Tower of the Hand.
Gawen had just come off the staircase when he was intercepted—before he could even reach the Hand's study—by the same official he'd met earlier that morning.
"Baron Gawen, apologies. His Lordship requests that you go to his bedchamber instead."
Gawen didn't question it. He gave a small nod. "Very well, lead the way, my lord official."
The man looked up at him briefly and gestured ahead. "Please follow me, my lord."
Tap, tap.
In the quiet of the Tower of the Hand, only their two sets of footsteps echoed.
As they reached the next floor, Gawen saw two Goldcloaks flanking a door.
The official came to a halt, stepped aside, and extended a hand toward the guarded room. "Lord Petyr asks for your loyalty."
As Gawen passed, he caught the man's whisper—meant only for the two of them.
Gawen gave a subtle nod and stepped forward, calmly adjusting the straps of his armor before the door.
…
Lancel. Shadows. Loyalty.
With his head slightly bowed, a faint, imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of Gawen's mouth.
When he was done tidying his appearance, he straightened his back and glanced at the guards. Without a word, they opened the door. Gawen stepped inside.
…
The scent of medicine hit him first.
A pungent, heavy aroma hung over the entire room.
Compared to his last visit, a few more attendants were quietly bustling about inside.
Unfazed by the oppressive odor, Gawen bowed respectfully to the man reclining in bed. "Good day, Lord Hand."
Jon Arryn's voice was warm. "Come, child. I'm glad to see you. Sit, let's talk."
One of the attendants brought over a chair and gently set it beside the bed.
Same routine as last time… Gawen, inwardly wary, couldn't help but roll his eyes mentally.
He sat lightly, barely a third of the seat occupied, leaning slightly forward toward Jon, hands resting atop his knees.
He wasn't just showing courtesy to a frail man—Gawen wanted them to look close.
Jon made no comment on the gesture. His cloudy eyes fixed on the young baron. "I've heard you made quite a stir in Highgarden."
Gawen offered an embarrassed smile. "The Crab Claw Peninsula is short on grain. My steward said prices in the Reach were fair, so I took the chance to head there during the royal hunt."
He paused, then added, "But things didn't go well. I had barely a handful of gold dragons, and the merchants wouldn't give the time of day to a poor lord from the Crownlands. So…"
He looked at Jon with shining eyes, leaving the sentence hanging. Finally, Jon raised a brow. "And then?"
Gawen spoke with growing excitement, "Since my manners couldn't win their respect, I set up a dueling ring outside Highgarden. I spoke their language—with my sword. Over the course of several days, I defeated over a hundred challengers from the Reach."
"Ahem. Very interesting."
"Thank you, my lord. Things went smoothly after that. I struck a deal—trading Crab Claw leather for Reach grain. It gave us a brief reprieve. Truth is, most of our fighting on the peninsula boils down to food. Without stability, everything falls apart."
His words made Jon's thoughts drift toward matters of succession. For a great lord, the question of heirs was everything.
Jon Arryn had been married three times.
His first wife, Jeane Royce, had died in childbirth. The infant was stillborn.
His second, his cousin Rhaena Arryn, succumbed to chill fever. No children.
Every heir Jon named died before him.
First was his brother Ronnel's youngest son, Elbert Arryn, executed by the Mad King before the rebellion.
Then Denys Arryn, from a cadet branch, died during the war.
During the rebellion, Jon wed Lysa Tully, daughter of Lord Hoster. After many miscarriages, she finally bore him a frail, sickly son: Robert Arryn.
…
"My lord?"
Gawen's voice brought Jon back from his memories.
He wore a concerned expression—but inside, Gawen's thoughts were racing.
Jon looked about the same as last time, but Gawen could sense it: there would be no recovery. At best, the maesters might keep him alive for a year or two more.
Jon stared at him, expression growing complicated.
The future of the realm belongs to the young...
The old Hand sighed inwardly. Age was the cruelest fate.
But he hadn't summoned Gawen for nostalgia.
"You haven't disappointed me, Baron Gawen. Young as you are, your abilities are impressive."
Gawen found the praise oddly jarring.
He shook his head and spoke plainly. "My lord, I've made inquiries. For over a decade, the realm has spent between 100,000 to 200,000 gold dragons a year hunting the Targaryen whelps across the sea. Hiring spies, assassins, and buying information… yet we've gained nothing."
He paused, watching Jon closely.
The older man's cheek twitched slightly.
"You exaggerate the difficulty. We've only ever acted from the safety of the Red Keep… If someone were based in Essos, the outcome might be different."
Gawen seized the moment. "Then I'm relieved, my lord. I was only worried the Red Keep wouldn't support me.
I have men—over two thousand sworn Crabb retainers," he added, exaggerating. "They've served House Crabb for generations, loyal and fierce, worthy of the realm's trust.
I'll take them across the Narrow Sea and scour every corner of Essos. Given enough time, I'll dig out the hidden Targaryen remnants.
But to do that—I'll need the Red Keep's support."
Jon's lips moved, but he hesitated a while before speaking.
"I will honor my promise. When you return, the Crab Claw Peninsula will have its own Warden."
Gawen was stunned. "My lord… forgive my bluntness. But what about the Red Keep's support?"
