Strong bloodlines… Hearing this, Gawen's eyes trembled slightly.
It would not be long before Lord Eddard realized the truth about the royal lineage.
The Starks were pure. Their nobility of character could even move their enemies, but their weakness was all too apparent.
That unwavering sense of justice would push every opportunist into the enemy's arms—and Cersei's very nature was the perfect counter to the Starks.
The game of thrones had no place for men of unyielding purity.
Lord Gawen had no confidence that he could persuade Eddard Stark to abandon his steadfast principles and act with flexibility. And besides, if Eddard truly prevailed, it would be Stannis Baratheon who inherited the Iron Throne—a prospect that served neither House Crabb nor its interests.
Running a hand through his hair, Gawen thought again of his original plan: to save all of the direwolf pups at the critical moment, as a way of repaying Lord Stark's kindness.
Eddard was speaking to him now with complete candor, his guard entirely lowered.
And even though that sincerity might have "caught him off guard," Gawen's mind remained sharp. He could still weave his way through, shifting left or right as the plan required.
Yet he had the gnawing sense that Eddard Stark was his natural nemesis. For Gawen knew himself well: he could never harden his heart against a good man.
He sighed inwardly. He would never be a flawless player of the game.
…
A faint smile touched Gawen's refined features. Very well—let the capable bear the heavier load. Lord Gawen Crabb could do anything.
Eddard's mood brightened. "That is why I miss the North's plain ways," he admitted. "There the only enemies are the cold and the wildlings."
Gawen nodded in understanding; he too preferred straightforward methods.
After a pause, his expression grew grave. "Lord Stark, out of courtesy we may begin by respecting the rules of the game here in King's Landing. But…"
He clenched his fist. "If it proves fruitless, then we do it the Northern way. King Robert trusts you, and you are the Hand of the King. It should be they who adapt to you—not you to them."
Eddard felt the pull of his words. He had to admit: Gawen's reasoning was compelling.
But the thought of Robert troubled him, and he furrowed his brow.
Gawen's dark eyes flickered; he had guessed the cause of that hesitation.
"My lord, forgive me—but are you concerned about King Robert?"
Eddard looked at him directly, then confessed with frankness: "Gawen, you are perceptive. Robert is like a brother to me, and I came to aid him. I do not wish to make things harder for him."
Gawen fell silent for a moment, then spoke plainly: "Lord Stark, your renown is great across the Seven Kingdoms. But I must remind you… you are not the king."
The direwolf's eyes sharpened suddenly, then softened. "Child, never have I entertained such an idea. But I will hear your reasons."
Gawen lifted his cup, hesitated, and set it back down.
"Forgive my bluntness. You are the Hand, yet you are thinking from the king's perspective, and so you feel bound. But you are a Stark. You have your own way. Whether Robert finds it difficult or convenient—that is for the king to decide. You cannot bear it for him."
At last, Eddard's knitted brow relaxed, the gloom in his heart lifting.
"And many say the First Men's ways are too harsh," Gawen added. "At most, we can temper them with a touch of gentleness. Justice need not fear slander."
Eddard's great frame rose from his chair. He paced a few steps. "You are right, Gawen. I came to unburden Robert of troubles—I had nearly forgotten that."
Gawen rose as well, standing before him. "Lord Stark, thank you for granting patience to one so young as I."
Eddard clapped a broad hand on his shoulder, smiling faintly. "Child, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Wisdom is not measured by years."
Gawen bowed his head solemnly.
Then he chuckled. "By King Robert's temper, if the realm could be ruled by warhammer, he would sit on the Iron Throne each day content."
Eddard's lips curved. "Most likely he would."
"Then, Lord Stark, things are far simpler than they appear."
"Have you thought how to begin?" Eddard asked.
The boy bore the look of the First Men, but Eddard had found in him the nimble wit of the Andals, joined with a heart as steadfast as the North. Truly, he had saved a remarkable child.
And to Eddard, it was no debt repaid—for to his sense of honor, compassion to the young was a duty, not a favor.
Gawen leaned forward. "My lord, it is plain enough that Grand Maester Pycelle is concealing something…"
…
The Hand's Tower – Supper Hall
Arya straightened and looked toward Jon Snow, who sat at the far end laughing with Mondon.
