The tall, gaunt knight with a greatsword strapped to his back stepped silently in front of Margaery Tyrell. She instinctively gave a slight nod, but the man's pale, colorless eyes stared fixedly at her without a word.
His face was pockmarked, his cheeks hollow, his eyes sunken. Though not yet old, only a few strands of hair sprouted above his ears, the rest of his scalp nearly bare.
He wore hardened leather beneath a drab iron-grey chainmail hauberk, plain and utterly unadorned, so worn it seemed ancient.
Margaery sensed the danger in him, but outwardly allowed only a faint frown. The pride of the golden rose forbade her from showing fear.
Ser Ilyn had a strange habit of silently staring at pretty maidens.
Margaery was about to call for her handmaiden when a blue cloak embroidered with golden marsh-flowers fluttered into her view.
"Ser Ilyn…"
His name was Ilyn Payne, of the Westerlands' House Payne. When Tywin Lannister served as Hand to King Aerys II, Ilyn had been captain of the Hand's guard.
But after a courtier denounced him for boasting that "it was truly Lord Tywin who ruled the Seven Kingdoms," the enraged Mad King had Ilyn's tongue ripped out. From that day forth, Ser Ilyn Payne would never speak again.
When Robert Baratheon wed Queen Cersei, he appointed Ilyn as King's Justice—a gift to Lord Tywin, compensating him for a loyal servant mutilated in his service.
Gawen's eyes glinted coldly. "Are you deliberately ignoring the golden rose she bears, ser?"
Though Ilyn stood with the Lannister faction, he spent most of his days in Robert's presence. Gawen had only crossed paths with him a handful of times.
That he appeared near the tavern could mean only one thing—King Robert himself was close by. Naturally, both Gawen and Margaery had come out to greet him.
The rose of Highgarden commanded respect, and Gawen had assumed Ilyn would first give his courtesy to Margaery. He took no offense at being overlooked.
Yet instead, Ilyn halted but a step away, staring at the little rose without moving or speaking.
Whatever the man's true intentions, such conduct was beyond discourteous.
For now, Gawen acted as Margaery's sworn protector. To ignore this insult would tarnish Crabb honor.
Standing scarcely a palm's breadth away, his voice flat as stone, Gawen said, "It seems your eyes are unnecessary."
Mondon Waters, broad and stout, lumbered to Margaery's side and murmured, "My lady, this place may not be safe. Please, come with me."
Margaery cast the hulking man a quick glance. Realizing he was Gawen's personal guard, she looked once at Gawen, then nodded and stepped back.
Ilyn's gaze shifted to Gawen, as though staring at a corpse. Gawen answered him only with scorn.
Without hesitation—thud!—Gawen's fist snapped up like a hammer, slamming into Ilyn's belly.
The knight felt as if his innards were about to burst. Clutching his gut, his face twisted with pain, his clenched teeth grinding audibly as one trembling hand reached for his sword.
Gawen seized him by the nape, drove a knee into his back, and slammed him to the ground.
A dagger flashed from Gawen's belt, the cold blade pressed before Ilyn's eye.
"Tell me, Ser Ilyn—should I take the left eye first, or the right?"
The knight struggled, but it was as if iron chains bound him. He could not break free.
Shhhk, shhhk! A dozen Gold Cloaks at last came to their senses and drew steel.
Gawen turned his head, voice cutting like ice. "Gold Cloaks—do you dare bare steel before me?"
He held only a play-dagger he often toyed with, hardly a knight's sword.
Yet the Crabb blue-cloaks gripped their blades and faced the Gold Cloaks, awaiting only their lord's word.
The City Watchmen hesitated, daunted by dozens of armored foes. None dared act rashly.
Shielded behind Gawen, Margaery no longer felt fear—only gratitude for his defense, mingled with worry that matters might spiral further.
No wonder they call him the half-wild noble, she thought. This was no jest. He truly meant to put out Ser Ilyn's eyes.
Gawen's ear twitched, listening. He needed only a little more time… his gaze slid to where Margaery stood, ringed by her guards.
His smile looked almost stiff, as if straining to appear less frightening.
"My lady, this man deserves a lesson. How would you have him punished?"
Margaery blinked her doe-like eyes. What… what am I supposed to say?
Her grandmother had tasked her with discreetly gauging Robert's reaction to her charms—testing if she could win his favor. House Tyrell's future hung upon it.
Though Ilyn's behavior had offended her, she did not believe he warranted ruin.
At the same time, she knew Gawen bore the duty of her protection, and that this touched upon his honor.
Men's talk of "honor" often baffled her, yet she would not dismiss it lightly.
Besides, Gawen had become an ally of sorts, while Ilyn was a confidant of King Robert. She was trapped between both sides.
Soon Gawen's voice came again, dagger glinting. "Shall I take just one eye to start?"
Savage brute! Margaery shot him a glare. Gawen arched a brow, as if trying to read her signal.
Surely he won't mistake my meaning? He's cleverer than that… Or is he pretending not to understand?
The thought nettled her. But then, in a rush, her heart calmed. Clenching a fist, she forced herself to smile sweetly.
"My lord Crabb," she said softly, "I believe Ser Ilyn has been punished enough. Please, spare him."
Gawen inclined his head. The little rose seemed more mature than before.
