Just Rewards and Punishments
The Shores of Evenfall Hall
[Evenfall Hall is located on the western coast of Tarth in the Stormlands, near Shipbreaker Bay. It is the seat of House Tarth.]
Wave after wave surged forward, towering crests bursting skyward and unfurling into sprays of white foam.
Ser Selwyn Tarth stood at a distance, watching Brienne train with her sword, a gentle smile on his face.
Now fifty-two, Selwyn Tarth was the head of House Tarth, Lord of Evenfall Hall and Lord of the Isle of Tarth. He bore the title "Eveningstar."
["Eveningstar" is a traditional title of the Lords of House Tarth, said to date back to the Age of Dawn.]
Selwyn's wife had passed before Brienne could remember her. His eldest son, Galladon, drowned at the age of eight. His two youngest daughters died in infancy.
Thus, Brienne Tarth had become his only heir.
…
Noticing her father approaching, Brienne set down her sword and wiped the sweat from her brow.
Ser Selwyn praised her warmly, "My daughter, your swordplay never ceases to impress me."
Brienne hesitated, her gaze faltering. "Father… I don't want to marry."
Selwyn shook his head. "Brienne, believe me—I've long since given up on arranging a match for you. I trust the gods have their own plan."
Then, with a trace of unease, he added, "Though I've always preferred music to swords, I've seen many famed knights in my time. You are no less skilled. Ser Goodwin trained you well—perhaps House Tarth will produce a lady knight to rival any in Westeros. I'm deeply grateful to him. His passing grieved me."
Brienne paused. "It's difficult. No one likes a woman in armor—even if she bests them."
Selwyn looked kindly at his tall daughter. "Composing music is difficult too. Yet people do it anyway. It's because greatness is hard to reach that we fight so fiercely for it."
Spreading his hands, he said, "Don't mind your old father. Men of the Stormlands are full of bluster. I don't care what others say. I only care about my child."
Brienne turned her face away.
Selwyn, as if he hadn't noticed, continued, "Brienne, I've nearly finished looking into it."
Her eyes reddened. "So soon?"
"Of course. My daughter never asks for help, so I consider this an honor."
Brienne's expression remained stiff, but Selwyn could detect the faintest hint of a smile—and it filled his heart with joy.
"The Crabb family holds lands on the Crab Claw Peninsula. They're an old noble house, known for their martial prowess. Three of them have served in the Kingsguard. The peninsula is teeming with wild clans—perhaps the only place in Westeros that's never known peace."
Brienne listened to her father's almost poetic description. "What do you think of it?"
Selwyn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "A paradise for warriors—a hell for the peaceful?"
Brienne hesitated. "That red-haired stranger said… their lord plans to invite me to witness a knighting ceremony."
Selwyn blinked. "Baron Crabb? How does he even know… Never mind. It's better than being forgotten."
Brienne stared at her slightly flustered father. "It's a knighting… for a woman."
Selwyn paused, then smiled. "Brienne, my daughter, I support you. Go boldly. I'll have the finest armor made for you. Your father still has coin enough for a good ransom."
Though his support reassured her, Brienne was still unsure.
Always mocked in the Stormlands, secretly longing for Lord Renly, Brienne suddenly found a new path opening before her.
For the first time, she felt overwhelmed.
…
Tower of the Hand – Bedchambers
Petyr Baelish noticed Jon Arryn's gaze and met it for the briefest second.
Petyr gave an imperceptible nod.
He maintained his usual faint smile. As King Robert's laughter finally died down, he spoke:
"Your Grace, what a shame. Baron Gawen was managing the Queen's District quite well. I had hoped for a considerable increase in tax revenue this year. Now that you've entrusted him with greater tasks, I can only hope his successor keeps the district stable."
Gawen's brown eyes twitched slightly.
He immediately sensed Petyr's comment had a purpose—he was laying the groundwork for something else.
