In Whisper City, Maester Arl, seeking to bolster the credibility of his report, described in meticulous detail to the Citadel the Crabb family's campaign to reclaim their ancestral lands.
It was not Arl's intent to leak House Crabb's secrets—his precise scholarly habits and a touch of pride in his pupil's achievements simply carried him away.
The lords of the Crab Claw Peninsula had always been brave, but they lacked learning.
From the moment Gawen had learned his letters, it was under Maester Arl's tutelage. The old man enjoyed reminiscing; looking back now, he felt a deep sense of accomplishment.
Though well-read, Arl was no commander. Without meaning to, he had let slip certain details that could be called military intelligence.
Under his quill, the Crabb campaign took on an artistic flair. To most of the nobles of Westeros—save for a select few with keener minds—it was hardly impressive. "Just wildlings," they scoffed. "Give me the chance, and I could do the same."
Samwell Tarly, Randyll's eldest son, desperate for his father's approval, was among that small minority who looked deeper.
Once the report reached the Citadel, it would be condensed again before being sent by raven to the maesters of "friendly" lords across Westeros.
At Horn Hill, Samwell—ever the reader—took notice. He even persuaded the castle's maester to request the more complete original from the Citadel.
In his father's presence, Samwell always spoke haltingly, which only deepened Randyll's disdain.
"F-father, I… I've been studying the Crabb family's campaign."
Randyll acted as though he had not heard.
Samwell pressed on. Simply standing here and speaking up was the greatest courage he had ever mustered.
"I've read a great deal. The wildlings of the Crab Claw Peninsula are natural warriors… not weak at all. For Lord Gawen to defeat them with so few men—he is worthy of attention. His methods are unlike those we are used to—"
Randyll Tarly was a proud man, and with reason.
In Robert's Rebellion, he had led the only force ever to defeat Robert Baratheon in the field, at the Battle of Ashford.
Straightforward and unbending, with a will of iron and a keen mind, he had once been called by Kevan Lannister the man most capable of ending war in Westeros after Tywin's death.
Naturally, he had read the brief account of the Crab Claw campaign. His elder son was weak, his younger still too young. All he had thought was, A pity he is not mine.
Randyll cut Samwell off.
"So—you've studied all this, and to what end? If you met Crabb on the battlefield, could you defeat him? Or do you think yourself braver than those death-seeking wildlings? When a warhorse charges and screams in your face, will you even be able to hold your sword?"
"Get out of my sight."
Samwell's heart pounded. He was certain there was something about Crabb's archers worth knowing—that Horn Hill ought to have this knowledge ahead of time. There were more details to share, more arguments to make…
Sweat streamed from his brow to his jaw, dripping like rain.
"Out!!"
Samwell flinched. Under that cold, unyielding gaze, all his hard-won courage dissolved. He fled the hall in shame.
Tyrion returned again, bearing word that the queen was "recuperating," and would not see Gawen until the scars on her face were gone—for they marred her noble image.
After quietly sharing this "confidential" tidbit, Tyrion hauled him off to drink and hear music.
For five evenings in a row, Gawen found the Imp's small form swaying toward him at dusk.
Each time, Tyrion had some compelling reason that made refusal awkward.
Gawen knew the game well; he had played it himself in another life—Start with sincere advice, drop a piece of seemingly important intelligence, leap past the unfamiliar stage to a sense of camaraderie, add wine and women… and if it went smoothly, the other would soon have no defenses—and no secrets—left.
He wanted to tell Tyrion: the finest hunters often appear as prey.
Still, he followed Tyrion into the opulent life of King's Landing's nobility, all the while playing his role to perfection—humble, honest, merciful, wise, brave, just, self-sacrificing, and honorable.
A fully committed Gawen was dangerous indeed; he played the part so well he almost believed it himself.
Red Keep – Gardens
With dark circles under his eyes, Tyrion sat slumped on a wooden bench, staring blankly as his niece Myrcella and nephew Tommen played.
He raised a small hand to catch the apple tossed his way, bit into it with a crisp crunch.
Jaime, amused, sat beside him, his gaze on the children warm.
Tyrion let out a long, wine-laden burp."Jaime, I've decided—starting tomorrow, I'm giving up all wine. Seven save me as witness!"
Jaime chuckled."I've lost count of how many times I've heard that."
"All right, I forget myself sometimes. But I really do mean to rest for a few days."
"You've been getting on well with the little wildling?"
Tyrion nodded."So young, yet without urgency or petulance. Born to the wilds, but quick to learn and hungry for knowledge. He has desires, but not greed—and rarest of all, a good heart."
Jaime leaned back comfortably."Are you describing him—or yourself, dear brother?"
Tyrion blinked, then grinned."Am I so magnificent in your eyes, dear brother?"
"Seems you've taken a liking to the boy," Jaime said, glancing sidelong at his toothy smile.
Shuffling closer, Tyrion lowered his voice."If I were Cersei…"
He tipped his chin toward Myrcella. Jaime's gaze shifted to his niece.
"Myrcella's betrothal could be to this young wildling. He's worthy. This is—"
"Enough!" Jaime's voice cracked like a whip.
Tyrion was unfazed, only puzzled."That's quite a reaction. You can trust my judgment—it's not made lightly."
Jaime paced a few steps, hand gripping the hilt at his belt."Myrcella is still a child. I won't see her used in any political game. I'll keep her far from such schemes, always happy. My sword will cut down any shadowed claws that reach for her."
Tyrion blinked, taking in his brother's vehemence.
Jaime caught himself, looking embarrassed. He sighed, sat back down, and patted Tyrion's shoulder."My apologies. I detest marriages made for profit. I was… irrational. I hope I didn't wound you. It wasn't aimed at you."
Tyrion shook his head."When Father arranged Cersei's match to Robert, it was the first time I saw you lose control—and the first time you defied him. I can understand your feelings. I adore Myrcella as well; she embodies every good thing I can imagine."
"This was a sincere suggestion—not some cynical bargain. I am her uncle, too."
"But I'll also remind you, my dear brother… our name is Lannister. Lannister…"
"Enough. You know I like to jest, Jaime."
Jaime remained silent, hands clenched, brows drawn tight.
.
.
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