After a reluctant farewell to Gawen, Samwell Tarly set out on the road home with his sister and younger brother, the three of them laughing together all the way.
They had barely returned to Horn Hill when their father, Lord Randyll Tarly, summoned them directly into his study before they could even unpack.
This time, his father's scolding was harsher than ever before, to the point where he even threatened to drive Samwell out of Horn Hill.
Samwell trembled from head to toe; the fragile bit of confidence he had recently gathered was utterly crushed without mercy.
With a loud bang, the study door was flung open.
Samwell's mother, Melessa Florent, appeared in the doorway with Talla Tarly and Dickon Tarly at her side.
"That's enough, Randyll! I was the one who arranged it! Dickon and Talla wanted to see the tournament—they're still young and needed their elder brother to protect them!"
"My eldest son cannot even protect his family."
…
Horn Hill.
A sky that had been clear just moments ago was suddenly overcast; the sun vanished without a trace, and the clouds hung ever lower.
Samwell Tarly stared blankly at the sudden change in weather and murmured, "It's going to rain."
…
His conversations with Gawen Crabb had been rare and precious moments of happiness for Samwell.
He had never imagined that Gawen, after setting down his sword, would prove to be so learned.
They had discussed history, myths, legends—every topic under the sun.
Gawen had even voiced an idea that still thrilled him to recall: that knowledge was the sharpest blade in the world.
In that moment, Samwell's cowardice had vanished.
In that moment, confidence had lit up his face.
…
That afternoon, taking advantage of his father's absence, Samwell went to see his mother.
Melessa Florent put down her embroidery when she saw her son's bowed head and evasive eyes, and comforted him. "Sam, it was my mistake that got you scolded by your father. I'm sorry."
Her gentle voice made Samwell's eyes instantly redden.
"Sam, believe me—your father may be strict, but he loves you very much."
Samwell looked up at his kind mother, tears glimmering at the corners of his eyes. "Mother, I've found my courage. I'm leaving Horn Hill."
"Sam, you—" Melessa began in shock.
Tears welled up in Samwell's reddened eyes, rolling down his cheeks in large, glittering drops.
"Mother! I may be a coward—but I will make you proud of me!"
…
Highgarden, within the rose maze.
Last night's small banquet had ended with Gawen and Lord Mace Tyrell talking—and drinking—the entire evening.
It had ended with Lord Mace passed out cold.
Strolling through the gardens now, the scent of roses filled the air, but to Gawen it smelled like gold dragons.
He found a shaded wooden bench and sat down.
Stretching lazily, he leaned back against the bench.
Though the banquet had been small in scale, it was of high rank.
After their discussions had concluded, it was already late. Regrettably, Lord Mace had only been able to summon the vassals who were in the castle at the time.
Under Lord Mace's eager gaze, Gawen had launched into a detailed exposition of the lord's little-known military artistry.
When Gawen grew serious, he could be formidable, and with his arguments so coherent, many of the nobles present came to believe his words.
Lord Mace had been all smiles, stroking his beard so much that his neatly trimmed, triangular whiskers became misshapen.
Tonight, there would be another grand feast… Gawen tilted his head back to gaze at the white clouds above and rubbed his throbbing temples with long fingers.
It had been exhausting, but the gains were considerable.
Six days of dueling had earned him over a thousand gold dragons.
The "consultation fee" from the Little Rose had brought in another three thousand.
That morning, Steward Rossell had reported that he had secured a grain purchase from Highgarden—half-sold, half-gifted—and they would even handle delivery to his lands.
At the thought, the ever-ambitious Gawen felt fully recharged.
Because of his one-month arrangement with Jon Arryn, Gawen would have to depart tomorrow; tonight, he would once again sing the praises of his beloved Lord Mace.
That summer, Gawen stood with hands in his pockets, looking around—and found no worthy opponent.
Thinking of Duke Jon, Gawen's thoughts sharpened again; the title of Protector of the Crab Claw Peninsula could soon be within reach.
He knew full well that compared to a coronation under "Emperor" Joffrey, a royal grant in King Robert's time would carry more weight and be more widely recognized.
…
He wasn't sure how much time had passed when, resting with his eyes closed and mind empty, Gawen twitched an ear.
The voices came from not far behind him.
From their tones, he immediately guessed the speakers' identities: Margaery's group of bedchamber companions.
