The crash of the gates breaking rang harshly through the quiet night. Guards from the tower at Gulltown hurried down—but the foes they faced, warriors in blue cloaks, were terrifyingly fierce. One after another, the town's defenders fell into spreading pools of blood.
Under the mild moonlight, swathes of blue spilled inward through the streets.
Shouts of soldiers, the clash of sword and shield, and the hiss of arrows braided into a single, brutal chorus. Blood sprayed; lives ended in an instant.
"Sword-bearers—kill!"
"Sword-bearers—kill!"
"Sword-bearers—kill!"
The unified battle-cry of the Crabb warriors shattered what remained of the already-crumbling morale among Gulltown's garrison.
Pfft. Pfft.
Men who had shared bread and banter fell one by one. A certain guardsman, shaking uncontrollably, let his spear clatter to the flagstones.
Scenes like this played out again and again across the city.
But…the vengeance of the Crab Claw Peninsula had already been set ablaze. Among the Gulltown defenders who threw down their arms and ceased to resist, only a few were lucky enough to live.
A decade and more of pent-up hatred poured out—something closer to savagery than justice. In Westeros, debts of blood are paid in blood.
Gawen Crabb held the scourge of vengeance in his hand, and every soul from the peninsula waited for their lord to lead them in settling old scores.
Kill only the sword-bearers—that was the battle rule Gawen set beforehand. It was the greatest mercy he could grant.
Corpses and shattered weapons slowly piled up in the alleys of Gulltown, and the air grew heavy with the stench of blood.
The Crabb soldiers raised the golden marigold of the marshes. Years of drill had taught them obedience from the top down; that much discipline banked, at least somewhat, the fire of revenge.
At minimum, they had neither time nor leave to burst into homes and do worse.
What? You're "quick about it"? By the laws of Lord Gawen's domain, any man who breaks ranks during battle is to be put to death on the spot.
By the same token, those who uphold the laws in battle earn military merits.
The Crabb law is winter-cold—and summer-warm.
Bang!
With a chorus of shocked cries from man and woman alike, the doors of the lord's hall burst open. Ser Pell Pili, a household knight of House Crabb, stormed in at the head of the bluecloaks.
Lord Graveson sat high on the seat of state, his kin clustered about him in terror.
Though he forced himself to seem composed, he could not stop his body from trembling.
His voice shook. "You are committing a crime!"
Gulltown's maester straightened and cried, "You are brigands! I will denounce you before King Joffrey and Lord Robb for your crimes!"
The others found a scrap of courage and raised their voices after him.
Ser Pell strode forward, his sword already painted red. A flash of steel—and the maester's head lolled and rolled aside. The stump of his neck gaped horribly, and blood gushed out in a crimson sheet.
A low hum filled the hall.
The horror froze everyone where they stood; Graveson's kin stared, uncomprehending, as if the very air had turned to glass.
How dare he?!
Their eyes were wide and empty. They did not know how to meet such cruelty; none dared speak, fearful that a single sound would shatter the dead stillness and draw doom upon them.
Lord Graveson stammered, "I—I can pay a ransom!"
Only silence answered him.
Tap—tap—tap—tap—
Footsteps on stone sounded loud in the eerie quiet.
"Good evening, Lord Graveson?"
Gawen, silver-armored, walked forward at an unhurried pace. The bluecloaks parted as one, opening a path for their lord.
Only now did Graveson truly register the marsh-marigold sigil. He seemed to relax—slightly.
But the nearer Gawen came, the more uneasy Graveson felt. This man was more dangerous than he had imagined.
He swallowed. "E-Earl Crabb, this is the Vale of House Arryn! You are invading!"
He hesitated, then added, "I expect you to leave at once! Otherwise—otherwise—"
Tap—tap—tap—tap—
Gawen mounted the steps and came to stand before him.
He glanced at the knot of folk gathered round the chair. "Otherwise what?"
Graveson: "…"
After a pause he drew on the pride of Gulltown's ruler. "Do you not grasp the enormity of your crimes, Earl Crabb? Not only the Red Keep and the Eyrie—all Seven Kingdoms will condemn this villainy."
He softened his tone. "If you are willing to depart now, I swear I will not pursue the matter of tonight. Gulltown will open its gates to Whispering City."
A strained smile. "Let friendship between Houses Graveson and Crabb begin this very night."
Gawen's brow lifted. "The noble House Graveson would befriend a half-wild house?"
He gave a short laugh. "Do you often buy friendship with your own blood?"
A shudder passed through Graveson's heart. "I swear it. I can call the gods to witness, Earl Crabb!"
Gawen raised his eyes to the burning tower banner behind the seat. His voice was calm. "Lord Graveson, I did not come here for hatred…"
"My lord!" came an urgent cry—Layton, the under-steward.
Gawen's eyes flicked. He signaled, and his little steward hurried up the steps to his side.
Layton's face was tight with barely checked excitement. He whispered in Gawen's ear, and the lord's ear twitched.
House Graveson ruled Gulltown—therefore Gulltown's vaults were, in truth, House Graveson's vaults.
Petyr Baelish, once a tax officer at Gulltown and clever to a fault, knew the vaults' whereabouts like the lines on his palm.
On the night Gawen "escorted" Petyr from King's Landing, the Littlefinger only smiled meaningfully at a question of Gawen's—and then told him plainly what he knew of Gulltown's gold.
Tonight, in Operation Blue Crossing, Layton's charge was to secure the vaults.
