Petyr took a small sip of summerwine, set down the goblet, and said, "Lord Crabb, when Lord Jon appointed me Master of Coin, I was full of ambition. But once I actually took part in the Small Council, I realized the only wise choice was self-preservation."
After a pause, he continued, "His Grace's brother, Lord Renly, the Master of Laws, is obsessed with fashion. He spends more gold dragons on clothing than even Her Grace the Queen.
Ser Barristan, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, loves nothing but his honor. Grand Maester Pycelle is too busy clinging to the post he worked so hard to obtain. And Varys, the spymaster... only the gods know what truly lies in his mind. And then…"
Petyr nearly forgot the man who left the weakest impression—Stannis Baratheon.
"The Master of Ships, Lord Stannis, would rather toss every last courtesan in King's Landing into the sea than return to the Small Council."
Gawen chuckled and shook his head. "Sounds dreadful, truly. Yet the Small Council carries a certain charm. Many would kill for a seat at that table."
The Small Council was the highest governing body of the realm, comprised of the king's closest advisors, tasked with offering counsel and expertise in matters of state.
Appointments and dismissals were at the king's discretion, and the Council answered solely to him. In his absence, the Hand ruled in his stead; if the king was underage, a regent wielded royal authority.
Due to the Faith of the Seven's reverence for the number, the Council traditionally had seven members: the Hand of the King, the Grand Maester, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the Master of Laws, the Master of Coin, the Master of Ships, and the Master of Whisperers.
…
Petyr shrugged. "Family interests above the realm's."
Though Petyr appeared candid, Gawen accepted his words only as reference material, nothing more.
His brown eyes trembled faintly. "Now I understand why the Lord Hand never recovered. He collapsed from exhaustion."
Petyr leaned back in his chair, sighed, and said, "Duke Jon has long borne the weight of the realm in silence. His broad shoulders are near crushed beneath the burden of statecraft—and private worries.
"Especially his son. Young Robert Arryn has always been frail and sickly. Lady Arryn is so anxious she scarcely lets the boy out of her sight.
"Such pressure from within and without would break even the strongest man. Given his age, it's no wonder Duke Jon is worn in body and spirit."
Though Jon Arryn was a man worthy of respect, Gawen could never bring himself to like him—especially with the man's persistent scrutiny.
It wasn't a matter of right or wrong—it was a matter of opposing interests.
Jon Arryn stood for the realm and the Vale; Gawen Crabb stood for the Crab Claw Peninsula.
Since the Rebellion, the Vale's nobles—led by Jon—had suppressed the Peninsula for over a decade. The grudge between the two lands had festered. Without bloodshed, reconciliation seemed impossible.
And geographically, they were still neighbors.
If the Peninsula had remained weak, it might've stayed quiet. But Jon was aging, and the Crabb family had steadily consolidated power across the region. A future war was not unthinkable.
…
Gawen raised his cup with a complicated smile. "To the Lord Hand's health."
Petyr's pale green eyes flickered as he took another sip of summerwine, lips curling faintly. "Ah, if only Lord Jon were here. He might be touched by your words."
Gawen spread his hands helplessly. "I just wish the old duke would stop worrying about me. His love is so deep, I can hardly return it."
Petyr's gaze sharpened. "That may be difficult. I once served as tax assessor in Gulltown. Someone told me a song from the Crab Claw Peninsula had been banned there."
With seamless ease, their conversation shifted from the Small Council to the Vale's seaport.
Gawen scoffed. "The song's harmless. Honestly, it's quite good."
Petyr shrugged. "I understand them. The Vale has long fancied itself the safest place in Westeros. That kind of belief makes people prone to overreaction."
At that, Gawen's hand stiffened around his goblet for a moment—just long enough for Petyr's elegant smile to deepen.
He had confirmed Gawen's true stance on the Vale.
Though he'd already deduced the enmity from written reports, tonight's talk only cemented it.
That was how Petyr worked—he liked certainty.
…
"Conflicts will be settled, sooner or later."