Robert roared, "Petyr, I'd sooner believe I saw a wight dancing the jig than believe one of my Crownlands vassals wasn't full of horseshit! Gods, that's the most unbelievable thing of all!"
Then, turning to Gawen, Petyr's eyes gleamed warmly.
Gawen spoke louder than usual: "Your Grace, the Queen's District was filthy and chaotic. I had to run it like a military camp. The immediate results were good—but the people aren't soldiers. It can't last."
Robert laughed, then his tone darkened. "Gawen, I agree. Ruling soldiers and ruling kingdoms are not the same. I've… Damn it, I'm thirsty!"
Before he could finish, Lancel quickly handed him a full goblet.
Robert drained it, sighed in relief, and said, "Petyr, my Hand needs rest. This is your job now."
Petyr bowed. "As you command, Your Grace."
Robert turned to Jon Arryn. "I'm here to say goodbye, old man. Gods, you've wasted enough of my time! Next time I see you, I want you bouncing on your feet!"
Jon coughed and spoke, "Your Grace, this has been… embarrassing. But Baron Gawen has earned his rewards. He awaits your judgment."
Robert sighed, clearly irritated, but stomped over and plopped onto the bed.
"Some matters need your approval, Your Grace," Jon continued. "Though Baron Gawen serves as Queen Cersei's steward, he is your direct bannerman. You must judge with fairness."
Gawen understood Jon's intent and cursed silently.
Robert raised his hand, and like a shadow, Lancel appeared with another full cup.
"Jon, I heard about that mess. Don't expect me to feel sorry for you."
Robert took a sip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"That's Targaryen trouble we inherited. We can't tear the place apart over it. The Red Keep has no secrets. That's why I hate it here. I feel like I'm standing naked for all to gawk at. You too!"
He burst out laughing.
Am I supposed to be hearing this?
Gawen glanced at Petyr—who was enjoying it thoroughly. Well, this is Westeros.
…
"Robert, it was a valuable discovery," Jon said, "and…"
Robert drained the rest of his wine and tossed the goblet at Lancel. "Spit it out, Jon! Or just tell me what you want me to do!"
Jon's murky eyes stared at the king's impatient, bloated face. He smiled.
"I'll be brief. The Crab Claw Peninsula is overrun by wildlings. After the war, House Crabb couldn't hold its old lands, so we relocated them to a safer area.
This year, young Baron Gawen drove back the wildlings and reclaimed their ancestral lands. He is your bannerman. And soon, they might even pay taxes again."
Gawen's ears perked up. Taxes?
He recalled the crushing post-rebellion debts… Fifteen thousand gold dragons… let's see what they say next.
…
Robert scratched his beard. "Gods, I remember now. That place never stopped fighting—not even after the war. Constant trouble."
Then he turned to Petyr. "Master of Coin, is the peninsula part of the Crownlands? I don't recall ever seeing a single copper from them!"
Petyr shrugged. "Your Grace, the area's crawling with mountain clans. They don't care who the king is—only who feeds them. The Crabb lords have endured unimaginable hardship. Surely we won't let your bannermen starve. That would mar your legacy."
Robert nodded. "Fair enough. At least they haven't begged me for years on end… Gods, I must be the most merciful king alive if all I ask is that my vassals not be a nuisance. How absurd!"
Petyr smiled. "Your Grace, under your reign, all is improving."
Then he added, "As Lord Jon said, soon you may receive your first coin from the peninsula."
Robert laughed, looking to Jon. "I told you he's a silver-tongued bastard! But if he keeps trouble off my back, I'm the most generous king alive."
Jon smiled. "Your Grace, you possess a king's fairness by nature."
Robert's smile faded. "I get it. So how should I reward him, my Hand?"
Jon answered, "New lands, old lands, and his service in King's Landing—this young bannerman of yours deserves the rank of earl."
…
Gawen remained stoic, but his mind raced.
Cersei… she'll think I've betrayed her.