He looked down at Ilyn's face, pressed to the dirt. "You are fortunate, ser. It seems the lady you offended has a kind heart."
For Gawen, this was improvisation. Even without this tongueless butcher—once Lord Tywin's man—he would have found another chance to show Lord Eddard Stark that though he stood beside Queen Cersei, he was no Lannister dog. He had his own sense of honor.
Imperfect, perhaps—but sufficient. For he still had to dance between Lannister and Stark alike.
Thundering hooves. A mighty figure rode in, thighs clamped to his destrier, reins drawn tight as the horse tossed its mane and screamed.
Banners of the crowned stag and direwolf streamed in the wind. King Robert Baratheon advanced with his sworn knights all around him.
At Gawen's signal, the Crabb blue-cloaks stepped smartly back.
Robert's roar was deafening. "Seven hells—what's all this?!"
At once, his presence stifled every man's courage. The king loomed like a storm.
Gawen rose. Ilyn staggered up, dirt-streaked and shaken.
Robert's furious eyes found them both. "You?! The crabspawn whelp of the peninsula—how dare you show your face before me?!"
Puzzlement flickered across Gawen's face, yet he bowed with calm deliberation. "Good day, Your Grace. Whispers Hall is ever at your command."
Robert glared down from horseback, then bellowed, "Seven hells, one of my own crownland vassals!"
Turning, he shouted, "Ned! Look here—see who it is!"
The stout king swung nimbly from the saddle.
Lord Eddard Stark dismounted as well, following close behind. He soon spotted the young man.
Together, the king and the Warden of the North loomed like a wall before Gawen.
Seeing Eddard's direwolf sigil, Gawen could scarcely contain himself. "You are Lord of Winterfell?" His voice trembled.
Eddard studied the earnest young man and gave a slow nod.
At that, Gawen's eyes shone. He placed a hand over his heart and bowed deeply. "Good day, Lord Stark. I am Gawen Crabb of the Crab Claw Peninsula. The Crabb family shall never forget your kindness."
"House Crabb…" Eddard murmured. A memory stirred—one he and Robert had recalled on their journey south. "Is this… the boy?"
Robert burst into laughter. "Aye, Ned, that's the one! Look at him—grown tall and strong, ready to serve the realm."
Then he scowled again. "But gods damn it, my vassals are naught but trouble. You'll have to mind this one for me!" He barked another laugh.
Eddard shrugged faintly, but a rare smile touched his lips. "I am glad to see you grown and hale, child."
He clapped Gawen on the shoulder. Gawen's eyes sparkled, shining like Lancel's, and he nodded eagerly.
Just then, Ser Ilyn Payne, still disheveled, approached and gave Robert a stiff nod.
The king stared. "Gods… Ser Ilyn, don't tell me this brat—" He jabbed a finger at Gawen. "—knocked you down?"
Gawen lifted a brow and shot Ilyn a mocking glance.
Eddard's lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. The boy's brazen defiance reminded him of his and Robert's own youth, when a day without a fight seemed wasted.
"Seven bloody hells!" Robert swore, seeing Ilyn slink away. Perhaps he was used to it by now.
Then his glare swung back to Gawen. "Damn you, boy—how dare you raise a hand against my King's Justice?"
He had seen enough—the knee in Ilyn's back, the knife at his eye. He wanted to say "beaten," but chose a softer word for Ilyn's sake.
Eddard frowned. He distrusted the Lannisters already, and Catelyn's letter from Lysa had only deepened it. That Robert kept Tywin's creature so close troubled him.
In every hall they had entered, Robert was surrounded by Lannisters. Did the king truly have no caution left? Eddard could not fathom it.
Yet he was relieved he had chosen to ride south. Without his counsel, Robert would drift deeper into danger.
Gawen lifted his chin stubbornly. "Your Grace, he acted without honor. Had not a lady interceded, I would not have spared him. I already showed mercy!"
"Seven hells!" Robert roared, near to leaping in fury.
"You insolent whelp! I'll have you strung up and whipped myself!"
But Gawen met his rage without flinching.
When Robert seemed on the verge of striking, Eddard laid a hand on his arm. "Robert—at least hear what happened."
"Hear what?!" the king thundered. "Ilyn's tongue was torn out years ago. He cannot speak! Am I to take only this brat's word?"
Eddard began to reply, but a clear, melodious voice rang out.
"Your Grace, forgive my boldness. This matter began because of me. I must speak."
Margaery lifted her skirts and curtsied with elegance.
Robert turned, frowning. "You… a Tyrell maid?"
He saw the golden rose upon her breast.
She raised her head, radiating youthful charm. "I am Margaery Tyrell, daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell. It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace."
Gawen watched with wry amusement. She was playing Lyanna Stark's role, bright and spirited, and playing it well.
He could not help but approve.
Yet he sighed inwardly. Noble daughters bent themselves into masks for power, not affection. It was always the game of thrones.
No wonder Robert, after Storm's End, never sought another highborn bride.
Unwittingly, Lord Eddard's stern features softened into the smile of a father. He longed for his youngest daughter to grow into such grace and vivacity—that was why he had brought Arya south.
But thinking of her wild ways, he sighed. Perhaps it was not too late to teach her.
Robert nodded. "Very well then, Margaery. Tell me what happened."
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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