Why the rush to report?
Because after leafing through ledgers spattered with blood, Layton had been thrilled—and terrified.
Several million gold dragons?! Gawen's brown eyes quivered.
He had to admit—the poverty of a marsh lord had shackled his imagination. After Highgarden pledged five hundred thousand dragons' worth of supplies, the hunger for coin had eased in him—he had exceeded the goal he'd set himself.
And now his under-steward, voice trembling, told him there were several million dragons in Gulltown's vaults…
Seven save us—so much…how do I even spend it?
Truly, Gulltown earned its place among the five great cities of Westeros.
One eyebrow arched. He glanced at Layton: How many "several"?
Layton blinked. "Four to five million?"
Gawen looked back to the feigning-calm Lord Graveson. The original plan had been to seize Graveson and his household as accomplices of Lady Lysa and send them to the Red Keep—to win merit for King Joffrey.
But the gold of Gulltown was too vast. Though the dragons now lay in his hands, they were, in law, Graveson's. Each coin bore, invisibly, the burning tower.
Which meant danger—on the road to King's Landing, and after arrival.
Gawen glanced down at his household knight. "Pell. Take them away."
Amid a chorus of voices, the bluecloaks hauled Graveson and his kin roughly from the hall.
Ser Pell unhelmed, cradling steel under one arm. "My lord, what are your orders for them?"
"In the King's name…"
Gawen drew a hand across his throat.
Gold without a master would soon bear a different invisible stamp—the marigold of the marshes.
Gawen seated himself in the Gulltown high seat and tapped the gull-carved arm.
"Only a few million in a dozen years," he mused. "Perhaps Robert I wasn't so profligate after all."
His eyes flickered. Could coin buy supplies one-for-one? Of course not. Westeros's limited production meant limited goods.
Scarcity raises prices. The more of something he bought, the dearer it would become.
So…again the same question: how, by all the gods, should he spend it?
By dawn, banners of House Crabb flew over one of the five great cities of Westeros—Gulltown.
The bolder townsfolk crept from their homes to peer about.
Aside from more bluecloaks on patrol, life looked much as usual.
But the iron tang in the air and the dried, thirsty streaks of blood underfoot told their own tale: there had been a savage fight.
As daylight brightened, more figures crossed the streets, and the city seemed to stir awake.
"I hear we're ruled by wildlings now. Gods help us!"
"Wildlings?!"
"Hush! They say when they're hungry, they eat people!"
"Yes, yes—I heard that too. Especially children!"
"Oh, gods, guard my little one…"
"Shh. Best keep indoors a while. The Duke of the Vale will send men to drive them out, and then—"
"Hey—enough! Come on!"
"What? What's happened?"
"The Gravesons are dead! Their heads are on the gate!"
"Oh—that's our governor—gods…"
"Hurry! We'll miss it if we're late!"
"Yes, go! Quickly!"
Word of the Gravesons' deaths spread. Nobles, merchants, and sellsword factors gathered at the hall doors to protest House Crabb's atrocities.
By noon, Lord Gawen received the outraged delegates in person and—very patiently—laid out House Graveson's crimes.
And what were those crimes?
Gawen explained that Graveson were not only allies of Lady Lysa, but open enemies of King Joffrey's claim to the Iron Throne.
What's more, they refused audience to envoys from the Red Keep who came in good faith, and even threatened force to drive them off.
Thus, acting in the King's name, Lord Gawen moved to arrest them—and met armed resistance. He had no choice but to execute them.
He thought he'd argued the case well. The dozens of delegates answered as one: We don't believe you.
Gawen kept the same mild face and tone, listened with patience, and explained again and again the legality of the executions.
All that afternoon the delegates rejected his invitation to feast; they departed still hot with indignation.
The next day was the same.
The third day—the same.
On the fourth morning, two thousand bluecloaks entered Gulltown on Gawen's orders. The city suffered a cruel and bloody massacre.
The first time, when the coin in the vaults reached six million dragons, Gawen recalled the soldiers.
He received the now-fewer delegates; in their eyes he read hatred.
The second time, when the amount reached eight million, he met with a group half the former size; now he sensed suppressed fury.
The third time, when the total reached nine million, the delegates sought audience with Earl Crabb on their own—and from them he felt a curious affection.
Gawen's expression and tone remained as gentle as ever. He escorted the delegation—now scarcely a third of its original number—to the doors himself.
When their figures had dwindled from sight, he turned to his household knight. "Pell—end it."
For once the stern Ser Pell showed a stiff little smile and bowed with a hand to his breast. "My lord, I am ever at your command."
Gawen almost fancied he heard it—Pell Pili's loyalty +1.
He clapped the knight's arm. "Go. Curfew remains. Our war has only just begun."
When Pell had gone, Gawen paced, rubbing his ink-black hair. The simple folk of the peninsula loved killing—all the more in a war of vengeance.
His thoughts spun. He needed balance. His aim was to rule the entire Vale.
After a time, Layton came to report. "My lord, they are assembled and await your summons."
Because House Crabb's purges had bled Gulltown of many great merchants, Gawen meant to elevate a number of smaller houses to fill the gaps.
For the first tranche, the generous lord put up one million gold dragons in interest-free loans to reputable but weaker firms—to hasten the city's return to prosperity.
The bloodletting ceased; it was time to cut the cake.
Newcomers took old seats, and laughter and applause filled the lord's hall at Gulltown.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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