He glanced at Petyr—and caught Petyr looking right back.
Petyr shrugged: Don't look at me. We're all just pieces on the board.
Gawen arched a brow slightly: We'll talk tonight.
Their silent exchange passed in an instant.
…
Jon nodded under Robert's heavy stare.
"Petyr, fetch parchment. I'll dictate."
Petyr obeyed, taking a seat. Servants brought ink and quill. "Ready, Your Grace."
Robert looked at Gawen. His voice boomed. "Gawen, come here. Stand before me."
Gawen exhaled slowly, heart pounding, and stepped forward, kneeling with a thud.
"I, Robert of House Baratheon, First of My Name, yadda yadda Andals and whatever else—Petyr, write all those damn titles—you know them. Hereby name Gawen Crabb, Baron of Whispering Hill, as Earl of Whispering Hill!"
Gawen declared, "Your Grace, Whispering Hill shall ever serve at your command!"
Robert grunted. "Earl Gawen… sounds better than baron. Gods, I'm too generous. Half my day wasted on this! Bring me good news soon—and stay the hell away from my queen. That'll do you good."
He waved them all out.
…
Outside the Hand's Chambers
Gawen and Petyr exchanged glances—and both shrugged simultaneously.
Petyr's smile glittered. "Congratulations, Earl Gawen."
Gawen bowed slightly. "Lord Petyr, thank you for your honesty. Tonight, drinks are on me."
Petyr's grin was elegant. "A night with no return? I'm honored."
Gawen nodded again, took his leave, and walked off.
Petyr watched him go, smiling faintly.
…
Outside the Tower of the Hand, Gawen paused and looked up at the sky.
Cloudless, endless blue stretched above.
After what happened in the study last time, Jon Arryn now understood just how sharp Gawen's senses were.
The strong smell of medicine? To cover Robert's wine.
The bustling servants? To mask the hidden king.
The Crab Claw Peninsula, isolated by geography and the Rebellion, had nearly lost all contact with the Red Keep.
But technically, it was still part of the Crownlands—and its nobles still Robert's bannermen.
Had Gawen shown even the slightest sympathy toward the Targaryens during that meeting, he had no doubt Robert would've thrown him from King's Landing in a rage.
Lancel's secret hint, Varys's warning about shadows, Petyr's veiled talk of loyalty… It all made sense now.
The seemingly normal room had been a stage for Jon's carefully laid trap.
How had Jon managed to get the impatient Robert to hide in silence? Who knew—but Gawen was dying to imagine the ridiculous details.
Phase one: Gawen accepted the Dragon Removal Plan—and 150,000 gold dragons.
Phase two: Jon presented Gawen's merits openly before the king, using lawful reasoning to elevate him to earl.
Could Gawen have refused? On what grounds?
This was Westeros. Gawen was Robert's direct bannerman. And Robert wasn't exactly the reasonable type.
It was all deliberate. Jon's true aim was to drive a wedge between Gawen and Queen Cersei.
He knew her far too well—and had crafted the perfect bait.
…
Gawen resumed walking.
A swirl of triumph and dread stirred within him.
The 150,000 dragons weren't the end. Gawen would still need to weave through Cersei's schemes—strengthening his position with each step.
His beloved Duke of Highgarden still awaited their next meeting—and that future depended on Cersei's continued support.
Cersei's backing had given Gawen the freedom to act boldly in the Reach, even willing to kill his way out if things fell apart.
He was on a royal mission. As long as Tywin stayed out of it, Cersei would fight tooth and nail against anyone—even the Reach.
…
He sighed. Cersei might be headstrong, yes, but she was also generous—and to a working man like Gawen, that was more than enough.
All in all, he thought, she's a good boss.
But he had no doubt—she was going to be furious.
Once Cersei made up her mind, no one—not even Jaime—could change it.
Gawen looked up once more.
Must I really seduce my way back into her good graces?
.
.
.
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