"Baron Crabb?"
In the garden, Margaery Tyrell—who had come looking for her retinue of handmaidens—was the first to notice Gawen Crabb lying on a bench with his face turned up to the sun. She didn't approach, only called to him softly.
"Ah!"
Margaery's handmaidens shrieked in surprise, lifting their skirts as they hurried over to her.
Reluctantly pulled from the intelligence he had been overhearing, Gawen had no choice but to wake.
He sat up with a yawn, lifted his right hand, and waved it lazily from side to side. "Good day, ladies."
Gawen's friendly manner did nothing to lessen the suspicion in the hearts of Margaery's attendants. They all stared at him, their eyes probing.
Their unease did not escape Margaery's notice. She sighed lightly. "You may leave us."
Feeling guilty, the maids exchanged a furtive glance before curtseying to Margaery and withdrawing.
Now the garden held only Gawen and Margaery.
"Lady Margaery," Gawen began, "your handmaidens are both pretty and lively."
Margaery smiled faintly. "And I saw the guilt and regret in their eyes. Baron Crabb, can you tell me what happened between you?"
Gawen furrowed his brow, thought for a moment, and replied, "I think I might have overheard them speaking, and they thought I heard too much?"
Margaery's lovely eyes blinked. "And what did you hear?"
Gawen shrugged. "I was asleep, so I didn't catch it clearly—something about the Master of Laws' name, I think."
At the mention of the Master of Laws, Margaery's faint smile didn't fade, but one of her fingers curled slightly.
Her steps light, Margaery moved closer.
She tilted her small face up, her doe-brown eyes clear and gentle. "Baron Crabb, it sounds as though you happened to overhear quite a remarkable piece of news?"
Gawen took a step back, his tone resigned. "Lady Margaery, your beauty compels me to be honest. In truth, I haven't given it much thought—because it's hardly a secret to me."
"For example?"
"I'm the Queen's Chief Officer of Affairs. I've long been aware of certain movements by Lord Renly."
Margaery's eyes trembled slightly. "Queen Cersei… she's investigating Lord Renly?"
Gawen shook his head firmly. "Her Grace the Queen has no interest in such matters. This is the duty of her officers—especially mine."
Meeting her gaze, Gawen went on, "As a certain Lannister giant once said, loyalty to the Queen is a traditional craft of the Crab Claw Peninsula. I merely take normal precautions, investigating any unusual events near the Queen."
Margaery's voice turned cool as she warned, "Baron Crabb, Lord Renly's station is lofty—he must not be offended."
Gawen spread his hands. "Though we've been quiet for over a decade… Lady Margaery, you know your history. To the people of the Crab Claw Peninsula, there are only two kinds of people: the Queen, and everyone else."
Margaery arched a brow and fixed him with a steady look.
Trying to cow me with those big eyes again? Gawen met her gaze in return.
After a moment, Gawen sighed lightly and looked away.
Margaery's smooth chin lifted ever so slightly.
"Lady Margaery," Gawen said with quiet sincerity, "these are trivial matters—not worth your concern."
He paused, then added, "I've no wish to guess at Lord Renly Baratheon's thoughts, nor am I interested. I care only for Queen Cersei's safety.
"I've made some preliminary inquiries and know that Lord Renly and the Knight of Flowers share a deep friendship—but friendship should not come before family interest.
"Please believe in our good faith. I sincerely wish to see Lord Mace Tyrell—whom I respect most—seated as Hand of the King, governing the realm."
Margaery's rose-red lips moved slightly.
She longed to ask: if the man Gawen most respected, Lord Mace Tyrell, came into conflict with Queen Cersei, whom would he choose? But she knew that posing such a question would make her seem childish—and whatever answer Gawen gave now would be meaningless. Only when the moment came would the truth be revealed.
Gawen's goal was not complicated. He knew great lords liked to hedge their bets; he was simply using the opportunity to hint to Margaery.
The more tangled political schemes became, the more likely they were to go awry. Gawen had no desire to muddy already clear waters.
He couldn't change the nature of great lords; he could only do his best—while steering the conversation elsewhere.
Margaery gave him a sidelong glance, her tone carrying a faint trace of acidity. "You are certainly loyal to Queen Cersei."
Gawen touched his chest and inclined his head. "Lady Margaery, it is my duty—one I cannot shirk."
After his display of humility, Gawen said, "Lady Margaery, I have a piece of advice."