It was rare to see her brother smile so brightly, and it warmed her heart. She wondered what they were speaking of.
Her sharp eyes turned—catching Sansa stealing glances at Lord Gawen, who sat beside her. That smile of his was infuriating!
Arya shifted closer on the bench, pressing her small frame against him.
Gawen, deep in talk of the First Men with Lord Stark, felt the motion. He reached out and lightly patted Arya's head.
Arya lifted her chin proudly at Sansa, as if to say: You'll never take my friend away from me.
Sansa noticed and rolled her eyes at her sister in return.
…
"Lord Stark, House Crabb has at last reclaimed its ancient honor. The peace of the Crab Claw Peninsula may one day lend strength to the realm's stability."
Eddard inclined his head. "Peace is precious. You have done well, child. Your mother would be proud."
He sighed inwardly, for he had already learned from Gawen of the hatred between the Vale and the Peninsula. The feud seemed beyond reconciliation, and he doubted he could mediate it.
Such things could not be suppressed by force—it would only deepen the grudge.
But the Red Keep consumed nearly all his energy. He must first resolve the matters before him, and later turn to greater tasks.
And he trusted Gawen was no warmonger. With time, the boy would find a way to ease the enmity, and keep Vale and Peninsula from war.
…
Midnight – The Red Keep
The castle lay dark and still.
Lord Stark and Gawen, with a handful of guards, slipped out of the Hand's Tower. The goldcloaks on watch noticed but did not speak; who would question the Hand of the King?
At Pycelle's chamber door, Gawen glanced at the maester's sigil. "Mondon. Break it down."
The big man stepped forward, shield braced.
With a crash, the door burst open. A woman's terrified scream followed.
Gawen and Eddard exchanged a look. The guards remained outside while the two entered.
Drawing back the bed-curtains, Gawen revealed a naked girl, curled in shame and fear, hands clutching at her body.
He arched a brow. Pycelle's young maid? Well—decent enough figure.
The girl stared wide-eyed, pleading. "Please… don't hurt me."
Gawen gestured to Jon Snow.
Jon entered, glanced at his father's stern face, then bowed. "Lord Gawen."
"She's yours to guard. Take her away," Gawen ordered.
At his father's nod, Jon lowered his eyes and led the girl out.
Then, with the flat of his sword, Gawen prodded the lump beneath the blankets.
"Grand Maester Pycelle—since when does the Citadel permit its servants to share beds?"
Eddard's face darkened as he tore the quilt back.
There lay Pycelle, naked and trembling. "Lord Stark, what are you doing? I am the Grand Maester—you cannot barge into my chambers!"
"Pycelle!" Eddard roared, fist tightening.
Fearing the wolf's wrath might crush the old man, Gawen interjected: "Grand Maester, the Hand has received grave reports. To find you thus dishonors both Citadel and chain."
He drew his blade with a hiss, looking to Eddard.
"My lord, if such scandal spread, it would be ruinous. Better to strike him down here, and preserve at least the semblance of his honor."
Pycelle shrieked, wetting himself. "No! I have served the realm these forty years—spare me!"
"Lord Stark," Gawen said smoothly, "the Hand must hear his confession."
Soon the old man, broken and whimpering, confessed.
"Yes… yes, Jon Arryn was poisoned. I could not save him. I swear it…"
Gawen crouched, dagger flashing before Pycelle's eyes.
"You are my prey now. Why do you lie to the hunter?"
"I… I… ahhh!"
Under threat, he spilled what he knew: that Cormon had been sent away to cleanse Jon's body of poison, that Cersei despised the Hand, but the poisoner was not himself. He named the toxin—Tears of Lys, rare, sweet as water, fatal like a wasting sickness.
Eddard's wrath shook the chamber. "Jon served fourteen years as Hand. What crime could demand such murder?"
At last, when Pycelle was cowed and bleeding, Eddard asked, "What shall be done with him?"
Gawen set quill and parchment before him.
"Write every crime you have committed. If your honesty proves true, perhaps we shall leave alive a servant who is both obedient and useful. But if we find deceit—you know the price."
Tossing him a robe to cover his nakedness, Lord Gawen turned away, his patience at its end.
.
.
.
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