…
The slightly plump Megga Tyrell called out, "Are you going to keep playing or not?"
Megga, a cousin from a cadet branch of House Tyrell, loved to play kissing games with her cousins.
The slim, bright-eyed Alla Tyrell replied, "Megga, I'm exhausted today."
Alla was also from a cadet branch of House Tyrell.
"Mmm, we went too wild last night. I just want to sit and do nothing."
This came from Menedyth Crakehall of House Crakehall.
Another Tyrell cousin, Ermesande Tyrell, said timidly, "If we're all tired, let's rest a bit. Lady Margaery still has work to do—shall I play the wooden harp for you?"
Megga waved her hand. "Enough, Ermesande. Aren't you tired? Come sit with us for a while."
"Thank you, Megga."
…
"Did you notice Lord Mace at last night's banquet? I've never seen him so happy."
"Of course—anyone with eyes could see it."
"Megga, why do you talk like that?"
"Don't be mad. We'll play games with you this afternoon."
"I think it was because of that visiting guest."
"You mean the bard?"
"The bard? Hahaha!"
The girls burst into laughter.
"He drew everyone's attention and stole the show."
"As the queen's envoy, he kept his tongue moving all night. I think it wasn't easy for him."
"Alla, I know you—you're only lenient toward knights you like."
"Baron Gawen Crabb comes from the Crab Claw Peninsula. I even heard some people at the banquet saying the nobles there are half-wildlings."
"Wildlings? He doesn't look the part at all!"
"Could his swordsmanship come from some mysterious wildling magic?"
…
"Hush, I've got an astonishing secret. I'll tell you, but you must promise to keep it quiet."
"Of course, sister!"
"Stop acting mysterious—out with it!"
"Lord Mace may be going to King's Landing…"
"What about Lord Renly…"
"Lord Renly? Why bring him up all of a sudden? You're hiding something—out with it! You get one chance—tell us everything you know!"
So, even Highgarden had no secrets!
Gawen's lips curved in a faint smile as he lay back silently on the bench, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed—content to keep eavesdropping.
…
The Red Keep, Tower of the Hand.
Jon Arryn's declining health had finally drawn the attention of Robert Baratheon, who had been absorbed in his hunts, forcing the king to return to King's Landing.
Robert stared at the frail, aged man propped against his pillows, then laughed gruffly. "Jon, you look better than I thought. Seeing you so full of life, we can go to the brothel tonight."
In his youth, Robert had been tall, clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, and open-hearted—a clear-eyed dream prince to young women.
But once crowned, he had drowned himself in food and drink until his weight ballooned beyond salvation, his waistline nearly matching his height. Even a short walk left him panting and sweating. His thick black beard hid his double chin, but nothing could conceal his rounded belly or the heavy shadows under his eyes.
…
"Ha… cough, cough!"
Jon chuckled but was overtaken by a cough.
Robert laughed and sat on the bed's edge.
When the coughing stopped, Jon said, "You sweaty fat man."
"Fat man? Are you talking about me, Jon? You dare speak that way to your king?"
Though he put on an angry face, Robert soon burst into laughter again. "Damn you—you're right as always."
Then his expression sobered. "Jon, you must get well soon. I know exactly what sort of fool I am—a fool no better than the Mad King. Without you at my side, the gods would never forgive me."
Jon shook his head weakly. "You're nothing like him—you're far better."
Robert wasn't sure why he'd mentioned the Mad King, but the thought filled him with sudden anger. "Damn the gods! All I ever wanted was Lyanna, and they shoved a bloody crown on my head! If only she could return to my arms, everything could be as it was."
Jon listened quietly; he had heard this lament countless times before.
When Robert's mood had cooled, he chuckled. "Jon, you know that saying about kings and their Hands?"
Jon nodded faintly. "The king dreams, and the Hand builds."
"There's a better one I heard from a girl in my bed: the king feasts, and the Hand shits."
Robert slapped his belly and roared with laughter.
Jon coughed again, hiding a smile. "The smallfolk understand better than we do. The king enjoys the feast, and the Hand cleans up after—wiping His Grace's arse along the way."
Robert laughed again.
"Jon, you're too serious—but this time, you made me laugh."
…
After a pause, Jon said, "Robert, you must prepare—choose a new Hand who can aid you. I won't last much longer, and you haven't much time. You can't govern the realm yourself."