Her eyes lit up and her smile bloomed like a flower. "Baron Crabb, I like your counsel—I'm willing to listen."
Gawen hesitated, then said, "The time is not yet right. My words carry little weight for now. I'll save it for our next meeting."
He put on a look of regret.
Margaery's eyes went wide; she couldn't help but give him a glare.
Horn Hill
Randyll Tarly had once again left Horn Hill.
Seizing the opportunity, Samwell Tarly placed his letter of renunciation of his inheritance upon his father's desk.
When he departed Horn Hill, Samwell led an old horse, bringing only an unfinished book.
For Samwell, slipping away quietly was his final scrap of dignity.
Samwell reached the Crabb camp gates wearing the first smile since leaving home.
Leading his old horse, he approached the blue-cloaked Crabb guards posted at the gate. "Good day. My name is Samwell Tarly, and I've come to seek an audience with Baron Crabb."
Samwell's bulk was memorable; the guard recognized him. "Good day, Ser Samwell. Lord Gawen is not in camp at the moment."
Samwell opened his mouth, wanting to ask where Gawen had gone and when he would return—but he disliked troubling others. He nodded instead. "Then I'll wait."
He crossed to the other side and sat heavily on the ground, wiping sweat from his round face.
Seeing the old horse trembling with each step, the guard offered, "Ser Samwell, your mount is very tired. I can see to it for you."
Only then did Samwell notice the animal's condition. Thinking of his own weight, he felt a pang of pity. He scratched his head sheepishly. "Then… I'd be grateful. I'll see you rewarded."
He cast one lingering glance at his only book. I must finish it quickly!
Eastern Crab Claw Peninsula
The eastward advance of the Crabb forces had entered its second stage.
"Cliff Valley tribe! Open your gates—we've come to invite you to join the Crabb lands!"
"We're all people of the Crab Claw Peninsula! Crab Claw folk don't fight Crab Claw folk!"
"Our lord is a descendant of the legendary Ser Clarence Crabb—we used to be on the same side!"
"We're all descended from the First Men—we shouldn't be spilling each other's blood!"
"Join us, and our lord will grant you your own hunting grounds—you'll never have to fear encroachment again!"
Reyna, her hair in a high tail, came up beside Amparo, tugging at her collar. "Amparo, must we keep shouting? I think this tribe is stubborn as stone."
Amparo frowned. "Keep at it. If they haven't yielded by noon, have the sisters loose five volleys inside."
Reyna's eyes lit with excitement. "This little tribe barely has a hundred people. Should I call them hard-headed or just stupid? My voice is nearly gone, and our soldiers outnumber them several times over—yet they still dare not open the gates. They're asking for death!"
"No one is to start a fight without orders," Amparo warned. "Loose the arrows, then pull back. And when it's time to boil the meat at midday, mind the wind and pick a good spot."
"Aye, Captain—let's make their mouths water!"
Watching Reyna skip away, Amparo added, "We have time. After the arrows, keep trying to persuade them. The entrance to Cliff Valley is narrow—hard to deploy in force. A frontal assault would be costly. Minimize casualties, Reyna. That's the lord's order."
"Fine."
The two had been close friends for years; Amparo knew Reyna well.
Short and slight, Reyna was fiercely warlike—a trait that had only grown since joining the Thorn Legion.
Amparo stroked her hair fondly. "Consider it a rest. We can't fight every day. Ser Mason is restarting the fields at New Farmland—he needs more hands."
Reyna snorted. "I don't need comforting. Like you said, I'll take it as a rest."
Amparo's hand patted her head again before she pulled it back. She had grown strangely fond of the gesture.
Reyna's eyes glinted. "Amparo, why bother with fields? Our numbers are growing, our strength is only increasing—we should keep conquering."
She wasn't the only one thinking that way. Many of the Crabb soldiers felt the same.
War meant better rations, since they were in the field almost daily. More often than not, they outnumbered their foes, and the spoils kept coming in. Life had never been so good.
The captains had noticed the mood. Ser Pell Pirey was experienced enough to handle it, and Amparo was learning quickly.
"Reyna," Amparo said seriously, "haven't you noticed that needless casualties have risen lately? War is like a bowstring—it can't stay taut forever."
Reyna's eyes sparkled in mock amazement. "Mother Leopard, since when did you speak such deep wisdom? You've convinced me in one stroke!"
Amparo flushed.
The last time she saw Pell, she had taken the chance to ask his advice, memorizing a few phrases she thought would help steady the troops. Pell was a blunt man, but honest—and always ready to serve the Crabb cause.
