Highgarden – The Rose Garden
The garden bloomed with carefully cultivated roses, every color bursting in full bloom.
Margaery Tyrell folded the letter and turned her doe-like eyes toward the flower beds.
Both letters Gawen had written from King's Landing—one to Lord Mace Tyrell, the other to Margaery herself—were now in her possession. Today marked the third time she had reread them.
The letter to Lord Mace was brief. The first three lines addressed recent progress with direct, concise wording.
The remaining paragraphs—dozens of them—elaborated on her father's favorite new military theories, which he now loved to expound upon during feasts. Gawen expanded upon them with enthusiasm.
Margaery remembered her father's face lighting up as he read it, showering Gawen with praise.
"Though still young, Gawen has already learned a great deal from me. The lad has promise."
Recalling those words, Margaery felt a faint blush rise to her cheeks.
She sighed to herself. Even her grandmother hadn't stepped in to restrain her father. So be it—his joy mattered more.
The letter addressed to her… was two-thirds praise of her beauty.
Hair, eyes, nose, lips—every outward feature was admired. The words were graceful enough to flatter without a hint of offense or impropriety.
Though she had approached the letter with caution, Margaery found herself enjoying it by the end.
Her maids weren't wrong to call Gawen a bard behind his back.
After the flattery came an update on affairs—more detailed than what her father had received.
While the content was similar, the extra detail in her version somehow left her feeling... a little slighted.
At the end, Gawen mentioned that he'd been entrusted with an important task by the king and would soon depart for Essos.
Margaery frowned. Though he claimed it wouldn't affect their plans, he didn't give a clear return date.
But she quickly relaxed. The Golden Rose valued results, and she trusted Gawen understood what mattered most.
Her grandmother's teachings still echoed: A blooming rose knows when to take control.
Margaery had studied the letters over and over, hoping to understand Gawen better.
He was a type she didn't fully grasp, which meant gaining control over him would take more effort.
She was genuinely curious about their next meeting—after all, he still owed her a "recommendation."
"Lady Margaery, shall we begin the game?"
Her maids' laughter snapped her out of her thoughts.
With a touch of helplessness in her voice, Margaery said, "Sometimes I envy your cheerfulness. I only just sat down to rest."
Megga Tyrell called out loudly, "Lady Margaery, you've been sitting here half the day!"
Ermesande Tyrell added gently, "You really should relax, Margaery."
Alla Tyrell spoke softly, "Would you like me to play a song for you, Margaery?"
The voices came one after another, each filled with care.
Margaery relented. "I know, I know. I've just been busy lately and can't seem to unwind. Don't worry about me."
Megga glanced at the envelope on the table. "Margaery, are you reading that bard's letter again?"
"Again with the bard?"
"His tongue drips honey."
The maids burst into laughter. Even Margaery couldn't help but join in.
Crab Claw Peninsula – Whispers Hall
The sky was clear and blue. A gentle breeze made the day pleasantly cool.
At the castle gates, the carefully dressed Karlea stood expectantly.
Beside her, Maester Arl blinked and teased her lightly. "Don't be so anxious, child. A lady's affection for her lord is nothing to be ashamed of."
Karlea's cheeks flushed. "Maester Arl!"
By Gawen's arrangement, Karlea had been studying under Maester Arl, learning many new and wondrous things.
The more time passed, the more she admired his knowledge—she doubted she'd ever reach his level in this lifetime.
She quickly composed herself. There's nothing to be shy about. A woman from the Crab Claw goes after what she wants.
Maester Arl smiled warmly as he watched the emotions shift across her young face.
A loyal servant of House Crabb for four generations (serving Gawen's grandfather, father, mother, and now him), Arl had spent most of his life at Whispers Hall. He had witnessed the house's many rises and falls.
To him, Gawen was a strange offshoot—very un-Crabb.
A family known only for swordplay had somehow produced a lord who used his mind.
After years of hardship, House Crabb had finally found its moment to rise—and Gawen's arrival was no accident.
The seed had likely been planted long ago, when Lady Crabb insisted Gawen receive a proper education.
Straightening his aged back with pride, Maester Arl thought: I taught him to read and write!
House Crabb now controlled nearly two-thirds of the peninsula, with tens of thousands of subjects.
And the young lord wouldn't stop there. Arl believed the rest would soon fall under Gawen's rule, establishing their house as a dominant military power in the Crownlands.
But he sighed inwardly. This might also mark the start of true war.
Though Jon Arryn and the Vale lords had not yet drawn blades, they had bled the peninsula dry for years. The hatred ran deep.
Maester Arl steeled himself. He had to live a few more years—to serve, to fight back… and perhaps, someday, to sneak a knife into the Vale's side for denying him new books all those years.
At the gates, Gawen dismounted.
"My lord!"
Karlea rushed to him, lifting her skirts as she ran, throwing herself into his arms.
Gawen expected softness—but felt only the hard edges of House Crabb's ancestral armor.
He returned the embrace, gently patting her back with a warm smile… while inwardly confused.
Did I forget something important?
Maester Arl grinned, showing the few teeth he had left. "She's growing up, my lord. Crabb women never lack courage."
They separated, and Gawen lightly stroked her dark hair.