Jon's cloudy eyes sharpened. "The Peninsula has never had a Warden. That is the Red Keep's support."
Gawen frowned, clearly dissatisfied. "Lord Hand, I don't even have ships to cross the sea."
Jon studied him for a moment. "Three years. You don't need so many men. As long as you commit yourself for three years—regardless of outcome—you shall be Warden."
Gawen chuckled darkly, one hand to his forehead. Anger flared beneath his eyes. "Forgive me, my lord. I'm just a swordsman. I don't understand what you mean."
Inside the room, the anger radiating from Gawen and the calm from Jon formed a stark contrast.
"Baron Gawen, you're clever. I believe you already understand."
Jon's gaze pierced him. "Or perhaps… you're looking for a way out. Are you, perhaps, sympathetic to the Targaryens?"
Loyalty…
Gawen shot to his feet, voice raised. "My lord, how dare you insult my honor with such baseless suspicion! I won't accept it. I demand a trial by combat—here and now. Let me prove my loyalty with my sword!"
The tension in the room snapped tight. Everyone present froze—everyone except Jon and Gawen.
The young baron was brimming with fury.
Yet Jon didn't flinch.
A hint of regret flickered in the old man's eyes.
I, Jon Arryn… I was never fit for this kind of scheming.
Perhaps, he thought, this was the gods' mercy—protecting him from losing his lifelong honor in his final days.
He sighed internally. It's been over ten years. What threat could a poor peninsula truly pose?
My successor will do better than I have.
…
"Enough! Damn it, I can't listen to this anymore!"
A booming voice rang out from behind the bed.
King Robert Baratheon stormed forward.
Gawen turned to him and bowed. "Good day, Your Grace. Whispering Hill is at your command."
Robert loomed over him. "Damn it, I fell asleep! Baron of Whispering Hill, you've disturbed my dreams.
But you've got guts. I like that. Those Targaryen brats deserve to die. My only regret is I can't kill them twice!
Now where the hell is my wine?! Where's that idiot Lannister squire?! Someone tell me where he's hiding!"
Clatter!
Lancel Lannister stumbled in, wine jug and goblet in hand, looking panicked.
…
As Robert's squire, Lancel had taken a great risk earlier—hinting to Gawen from the shadows of the Tower.
Gawen recalled that evening before the royal hunt.
Lannisters always pay their debts.
He glanced at Lancel's pitiful face and felt a flicker of sympathy. I'll keep that sympathy to myself—for now.
While Lancel poured wine, Gawen quietly moved aside, lowering his gaze.
Robert downed the cup in one go. "Move faster, Lannister! Next time you delay my drink, I'll hang you from the gate!"
Then to Jon, he grunted, "You should be resting. Let your steward handle this crap. So long as I've got my warhammer, the realm's fine."
Jon smiled faintly. "I'm the one who disturbed your nap, Your Grace. I've already delegated most matters to Petyr. He's done well enough."
Robert laughed. "Good! Let him earn his keep. I don't like his weasel face, but he's damn good at cleaning up messes."
He turned to Gawen, eyes sharp as daggers.
Gawen met the king's pressure with calm composure.
…
Robert suddenly burst out laughing. "Gawen Crabb, not bad. You've got the makings of a warrior!
I heard your dragon hunt plan. You're already better than half those council cowards who waste my gold and haven't brought me a single damn Targaryen finger!
Tell me—what kind of support do you want from the Red Keep?"
Gawen held his gaze, voice firm. "Your Grace, I have the men. I only need 150,000 gold dragons a year."
Robert's smile froze. Then he barked, "Damn it! You damn Crownland lords—every time you see me, all you want is money! Only 150,000? Per year?!
What do you think—that Iron Throne shits out gold while I sleep?!"
Gawen didn't blink. "Your Grace, Essos is vast. Like searching for a needle in the sea. I can't have my men begging while hunting."
Robert howled with laughter. "You're funny, lad! Starving soldiers curse you in the night—and burn your tent by day!"
He turned to the door. "Someone fetch my Master of Coin!"
Jon interjected, "Petyr's in the study. Send for him downstairs."
…
Knock knock.
Petyr Baelish entered, pristine as always, and bowed. "Good day, Your Grace."
Robert nodded. "Petyr, do we still have gold in the treasury?"
Littlefinger smiled. "As long as you desire it, Your Grace, there's always just enough gold."
Robert grunted. "Baron of Whispering Hill, I don't like waiting without results."
Clang!
Gawen's gauntlet struck his chest in salute. "Your Grace, grant me three years. That's all I need!"
A glint of satisfaction crossed Robert's round face. He turned to Petyr. "Petyr, get him 150,000 gold dragons."
Petyr bowed. "As you command, Your Grace."
Robert looked back to Gawen. "Gawen Crabb—this is three years' worth, up front!
I won't have soldiers starving, but I'm not handing out gold for you to dine on either!
You know what's most expensive? Useless intelligence. I'll have Varys assist you.
But hear me well—I won't tolerate failure. There will be no further rewards.
Move fast. Succeed, and whatever's left—you can keep it for your pocket."
Your Grace, I would march into the Seven Hells for you...
Gawen's gaze burned with new resolve as he looked at Robert Baratheon.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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