As noon approached, the red sun grew harsh and hot.
While Gawen waited for the next challenger, Steward Rossell hurried over.
"My lord, the next contender insists on facing you with a spear."
Gawen arched a brow. "Which house?"
"A member of House Crayne, said to be the elder brother of the Crayne swordsman you defeated yesterday."
Gawen's brown eyes flickered. "If this is a duel between swordsmen, and he insists on using a spear, that's fine—but the fee goes up. Charge him a hundred gold dragons."
Rossell inclined his head and left at once.
Not long after, a Crayne spearman, perhaps nearing thirty, strode onto the platform with a dark expression.
Facing Gawen, the challenger lowered his visor.
The deep blare of the warhorn signaled the start.
The Crayne spearman lunged first, using the reach of his weapon to thrust straight for Gawen.
Gawen's longsword moved in a swift arc, striking the spear aside with a ringing clang as he surged forward.
He closed the distance in an instant—before his opponent could react.
With a heavy thud, Gawen's shoulder slammed into the man's chest.
The spearman stumbled, about to topple backward.
With a sharp crack, Gawen brought the pommel of his sword down hard against the man's visor.
A dull, hollow sound rang out; the metal dented, and the Crayne spearman collapsed onto his back, motionless.
"Take him away," Gawen said coldly.
This was an honorable duel between swordsmen. Yet the man had shown up with a spear, face like thunder—despite the extra challenge fee.
Gawen, generous by nature, but mindful of keeping the match pure and the honor of the swordsmen intact, ended it swiftly and decisively.
No one valued honor more than Baron Gawen.
Glancing up at the sun, Gawen made a quick hand signal.
Rossell caught it and announced in a loud voice that the morning's challenges were over.
As Gawen stepped down from the platform, he saw the three Tarly siblings.
Rossell had already informed him that the Tarlys wished to meet.
On the platform, Gawen seemed an unstoppable force.
Off the platform, his refined and gentle features made him easy to like.
He stepped forward with a courteous hand to his chest. "Good day, Ser Samwell Tarly."
Samwell, broad and bearded, smiled shyly. "Good day, Baron Gawen Crabb. This is my sister, Talla Tarly."
Talla, in the bloom of youth, had clear eyes and pale skin. Not strikingly beautiful, but with a quiet charm that lingered.
Gawen inclined his head. "Good day, Lady Talla Tarly. Your presence brings a touch of light to this place."
A faint blush touched her cheeks. She lifted her skirts slightly. "Good day, Baron Gawen Crabb. I thank you for your kind words."
Gawen nodded and turned to the youngest. "Good day, Ser Dickon Tarly."
Dickon's eyes shone as he bowed with perfect form. "Good day, Baron Gawen Crabb. I greatly admire you!"
Gawen's smile held a humble warmth. "I believe you will be an excellent swordsman one day."
After the formal exchange of courtesies, Gawen invited the Tarly siblings to join him for lunch.
The Red Keep – Maegor's Holdfast
That morning, Queen Cersei had quarreled fiercely with King Robert yet again.
Now her temper had cooled.
Winecup in hand, her brow furrowed in thought.
She could no longer bear Robert Baratheon.
To Cersei, every night of his whoring was an insult.
And more importantly—her Joffrey was grown.
As the true heir to Lord Tywin Lannister's legacy, Cersei meant to devise a perfect plan to rid herself of the king who sickened her.
When she was calm, her thoughts always returned to the same conclusion: nothing was as certain as having Jaime do the killing himself.
Better to leave no evidence.
But Jaime's nature was soft, hesitant—convincing him would take time.
Then she thought of her cousin, Lancel, now serving as Robert's squire… and her lips curved faintly as she drained her cup of summerwine.
The Red Keep – Tower of the Hand
To assist the ailing Lord Jon Arryn in governing, Master of Coin Petyr Baelish had moved his office into the Tower of the Hand.
Seated at his desk like a statue, only the flicker of his gray-green eyes betrayed his thoughts.
Petyr was a man who prided himself on learning from every encounter—and he had to admit, Baron Gawen Crabb of the Crab Claw Peninsula had taught him a lesson in power.
The Vale would be his someday—of that Petyr had no doubt.
Now his thoughts turned to ruling it.
Gold could buy loyalty, but such loyalty was fickle—gold could just as easily buy betrayal.
Baelish often purchased the service of those he needed, so he knew this truth well.
His family were not traditional military lords; they lacked both a sworn banner house capable of waging war and troops bound by fealty alone.
In Westeros, without such a foundation, even a man with an army could not truly command it—his enemies could simply buy it away.
Without the deterrent of force, even if he took the Vale, its nobility would hem him in at every turn.
And at any time, the wrong feud could see him murdered by some brutish lord.
That was not the outcome he desired.
In recent days, Petyr had learned that Gawen's enmity with the Vale lords was long-standing and deep—almost impossible to mend.
Which meant that in dealing with the Vale nobility, Gawen could be a naturally reliable ally.
The Crab Claw Peninsula was well-positioned. Perhaps Gawen's forces could serve to check the power of the Vale lords.
With such a check, Petyr could create balance—and with balance, control.
That would give him time to prune the disloyal, to win over the pliable, and to leave only those who served him—making him master of the Vale in truth.
Petyr narrowed his eyes slightly. This was a large transaction.
And for such a deal, he would have to calculate with precision both Gawen's needs and his weaknesses.
Their acquaintance had been brief, but Petyr judged the young baron's cunning equal to his own.
He would have to present Gawen with an offer he could not refuse.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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