Whispers Hall – Lord's Chamber
Gawen took the horn cup from Karlea, sipped the red wine brewed in his lands, and naturally frowned.
Still awful.
He handed the cup back to her and turned to the short, stocky man kneeling before him. "Rek, son of the First Men—I accept your oath of fealty."
[Rek Snow, early thirties, Northern bastard, captain of a seaborne mercenary company from the Vale, a "gift" from Petyr Baelish.]
Gawen rose from his seat and slowly walked down toward Rek.
Tap. Tap. He stopped in front of the man, staring down for a moment before drawing his sword with a sharp hiss.
He studied the motionless Rek, then gave a subtle nod.
Rek felt the cold steel touch his shoulder. A drop of sweat ran down his forehead. He felt like a trout waiting for the butcher's knife.
No escape... not this time.
His back was drenched in sweat.
"Rek Snow, I hope the next time I draw my sword for you, it will be to name you my Sea Knight."
At those words, Rek couldn't help but look up at the voice.
His chest swelled with emotion, and with the blade still pressed to his shoulder, he shouted:
"Lord Crabb, I will serve you till my last breath! I swear it by the Old Gods and the New!"
Gawen sheathed his sword, glanced at Rek's impassioned expression, and climbed back to his seat without a word.
He watched Rek closely. Under that gaze, Rek quickly calmed himself and bowed again, more cautiously this time.
"Rek, I order you to recruit enough sailors at Mermaid Port to crew three deep-sea ships."
"At once, my lord!"
"Rise."
Gawen's gentle tone made Rek even more nervous. Once he stood, his posture was more respectful than ever.
Turning to the man standing nearby, Gawen said, "Captain Froy, see that Rek's family is well settled."
Rek's eyes shimmered. "Thank you for your kindness, my lord!"
Gawen nodded, visibly pleased. "Rek, the Crabb bloodline descends from the First Men. You now have a new life. Go."
Rek bowed deeply and left with Captain Froy.
Once they had gone, Gawen tapped the armrest of his chair with long fingers.
His mind wandered back to the cousin he had seen just the day before—Lyanna Crabb.
She had officially renounced her claim to House Crabb. Gawen needed to make arrangements accordingly.
She had already been married once for the family's benefit. Whether she now wished to pursue love or remain independent, Gawen would not interfere.
Would she fall for the wrong man again? Listen to the whispers in the crypts…
But so long as Gawen lived, Whispers Hall would always be Lyanna's home. Her place, her status, and his protection would never fade.
If anything, it was the men Lyanna fancied who ought to worry.
A week later, after inspecting newly built manors across reclaimed Crabb territory, Gawen rode with his knight Mason Baker to the ruins of the family's ancestral seat—Whispers Hold.
Once a castle, now overgrown, it stood atop a cliff built of ancient, unmortared stone.
Moss covered every crevice. Trees had sprouted through the foundations, and the walls near the cliff edge had crumbled. Twisted, red vines—poisonous—now bloomed across the broken rocks.
Below, fifty feet down, waves crashed against a shattered lighthouse. Behind it loomed a massive cave mouth.
The sea had worn hollow caverns beneath the cliff. When the tides rolled through the passages, the air carried a low, moaning sound—thus the name: Whispers Hold.
There was another tale behind the name.
They said Clarence Crabb, the legendary hero of the Crab Claw Peninsula, stood eight feet tall and was strong enough to pull up pine trees with one hand and hurl them half a league. No horse could bear his weight, so he rode a wild bull.
His wife was a forest witch. After each kill, Clarence would bring home the head and ask his wife to kiss the dead man's lips—to resurrect them.
The victims included lords, sorcerers, knights, pirates—even a king from Duskendale.
Revived, but only as severed heads, they spoke in hushed voices and never ceased talking. The Crabb castle became known for its endless, murmuring whispers.
Gawen stood gazing at the ruined fortress.
"Mason, I've decided to rebuild the ancestral keep."
The knight, descended from generations of Crabb retainers, beamed with pride.
He had grown up at Whispers Hold and was deeply attached to the place.
In his memory, it had always been half-ruined. The Crabb ancestors, after all, had never cared for comfort. As long as it had walls, it was livable—true wildling nobility.
After Robert's Rebellion, Lady Crabb had led the surviving family west to what became Whispers Hall. Now, decades later, the old keep had completely collapsed.
"Ser Mason, I'm entrusting you with its restoration."
Mason placed a hand to his chest and bowed. "An honor, my lord. I shall not fail."
Gawen nodded slightly.
Restoring the ancestral keep would mark the full reconquest of Crabb territory.
The eastward campaign was nearly done. The old keep wasn't just a symbol—it was tied to House Crabb's very title.
Once completed, Gawen planned to rename Whispers Hall. Perhaps Blue Keep, to mirror the Red Keep of King's Landing?
Before leaving, Gawen named Mason Baker as Commander of the Garrison Corps—the defensive branch of the Crabb forces.
Then he inspected the camps of both the Reconnaissance Corps and Thorn Legion.
Their commanders, Ser Pell Pilly and the Thorn captain, each received the same order:
"Recommend candidates for the new rank—Thirty-Captain."
This was Gawen's plan to tighten control over his forces—to make command flow like an extension of his own arm.
In the Crabb military, the lowest officer rank was Ten-Captain. The next was Hundred-Captain.
The new Thirty-Captain rank would sit between them.
Each Hundred-Captain would now command one direct Ten-Captain, three Thirty-Captains, and nine subordinate Ten-Captains—three under each Thirty.
