Just as he had finished worrying over the grain supply in the reclaimed Crabb lands, Steward Herschel found himself troubled by another matter concerning the domain.
As the renown of the Thorn Legion grew, the Crabb spearwives had become increasingly brazen in their conduct.
Now serving also as Governor of Siren's Port, Herschel received a report from the sheriff: several incidents had already occurred in which spearwives had forcibly carried off men.
With the harbor in full operation, more and more outsiders arrived each day—and it was often these outsiders who fell victim to the spearwives' "rough affection."
Faced with such fierce Crabb women, most men could do little but submit.
The only small comfort for Herschel was that those "injured" by the spearwives were too embarrassed to publicize their plight. Instead, they kept silent of their own accord, so the good name of Siren's Port had not yet been tarnished.
But according to the lord's vision, most of the Crabb domain's future trade would be concentrated in Siren's Port.
The matter could not be ignored; if left unchecked, sooner or later the port's reputation would be harmed.
Herschel was hardly unfamiliar with this "carrying off" custom.
Such behavior had long existed within the Crabb lands.
According to knowledge passed down in his family through the generations, earlier Crabb lords had sought to curb the practice in order to better "fit in" with noble society and improve the domain's "reputation."
But in those days the Crabb holdings—what they now called the Old Lands—were vast, with scattered smallfolk. The Crabb ancestors had little talent for governance, so enforcement was superficial, and the custom thrived in secret.
It was only after the Rebellion that Lady Crabb, mother of Gawen, led her kin to resettle the New Lands. With the smallfolk now concentrated together, she issued a strict ban, and the practice was finally curbed.
After more than ten years of Lady Crabb's rule, the custom had nearly vanished.
But now, as more and more wildlings were absorbed into Crabb service, the old ways were showing troubling signs of revival.
What vexed Herschel most was that Lady Crabb's decree had only prohibited the seizing of women—it said nothing of men.
Thinking of the Lady, Herschel judged it was time to set some order among the spearwives.
Yet only the lord himself could forbid them from "seizing men."
Until Lord Gawen issued such a command, Herschel could do no more than press the sheriff to strengthen patrols. Picking up his quill again, he added a note of the matter to the letter he was writing to Gawen.
The royal hunting party stretched in a long line, moving slowly south along the king's road.
Having just reported the day's general itinerary to Queen Cersei—who seemed even lovelier than usual—Gawen now rode side by side with Lancel.
Though not so striking as Jaime, Lancel's looks made him quite popular among noblewomen and their daughters.
Scorned for his Crownlands birth, Gawen found himself harboring a touch of envy and jealousy toward Lancel.
Lancel, all smiles, confided, "Gawen, I swear they keep sneaking glances at me, and some even strike up talk on purpose. It's strange… but wonderful!"
Gawen cast him a sidelong look, thinking the noble ladies did indeed seem to fancy him.
Wonderful, was it? Maliciously, Gawen wondered if he should secretly arrange for pure-hearted Lancel to be ushered into some lady's tent, leaving him with an indelible "wonderful memory."
Heh, heh, heh.
But Lancel lowered his voice and added, "Don't worry, Gawen. I remember your warning—I'll keep my distance."
Straightening proudly in the saddle, Gawen gave a small nod. "I trust you'll manage well."
The confidence in his words delighted Lancel, who nodded vigorously in return.
After a while, Lancel raised his brows and asked, "And what of you, Gawen? I recall you've no betrothed, have you? Yesterday, I saw you watching over the column. Did no lady catch your eye?"
Gawen shifted his reins, guiding his horse. "They're not for me. I've no wish to waste my time."
Lancel's handsome face grew puzzled. "Not suitable?"
Gawen turned his head. "I've just reclaimed my family's old lands. My domain won't know peace for some time."
Lancel nodded slightly, and Gawen went on: "Crownlands lords live like sheep, all soft and safe. The daughters of sheep could never survive in forests full of beasts."
Lancel agreed. His own House Lannister was a pride of lions; Crownlands nobility were but sheep in comparison.
Yes, Gawen was right—his father would never allow him to seek a bride among sheep.
Lancel thought Gawen's marriage was no easier than his words suggested.
The guileless Lancel even pitied him a little. If only his baby sister were older, she would be perfect for Gawen—and their father would surely approve.
He was speaking of his newborn sister, Jeyne Lannister.
As he imagined it all, Lancel's face shifted through a variety of vivid expressions.
Gawen could only sigh. This generation of Lannisters, he thought, each had their own peculiarities.
The Red Keep, the Hand's Tower bedchamber.
Propped against the pillows, Lord Jon Arryn's cheeks were sunken, his face more haggard and aged than ever.
At his bedside, Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, was reporting on the kingdom's affairs.
"Petyr, has King Robert not yet returned?"
Baelish shook his head lightly. "My lord, His Grace is already on the road back."
Jon Arryn exhaled weakly and, after a silence, spoke again. "The taxes… I'll not ask. I trust you, Petyr, to see to them well. You are a man worthy of trust."
A polite smile touched Baelish's lips as he inclined his head in thanks.
"Petyr, because I trust you, I must confess—my health leaves me no choice but to think of what comes after. Who do you judge fit to succeed me as Hand of the King?"
Baelish's eyes flickered. "My lord, Grand Maester Pycelle has assured me you will recover before long."
Even so, the words gave Jon a measure of comfort.
He nodded faintly. "Life is like the weather—unpredictable. Better to be prepared than caught unready. That is my duty."
Baelish did not answer at once. Instead, he countered, "Have you, perhaps, already someone in mind, my lord?"
After a moment's thought, Jon sighed. "Aye, there is one. But it is difficult. I know him—he would never wish it. He despises the air of this place. Yet he is the best suited to serve Robert."
The best suited to serve Robert? A spark leapt in Baelish's thoughts. He already guessed whom the Hand meant.
Would the direwolf come south?
.
.
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