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Chapter 1: Either the Queen or the Mother of Dragons
Crackclaw Point once had its own legendary hero, named Clarence Crabbe.
During the reign of Jaehaerys I, there was Ser Clement Crabb of the Kingsguard, who hailed from this land.
During the Battle of the Trident in the War of the Usurper, the great houses of Crackclaw Point fought to the last alongside Prince Rhaegar. The people of Crackclaw Point proudly proclaimed themselves model vassals of House Targaryen.
Robert Baratheon won the war. House Crabbe, which was never populous to begin with, suffered grievous casualties. Only one male heir remained: Glynn Crabbe, who was still in his mother's womb at the time.
...
The Whispers, a crescent-shaped military fortress built against a mountain. A few small houses were scattered sparsely around the fortress.
The Great Hall of The Whispers.
The perfectly integrated transmigrator—Glynn Crabbe—sat upright in his high-backed lord's chair. Behind him hung a massive banner depicting a golden marsh marigold.
A man and a woman stood to his left and right.
The man was about forty, around five feet seven inches tall, bald and balding, wearing a blue, round-collared long robe.
The woman was in her early thirties, about five feet seven, with long, chestnut-colored curly hair, wearing a low-cut, long blue dress.
They were Steward Herschel and the household steward, Sulana.
At that moment, an old farmer knelt respectfully in the center of the great hall. His voice was laced with cautious deference. "Yes, my lord, I confirm it... Every day, when I go out to farm, my neighbor, Marciel, always runs over to my house to... engage in all sorts of... vigorous activities with my... woman. It's happened many times."
After finally listening to the old farmer's halting account, Glynn Crabbe's expression remained largely unchanged, save for a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The Great Hall fell silent for a moment.
Seeing that his young master had no intention of speaking, Steward Herschel cleared his throat and said, "Old Pell, are you saying you've caught them in the act? Didn't you... do anything?"
Old Pell was silent for a moment before replying, "I was very angry, but I'm no longer young. Marciel is younger and stronger than me. I can't win in a fight..."
"What about your son?"
"He... can't win either..."
*Oh, the women of Crackclaw Point are certainly fierce!*
After today, going by local customs, the old farmer would probably soon earn a resounding moniker, something like "Pell the Pliant."
To be a worthy lord, protecting the weak was a bounden duty. Only when the weak are protected can the soil of loyalty be cultivated.
Glynn Crabbe understood even more clearly that, from another perspective, everyone was a whelp in need of protection. Yes, including himself.
The fifteen-year-old lord's voice still carried a hint of adolescence. "Old Pell, your lord has heard your account. I will arrange for two swordsmen to go with you."
After speaking, Glynn Crabbe's grey eyes turned to a tall, armored, middle-aged man standing to one side of the hall. "Ser Pell," he continued, "you will arrange for two quick-witted soldiers. If there are no issues, arrest the man directly."
Glynn Crabbe tilted his head slightly and said in a low voice, "Herschel, where are we short-handed right now? Hmm... find a dangerous post."
Steward Herschel seemed to have an answer ready. "My lord, the domain can always use laborers for heavy work, but I suggest you give him a sword instead. The mountain clansmen are growing restless again, and you need more warriors. You are merciful; you must always give your people a chance."
*Alright, so he's young and strong, is he? Likes to cuckold others? Full of vigor? Fine. Give him a sword and let him go risk his life against the wildlings. If he's lucky enough to survive, it will be solely due to the grace of his merciful lord. He should be grateful, hold his sword tight, and be ready to do it again.*
Glynn Crabbe gave a slight nod and waved his right hand dismissively.
Old Pell's eyes reddened. He bowed deeply to his lord. Though his back was bent, he felt as if he were standing taller. His whole body felt filled with strength. He secretly resolved again and again to work his fields well for his lord. With a good harvest, he could surely pay more wheat in taxes this year than the last.
*My lord seems too thin,* he thought. *It must be because he hasn't eaten his fill. If I manage the farmland well and the harvest increases, my lord can eat more and put on some weight.*
"Next."
"My lord, my farming tools are broken..."
"Lord, my son's stomach has been aching for several days. I beg you..."
"My lord, that was my kill! The mountain clansmen stole my..."
"Merciful lord, the mountain clansmen are always appearing near our village. The villagers are very worried..."
"Yes, they travel in groups of five or six..."
...
The morning's task of receiving his people's petitions was finally complete. Glynn Crabbe no longer had to maintain a dignified sitting posture. He stretched lazily and rose from the tall wooden chair. *Damn this noble posture, having to hold it as still as a painting.*
"Lady Sulana, bring a basin of hot water to the study. Have lunch sent there as well. Also, tell Maester Al to prepare a raven. I want it ready to fly as soon as my letter is written."
In the castle study, after finishing his lunch and clearing the table, Glynn Crabbe picked up a quill pen.
This was the third letter.
Its recipient was the current queen, Cersei Lannister.
After the War of the Usurper, he was the only male heir of the main line of House Crabbe left. Because he was still in his mother's womb at the time, the chivalrous Eddard Stark persuaded the new king, Robert Baratheon, to pardon Glynn Crabbe's mother, sparing her from execution. Thus, House Crabbe was fortunate enough to preserve the flame of its line.
But after the war, the Hand of the King for the Baratheon dynasty, Lord Jon Arryn, did not forget to use various means to suppress the former model houses of the Targaryens, including House Crabbe. He did so relentlessly for a decade.
Next year, the curtain will rise on the song of ice and fire. The game of thrones is about to begin.
There was much Glynn Crabbe needed to do.
If he wanted to join this stage, as a noble of the Crownlands, he first had to ease relations with the Red Keep.
More than a decade had passed. Jon Arryn had finally grown old, his vigor a far cry from what it once was. According to the plot, his days were numbered.
House Crabbe could finally breathe a small sigh of relief.
But he could not just go with the flow, could not be content with the status quo.
House Crabbe, mocked as half-wildling, might not have known how to play the game before, but now, Glynn Crabbe—he had arrived.
Glynn Crabbe paused his thoughts, preparing to channel the god of flattery.
To Her Grace, the Queen, who embodies both courage and beauty,
Out of admiration, I send you my most sincere greetings, and I apologize for this humble servant's impertinence in disturbing you.
The war has been over for fifteen years. At that time, your humble servant was still in his mother's womb, quietly enjoying a warmth his memory could not retain.
Since coming of age, I have been ever grateful for the Crown's mercy, which allowed House Crabbe to endure.
Daring not to be lax, and daring not to forget our roots, I am reminded of our house words—Our Will Is Our Walls.
As I have grown older, my understanding has deepened. The core of House Crabbe's words is loyalty.
The dragons have been gone for fifteen years. Though House Crabbe survives, it has lost its way... The Crabbe of old, out of loyalty, charged forth without hesitation, even knowing it was a path to ruin.
Because of that past loyalty, House Crabbe has lost all trust in this new world.
Without trust, the loyalty of House Crabbe has nowhere to rest.
Would one as noble as yourself be willing to bestow upon House Crabbe a chance?
I have heard Your Grace will soon be hunting in the Kingswood. House Crabbe yearns for the honor of serving you.
Your servant, captivated by your charm—Glynn Crabbe.
Glynn Crabbe put down his pen. The next step: either the Queen or the Mother of Dragons.
(end of chapter)