As for the name, Gawen deliberately avoided using squad leader—it didn't suit the tone.
Once the Thirty-Captain system was in place, Gawen would introduce another rank: the Three-Hundred Captain—commanders above the Hundred-Captains.
Starting next year (Westerosi year 298), he would host annual banquets for each officer tier:
The Ten-Captain Banquet
The Thirty-Captain Banquet
The Hundred-Captain Banquet
The Three-Hundred Captain Banquet
These would become yearly traditions, like holidays in Crabb lands.
All part of Gawen's strategy: no matter how vast his army grew, it would remain under his absolute control—starting now.
When Gawen returned to Mermaid Port, it had been exactly one month since his last visit.
Administrative Hall – Mermaid Port
Gawen observed the transformed Dick Rivers and nodded inwardly.
He was still thin, but stood straight, almost like a young nobleman.
His eyes still darted around too much—but he no longer looked like a thief at first glance.
Gawen didn't demand perfection. Sixty points was a pass, and Dick now scored over seventy. That was enough.
He is strict with himself, lenient with others, Gawen reminded himself.
He glanced at Yulia, now a true noble lady in appearance, and smiled approvingly.
"Sit, Dick. Yulia."
His gentle tone made both siblings flinch slightly.
Perhaps it was better when he looked stern.
"Sit, I said."
Yulia obeyed calmly. Dick flinched again before finally sitting.
Gawen began: "Dick, Yulia, I've never considered you outsiders. You're part of my house. But even kin who err must face consequences."
Dick's smile froze. He nodded stiffly.
Turning to Yulia, Gawen said, "You will be granted an estate on the Crab Claw Peninsula, under House Crabb's protection."
Yulia looked stunned. She thought her transformation into a lady had been for… something else. Her emotions tangled, she could hardly process it.
She stood and curtsied. "Lord Crabb, thank you for your mercy. I will never forget your kindness."
Gawen nodded, then turned to Dick, who immediately stiffened.
"Dick Waters, your sister will marry. Her future depends on you."
Yulia started to protest, but Dick stopped her and nodded firmly.
"My lord, I'm ready. Just give the order—I'll succeed."
He believed in the skills he'd honed slaying chickens—and more than that, for Yulia's sake, he'd risk anything.
Gawen saw the emotion in their faces and nodded inwardly.
"You're my kin. I won't send you on a suicide mission. If I can help it, I want you alive—and with your own castle someday."
He continued:
"When the mission is done, you'll both be rewarded. I'll even grant you the Crabb name.
Yulia, as a legitimate daughter of House Crabb, will find a husband of standing and become lady of a noble house, raising children in love.
And you, Dick—you will have land, a keep, and your own rightful heirs."
Dick's eyes welled with tears.
"Lord Gawen, I…"
He choked up, wiping his face fiercely.
No tears. Too embarrassing.
Gawen stepped forward and clapped his shoulder.
"The future of the house depends on you. A strong Crabb legacy will protect you in return. For Yulia, and for yourself—do your duty."
Winterfell – The North
Winterfell stood at the heart of the North, connected to King's Landing and the Wall by the Kingsroad.
It was a sprawling castle surrounded by two massive curtain walls and a village near the gates.
Built over a hot spring, its walls were laced with heated pipes, warming every chamber and making it the most comfortable castle in the cold North.
Of all the rooms, Catelyn Stark's was the warmest—so much so that she rarely lit the hearth.
[Catelyn Tully: Lady of Winterfell, eldest daughter of Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun.]
Her husband, Eddard Stark, had just risen from bed after making love.
He pulled back the heavy curtains and opened a narrow window, letting in the chill.
He was 35, broad and solemn-faced, with the long features of the Stark line, brown-black hair, grey eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard already turning silver.
Catelyn drew the fur up to her chin, watching him silently. Her body still ached—but in a good way.
With auburn hair and blue eyes, she remained beautiful even after five children.
"Catelyn, I received a letter from Robert. He says Jon's health is failing. He wants me in King's Landing—to help with matters of state."
Catelyn sat up at once, voice rising in alarm.
"Lord Arryn? Is it serious? My poor sister—Ned, why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"I didn't want you to worry."
Catelyn sniffed. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."
Ned shook his head. "I never win an argument with a Tully."
She shot him a glance and sighed. "Maester Pycelle is skilled. Don't worry too much."
But then her expression changed.
"If Robert's summoning you… Jon may already be dying."
Ned nodded gravely. "That's my fear, too. But I doubt it. If so, Robert would have said it plainly."
Catelyn exhaled. She worried most for Lysa and her young son.
"What will you do?"
After a pause, Ned said quietly: "Winter is coming. My place is here. My duty is to the North."
But Catelyn's voice turned cautious. "He's not just your friend anymore. He's the king. If you refuse, he'll question your loyalty. That could be dangerous."
Ned shook his head. "Robert would never harm me. He loves me more than a brother. If I refused, he'd curse and rage—but forget it in a week. That's who he is."
But Catelyn disagreed. "That was who he was. The man on the throne is a stranger to you now."
Ned's voice softened. "My father only went south once. He never came back."
King's Landing was a place of bitter memories. His father and brother had died there.
Catelyn dropped the furs and reached for him.
"Ned…"
He took her hand.
"What will you do?"
He squeezed her fingers.
"Tomorrow, I'll send a raven. I want to speak with Renly first—learn more before I decide."
Catelyn didn't reply. A sudden fear seized her.
She pulled him into an embrace and held him tightly.
.
.
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