Robert gazed at him, helpless. "You know I've tried. Sitting on the Iron Throne and ruling is a thousand times harder than winning it.
"Legal disputes wear me down, balancing the treasury is worse… and the endless petitions—sitting on that bloody chair all day listening to their whining makes my head go numb and my arse ache.
"Everyone wants gold, or land, or judgments… all nonsense, and my councillors are no better.
"They're fools and flatterers, and it drives me mad.
"Before I came here to see you, I went to that sly old Pycelle. I told him if he couldn't heal my Hand, I'd smash his head in. He swore to me he'd see you well.
"You see, Jon, I'm better suited to ruling with a warhammer. So rest—leave the petty matters to others. They may be fools, but they can still run errands."
Jon shook his head slightly. "Eddard Stark."
Robert stood. "Stubborn as ever."
"Robert… cough!"
"Enough. I'll think about it. My head hurts—I don't want to hear any more of your nagging."
…
The Crab Claw Peninsula, former Crabb lands.
With Gawen's reply, the grain crisis was quickly eased, and morale across his domain stabilized.
Household knight Marson Beck, at one of the newly built Crabb manors, welcomed fellow knight Pell Pyle and Thorn Legion commander Emparra.
The compactly built Marson spread his arms. "Old friend, long time no see!"
Pell, who now bore a fresh scar on his face, embraced him.
The result was a clattering crash of plate armor—a very Crab Claw sort of greeting.
Separating, Marson grinned at Emparra. "Welcome, Emparra!"
Though commander of the Thorn Legion, Emparra was not a knight, and thus ranked below Marson and Pell in status.
Emparra placed a hand over her chest. "Good day, Ser Marson."
Her record in leading the Thorn Legion had already proven her worth.
Marson knew that with the lord's trust, the time would come when Gawen would see her knighted.
The famed Crabb spearwomen had long matched men in skill; the formation of the Thorn Legion—composed largely of such women—had made their reputation resound across the land.
Given that women outnumbered men in the Crabb domain, unlike most of Westeros, a kind of natural equality had taken root.
We are all brothers-in-arms.
Marson smiled and nodded. "Good day. Let's go inside. I'm sure you've missed golden marigold ale—I've made sure we're stocked."
The three set off together.
In height order from left to right—Emparra at 5'9" (175 cm), Marson at 6'1" (185 cm), and Pell at 6'5" (195 cm)—they formed a descending line.
As they walked, Marson glanced sideways. "Pell, that new mark on your face looks good. The hill tribes giving you trouble?"
His words carried genuine concern.
But Pell, knowing Marson well, heard the sarcasm too.
With a cold snort, Pell shot back, "I hear you've taken in a foster son named… Darius?"
Marson snorted. "Don't be jealous—that's Lord Gawen's trust in our family."
Normally taciturn, Pell forced a strange smile just to needle his friend. "Old friend, my information isn't lacking—I know it's all thanks to your eldest, Matil."
The two glared at each other.
So childish… Emparra quietly slowed her pace to give them space.
Inside.
Pell downed a full cup of marigold ale in one go, setting it down with a thump.
"Marson, Emparra, I think it's time to move to the second phase of the Eastward Expansion."
The plan had two stages.
The first: conquest by force, with surrenders as a secondary aim.
Hill tribe communications were slow; if given no chance to unite, they could be beaten tribe by tribe while reclaiming the old lands—starting with the largest.
The second: surrenders first, conquest second.
After breaking the largest tribes, the rest would be small or medium bands whose loot might not even cover the cost of the campaign.
Of course, in Crab Claw fashion, no one really counted the cost—so long as there was a fight to be had, and a victory to be won, that was enough.
Marson and Pell often failed to understand some of Gawen's strategies, but as household knights, they never questioned—only obeyed.
For knights whose families had served House Crabb for generations, loyalty was honor.
Marson shrugged. "No objections. I'm in charge of the prisoners; the more we take, the more credit I get. In phase two, there'll be more of them. As long as the timing's right, I'm all for it."
Pell turned to Emparra.
"No objection, Ser Pell. The Thorn Legion will coordinate with the scouting parties."
Pell gave a steady nod in thanks.
And just like that, one of the highest-level military councils in the Crabb lands—Marson, Pell, and Emparra—was concluded with each saying just one sentence.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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