He turned to the maester. "Maester Arl, I'm glad to see you in such good health. You look younger than when I left!"
Hand on his chest, Arl replied, "Thank you, my lord. I sort through reports daily, and the stream of good news keeps me in high spirits."
Gawen chuckled and nodded. "Sam, come."
Samwell Tarly emerged shyly from behind, bowing. "Good day, Maester Arl."
"This is Samwell Tarly, from the Reach. He'll be your new administrative officer."
Arl studied him kindly. "You have the eyes of a maester. Welcome."
Samwell bowed quickly, scratching the back of his head.
Then Karlea turned to Gawen. "My lord, I've prepared hot water for you."
Gawen raised an eyebrow. "Let's head inside."
Three Days Later – Crabb Estate outside King's Landing
The skies were cloudless and blue, but the heavy air made breathing difficult.
Dick Rivers crept silently toward a strong rooster, clutching a dagger.
Just as he moved to strike, the rooster burst into the air, leaving behind a few feathers.
Gritting his teeth, Dick prepared to chase it—only to be stopped by Joffrey.
"Dick, in a real fight, you only get one chance. If you miss, you die. The enemy isn't a chicken waiting for slaughter."
Dick slumped onto the ground, discouraged.
In the first phase of training, the chickens had one leg tied down—easy kills, if he moved quickly enough.
Lately, they'd eaten roast chicken almost every day—all slaughtered by Dick himself.
Whatever the reason, he had shown remarkable perseverance. Joffrey's opinion of him had improved.
"Your arm strength and speed still need work. Rest up, we'll continue shortly."
Dusting himself off, Dick straightened his back. "Yes, Ser Joffrey. I think I'm getting the hang of it!"
At those words, Joffrey's brows twitched subtly.
He thought for a moment, then simply nodded.
Some personalities can't be changed. As long as the job gets done…
He turned, then paused. "You have one week. If you meet expectations, I'll take you and your sister to Whispers Hall to meet Lord Gawen."
After a moment, he added, "If you fail, you'll both stay here. That's Lord Gawen's order."
Dick's eyes widened. "Stay… stay here? Ser Joffrey, I don't quite understand what that means."
Joffrey shook his head. "No, Dick. You understand perfectly well. I'm just a simple hunter repeating my lord's words. Don't question him. Do you understand?"
The glint in Joffrey's eyes made Dick feel genuine fear.
Swallowing hard, Dick forced a grin. "Of course. Tell Lord Gawen he won't be disappointed!"
Joffrey nodded silently and walked away.
Only once he was gone did Dick wipe the cold sweat from his brow.
Again… always with the threats. The pressure is unbearable.
He glanced toward the house where his sister was staying and forced himself to stand tall.
At least they had food, clothing, and shelter now.
Tears welled up—This is hard. So hard. But I don't want to go back—not to the filth, not to the stench.
He liked seeing Yulia like this: a noble lady.
I'm her brother. For Yulia—and for myself—I have to endure.
Feeling recharged, he looked at the rooster—then slumped again.
Why is this little bastard so agile? If only it didn't have wings…
The Red Keep – The Hand's Chambers
Jon Arryn sat alone, his expression grave. With trembling hands, he tossed a small slip of paper into the brazier.
Flames flared.
The note had been secretly sent by Stannis Baratheon. After reading its contents, Jon no longer had any interest in resting.
Stannis suspected that the queen's three children—Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen—were not King Robert's trueborns.
He pointed out that all of Robert's known bastards had black hair, while Cersei's children were golden-haired.
Though Jon and Stannis had disagreed on many political matters, Jon deeply trusted the man's integrity.
"If there's anyone in Westeros more honest than Stannis Baratheon, I haven't met them."
Jon's heart ached. If true, this would shake the kingdom to its core.
Handled poorly, it could spark a war rivaling Robert's Rebellion.
It was too dangerous to entrust to anyone else. Jon would investigate personally.
His first thought: consult Maester Pycelle's genealogy—"Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms"—which recorded the appearance of Baratheon children for generations.
Second: investigate Robert's bastards. They were living proof.
If it were true…
Jon closed his eyes in pain. This wasn't just a royal scandal—it was the Hand's disgrace.
Despite his illness, he began quietly mobilizing loyal men he had brought from the Vale.
That night, Petyr Baelish learned from Lysa Tully that Jon Arryn had secretly summoned his own retainers.
Jon had kept it from everyone—except his wife.
Baelish's gray-green eyes narrowed. Something big was brewing in the Red Keep.
What could it be?
He sank into thought, prompting Lysa to pout.
"Petyr, we haven't spent time together in days. You don't seem to care. It hurts me."
Baelish smoothly shifted his expression and bowed slightly.
"My sweet Lysa… I was just remembering our youth. I've gone gray—but you remain radiant."
His eyes were filled with longing.
Tears shimmered in Lysa's eyes. "Littlefinger, you'll always be the handsome boy who loved only me in Riverrun."
He lifted her chin and kissed her forehead gently.
"My Lysa. I will always love you."
Then his lips curled slightly, eyes gleaming.
The ladder of chaos might be close at hand.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: www.patreon.com/DrManhattanEN👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.