Gawen: "..."
He sighed inwardly. Ignorant and barbaric—that was the common impression most people held of the Crab Claw Peninsula.
The descendants of the First Men were fierce fighters, but only because they had long been forced to survive in a brutal and chaotic land.
When the Andals brought the Faith of the Seven to Westeros, the First Men's domains were reduced to two harsh regions: the North and the Crab Claw Peninsula.
Compared to the Peninsula, the vast North was far more stable.
A thousand years ago, House Stark of Winterfell defeated its greatest rival, the Dreadfort's House Bolton, forcing them to surrender their kingship and bend the knee. That victory essentially unified the North and ended its chaos.
The Crab Claw Peninsula, by contrast, never stopped its internal bloodshed—except when faced with external enemies.
From time to time, a hero would bring brief peace to the Peninsula. One such was House Crabb's legendary warrior, Clarence Crabb. But when the hero died, the chaos always returned.
During Robert's Rebellion, the Peninsula's nobility suffered devastating losses as part of the losing side.
In the aftermath, Jon Arryn and the lords of the Vale imposed a relentless blockade and suppression that lasted over a decade, making the Crab Claw's wars bloodier than ever.
The Peninsula's weakness, however, had become Gawen's opportunity to end the chaos.
A broad-minded man, Gawen did not trouble himself over the idle chatter of young ladies.
Once his plan to march west succeeded and he gained full control of the Crab Claw Peninsula, his next step would be to push outward, westward beyond the Peninsula.
Many Crownland lords had once tried to conquer the Crab Claw. Among them was House Mooton of Maidenpool.
Maidenpool was perfectly positioned. Tonight, Gawen suddenly thought that it ought to become his first target when expanding west.
This decision was born of the old feud between the Crabbs and House Mooton—certainly not because of some careless remark from a young Mooton niece.
Outside the inn's encampment, night had fallen.
Mondon Waters was happily devouring a basin of meat.
Nearby, Anguy slumped against a tree, sighing wearily."Without wine, I can't even stay awake anymore…"
Mondon gave a simple, sheepish grin.
Anguy turned to him. "You seem fine. Don't you love your drink as much as anyone?"
He paused, then added, "Strange, everyone else seems used to it too."
Mondon swallowed before answering. "Those are the lord's orders. During a campaign, no one drinks. At first, everyone grumbled just like you. You'll get used to it."
Anguy sat down beside him, lowering his voice. "Does that mean there'll be a battle?"
Though quiet, the excitement in his tone could not be hidden. Anguy longed for combat. He dreamed of knighthood, and for that he needed merit—lots of it.
Mondon shook his big head. "Can't say for sure."
Anguy's shoulders slumped again. "True enough. This is the Crownlands. The Queen herself is here. Who would dare attack us?"
"Even so," Mondon replied with clumsy earnestness, "too much drink dulls the edge. Out here, you never know what might happen. Enemies won't spare you just because you've had too much."
Anguy nodded. As a natural archer, he especially needed a clear head.
"You're only struggling because it's new. We've all been through it. Soon you'll be fine. There'll be plenty of time for wine in the future—but only if we're alive."
Anguy found comfort in the big man's words.
He studied Mondon's simple, smiling face. "Why do I suddenly feel you're wiser than you look?"
Mondon only chuckled sheepishly again.
Inside the inn, Cersei's guard was entrusted to Lannister redcloaks. Goldcloaks and Crabb's bluecloaks were stationed outside.
After finishing his patrol, Gawen now sat by the campfire, gazing up at the night sky.
Footsteps approached.
Gawen's eyes flickered—Ser Jaime, clad in gleaming silver armor, was walking his way.
Jaime's expression was heavy. He sat down beside Gawen without a word.
Gawen inclined his head in greeting but said nothing further. After all, the two were fundamentally incompatible.
Time passed in silence before Jaime gave a small cough.
Hearing that familiar prelude, Gawen rolled his eyes inwardly.
Jaime spoke with some awkwardness. "Little baron, care to talk?"
Gawen rolled his eyes again in his heart. When you need something, I'm 'little baron.' When you don't, I'm just 'wildling.'
A faint smile curved his lips. "Ser Jaime, you don't seem in the best of spirits."
As he spoke, Gawen signaled to a squire.
Two cups were set down, filled with summerwine.
Jaime took a sip, sat in silence, then asked, "You seem to know the Queen's… Cersei's… tastes very well."
No one knows better than you, surely.
Gawen spread his hands. "What answer do you expect from me, ser?"
Another silence.
Jaime leaned back, eyes fixed on the starry sky. "I remembered my father's counsel. He said that when one is lost, it's wise to listen to others' advice, and then judge whether it holds merit."
Gawen lifted his hand, spreading five fingers.
Consultation fee: five gold dragons, or no advice.
True to his Lannister blood, Jaime understood at once. His green eyes flickered with comprehension.
A lion of Casterly Rock never betrayed emotion at a price.
With a dazzling smile, Jaime unclasped his purse and tossed it across. "More than enough."
Gawen caught it easily.
But Jaime had misunderstood—this purse contained at least fifty gold dragons.
A beautiful misunderstanding indeed. What Gawen had meant as a perfunctory gesture now became serious business. He straightened his back.
Crab Claw Peninsula. A dense forest in the northeast, once Crabb land.
A sentry of a wildling clan stiffened as a short sword pressed coldly to his throat from behind.
The blade gleamed in the dark. He trembled.
The soldier of the Scout Corps clamped a hand over his mouth and slit his throat cleanly.
The midnight woods fell silent.
Swish!An arrow hissed through the night.
Before he could react, the scout fell with a shaft through his chest, eyes dimming into death.
Swish, swish, swish!Three more scouts loosed arrows toward the direction of the shot.
"The enemy was ready! Inform Ser Pell at once!"
"Yes! Death before failure!"
"Scout Corps—death before failure!"
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