored to answer, my lady."
Her eyes glimmered with humor and curiosity.
"Forgive my boldness, my lord, but when you met me, you didn't seem surprised at all."
Gawen's hand, swirling the wine in his cup, paused briefly.
Bright-eyed as ever, the little rose was probing for more.
"Experience," he said simply, taking a sip.
"You are a noble rose. Meeting you would never be mere coincidence."
He smiled faintly.
"That's something I learned in the Red Keep."
It was an honest answer, but Margaery wasn't entirely convinced. She felt there was more to it.
Beneath the table, her fingers curled slightly.
"Have you never been curious?" she pressed.
Sharp as she was, Gawen understood the reason for her question. He spread his hands.
"Trust is hard to put into words… Lady Margaery, we are on the same side. I believe you would not harm me—that's enough."
She blinked, studied him for a moment, and then smiled.
"The golden rose always holds goodwill toward her friends."
Her smile was warm as spring sunlight.
Lowering his gaze, Gawen—unbidden—saw in his mind the anxious violet eyes of Daenerys Targaryen, gone in a heartbeat.
Looking back at Margaery, he smiled faintly.
"It is the honor of House Crabb."
The King's Road
Eddard Stark looked over at the sweating King Robert.
"Robert, you're too fat."
The king glared, panting.
"Ned, did you just call me fat?"
Then he burst out laughing.
"You've got a sharp eye—hard to argue with that!"
They talked and laughed along the road, as if they were back in the Eyrie once more.
"I may have to make it my first order in the Red Keep to cut down your meals," Ned teased.
Robert roared with laughter and clapped him on the shoulder.
"I like your jokes. Keep them coming—stop wearing that long face all the time."
Ned's lips quirked.
"I'll try. Starks aren't known for their humor."
"Seven hells, Ned, you're dull," Robert grumbled.
Then his expression brightened mischievously.
"I can't wait to see the looks on my councillors' faces when they see you. It's going to be priceless."
"Why's that?" Ned asked.
"They're all liars and fools. Half the time I want to smash their skulls with my warhammer. They've nearly driven me mad!"
Grumbling finished, he clapped Ned's shoulder again.
"You'll see soon enough… and you'll have your fill of headaches."
Ned masked a wince—Robert's strength hadn't diminished.
After a stretch of riding, Robert suddenly asked,
"Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?"
Ned's brows knit.
"I could never forget him."
The proud Mormonts of Bear Island had long served the Starks. But Jorah had disgraced the North, attempting to sell poachers into slavery to the Tyroshi for profit. By the time Ned traveled to Bear Island to pass judgment, Jorah had fled across the Narrow Sea, beyond his liege lord's reach.
That had been five years ago.
"He's been waiting for a royal pardon so he can come home," Robert said.
"He's in Essos now. My spymaster Varys used the opportunity to have him get close to and watch the Targaryens."
"A slaver turned royal spy?" Ned's voice was cold.
"I'd rather he were a corpse. At least then some shred of Mormont honor could be restored."
"Stubborn as ever," Robert grumbled.
"My spymaster thinks spies are more useful than corpses."
Ned said nothing, his disapproval plain.
Robert sighed and, perhaps to change the subject, took a long drink from his wineskin.
Ned remembered Catelyn's counsel, but there were some matters on which he would not yield.
"You and Jon Arryn were both stubborn old mules," Robert snapped.
"Seven hells, I loved the man, but he could be as thick as Moon Boy."
Robert shook his head.
"After Lyanna died, I didn't plan to wed. But Jon said I needed an heir, and that Cersei Lannister was the perfect match. Marrying her would secure Tywin's support against any Targaryen pretender."
He gave a short laugh.
"Cersei's beautiful, aye—but cold as ice. Guards her maidenhead like there's gold hidden between her legs."
Robert's tone softened into wistfulness.
"Sometimes I dream of giving up the throne, taking my warhammer and my horses to the Free Cities—fighting, adventuring, drinking in brothels. That would be the life. A sellsword king—bards would love me."
"You've been a good king, Robert," Ned said.
Robert laughed.
"That's a jest I like."
Sobering, he added,
"With you at my side, things will change. I'll respect your counsel on how to deal with the Targaryen brats. But I won't stop Jorah's spying. I need to know if the dragonspawn mean to cross the sea—and I almost hope they try."
Ned nodded.
The mention of Jon Arryn brought his mind to the late Hand's young son.
"Robert, the new Warden of the East—"
"Seven hells, Ned, I know the boy's your nephew," Robert growled.
"But I'll not hand command of a quarter of the realm's armies to a sickly little child."
"If you think young Robert Arryn is too young," Ned suggested, "you could give it to one of your brothers for now. I trust both Stannis and Renly."
Robert frowned, then said,
"To tell you the truth, I've already appointed a new Warden of the East."
Ned's face tightened.
"Jaime Lannister?"
He knew Robert well enough to guess.
"Tywin is Warden of the West. Jaime will inherit Casterly Rock someday. You can't give both the East and the West to one man—that's half the realm's armies."
"It's peacetime," Robert said carelessly.
"When war comes, we'll deal with it. Tywin's still hale and in the Rock, so Jaime won't be inheriting too soon. And don't argue with me about this, Ned."
He dug in his heels and galloped ahead, leaving Ned to sigh and follow.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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