He told her that words could only calm soldiers for a moment; rules alone couldn't lift spirits. A captain had to know how to boost and maintain morale.
He'd shared some personal examples and passed on a few tricks.
Amparo cleared her throat. "Tell the sisters—the Thorn Legion will keep recruiting while we can. Don't miss anyone suitable. Our time is short; Lord Gawen has bigger plans ahead."
Reyna's eyes lit again, and she nodded firmly. "Leave it to me, Captain Amparo!"
"Go on, then." Amparo waved her off like a shepherd shooing a sheep.
The mock-dismissal only made Reyna feel warmer toward her. She bowed formally and left, brimming with excitement for her duties.
Watching her go, Amparo pinched her chin. It really works!
Crabb Camp – Late Night
When Samwell had left Horn Hill, he had not taken so much as a copper star.
Having chosen to leave, he felt that nothing there belonged to him anymore. The old horse and the unfinished book were only borrowed; he meant to send them back.
Perhaps, in leaving home, some subconscious part of him was making one last act of defiance against the father who terrified him.
Still waiting at the camp gates for Gawen, Samwell was beginning to feel faint from hunger.
He refused the dinner offered by the guards.
In his simple mind, this was a military camp—until he was formally accepted, he had no right to eat the Crabb household's food.
Shifting his broad frame, he sat by the gate's firelight and read. Books could make him forget both his unease and his hunger.
The next day was departure day. After the feast in Highgarden, Gawen left the castle with his guards.
By this evening, he had helped Lord Mace Tyrell nearly perfect a war theory built on the core of "winning by not seeking to win."
Gawen believed that Mace could now manage most situations without his aid, using the new theory to continue restoring his own reputation—which was exactly what Gawen wanted.
Though Mace's authority had been hollow, he remained the leader of the Reach, with influence not to be ignored.
By regaining his standing, Mace would eagerly trumpet his unique art of war at every opportunity—and the golden rose of House Tyrell would quietly draw strength from it.
For Gawen, the hope—long hidden—was that this strategy, tailored for Mace, would take root in Reach hearts. As long as the fire was not at their own gates, the Reach should remain still.
The more he saw, the more Gawen felt the Reach was too strong. If he were its leader… he might use it to unite Westeros, then govern the realm with Reachmen. The Reach's scale was enough to absorb the Seven Kingdoms after a war.
Only their long tradition and comfortable lives kept their ambition in check.
Gawen meant to add an invisible leash to their stability.
Until he had grown in power, the golden rose must keep its manners and abide by the rules of the game. No flipping the table.
The Oath at the Gate
Approaching camp, Gawen spotted the broad figure by the gate's brazier before anyone else.
"Samwell?" His eyes brightened, and he quickened his horse.
"Samwell! I'm glad to see you again!"
He dismounted and strode forward with open arms.
Hearing hoofbeats, Samwell had already set aside his book and lumbered to his feet. Seeing Gawen's smiling face eased his heart.
By rights, Samwell should have sent a letter first, asking permission to visit. But Gawen took no offense. Samwell knew he'd judged him rightly—Lord Gawen was a man of broad heart and sharp mind, destined for greatness.
The tall and the stout embraced briefly.
Gawen glanced at the book in Samwell's hand. "I'm the one who's late. Come on, let's go in together."
Samwell shook his head shyly.
Seeing his hesitation, Gawen didn't move, only waited with a gentle smile, silently encouraging him.
At last, Samwell gathered his courage. He thought of the many fine words he had read—but when he spoke, they became plain and direct.
"I… I wish to serve you, my lord."
Gawen's brow lifted, his eyes smiling, his lips curving unconsciously.
What Samwell needed now wasn't polite words—it was a place to rest his uneasy heart.
Gawen drew his sword and held it upright before him. "Samwell, you must know I have always desired your uncommon wisdom. Swear your oath."
Samwell's eyes reddened. His bulk swayed as he dropped to one knee. "I, Samwell Tarly, swear my service to you—to offer counsel, and in time of peril to give my life for you. From this day until my death, I swear it before the Old Gods and the New."
Gawen inclined his head, his voice steady and solemn. "I, Gawen Crabb, swear that there will always be a place for you at my hearth, meat and drink at my table. I swear never to command you to any unjust deed. I swear it before the Old Gods and the New."
[Crabb Territory Intelligence +1]
My lords, I've been quietly working to raise the stakes all along!
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