Petyr raised his cup gracefully and went on, "On the open sea, the storm isn't the greatest danger—it's the hearts of men. If the royal fleet appears in the Free Cities, it will be seen as an act of war. Lord Crabb, what you need now is a reliable sellsail company."
Gawen's eyes narrowed. "My lord, only after meeting you does one truly understand why the Fountain of Wisdom favors you. That happens to be one of my biggest worries."
"One of them?" Petyr smiled. "Ah, you fear Queen Cersei... Lord Crabb, we may be pawns in the eyes of great men and women, but once you have value, you can name your price. Both King Robert and Lord Jon have entrusted you with serious matters. The one who should be most worried right now—is not you."
Gawen blinked and sighed. "Lord Petyr, your insight pierces the dark. Please accept my sincere thanks."
He placed a hand over his heart and bowed.
Petyr waved it off. "We're friends, Lord Crabb. No need for thanks. Besides... it's a little early for gratitude."
Seeing Gawen's puzzled look, he smiled again. "There's a small sellsail company—owns a single vessel, barely scraping by escorting Vale merchant ships to Essos.
"I've known of them for some time. Good reputation, but most of their crew hails from the North. Shunned by others in the Vale, they survive by grit alone.
"Perhaps things got too hard. Or maybe someone persuaded them. Either way, those Northmen—who don't fear heat—decided to try their luck in Dorne. Just so happened, I learned of it…"
Petyr spread his hands with a casual shrug. "I thought, the Peninsula doesn't lack warriors, but it does lack sailors. So I arranged two more ships for them. In your name, of course."
Timely generosity from Petyr?
Gawen kept his face composed, but inside he marveled at Petyr's mastery of manipulation.
A flexible conscience. A brilliant mind. Ambition in abundance… Gawen quietly raised Petyr's threat level in his heart.
That summer, hands in his pockets, Gawen looked around—and met his match.
He stood and opened his arms warmly. "Lord Petyr, thank you for your generosity. House Crabb will not forget."
"No need for ceremony. Consider it a gift for your new title."
Petyr stood too, returned the embrace, and patted Gawen's back a few times.
Once seated again, he crossed his legs and leaned back. "Before long, you'll see them at your Mermaid Port. Honest Northmen, rushing day and night to serve you."
In the game of thrones, no kindness came without motive—especially not from the ever-calculating Petyr Baelish.
What did he want?
The Vale… Gawen smiled. "Lord Petyr, once again, my thanks. I have no more worries."
Knock, knock. Two girls entered the room.
One had red hair and blue eyes. The other, golden hair and green eyes.
Milk-pale skin, voluptuous figures—made all the more alluring by candlelight.
Petyr winked and gestured to the blonde. "Lord Crabb, even the strongest knight needs a lady's encouragement. Tonight, consider yourself unbound."
So this is Petyr's style. Gawen understood in an instant.
He tilted his head back and smiled. Well then—he'd take this as a victory too.
…
King's Landing, Night — Crabb's New Manse
"This is the only place with light."
The study door creaked open. Tyrion Lannister stepped inside.
Samwell Tarly, lost in his reading, looked up.
He'd heard the voice… but saw no one at the door.
A chill crept up his spine, fear flashing across his face.
"Fat boy, look down. You're offending me."
Startled, Sam turned toward the voice.
Their eyes met.
Sam jumped up and bowed awkwardly. "Good evening, Lord Tyrion. I… I meant no offense."
Tyrion ignored him, climbed onto a chair, and glanced at the open book. "What are you reading?"
Sam replied nervously, "A book about dragons."
Tyrion looked intrigued. "You like dragons too? Sit down. You're blocking the candlelight, and I dislike the dark."
"Sorry, my lord."
Sam plopped down quickly.
"House Crabb values archery. I've been studying… The book says dragonbone is black from its high iron content—tough as steel, yet light and flexible. A bow made from dragonbone could easily outshoot any wooden one."
Tyrion listened patiently. "Sounds like you've found your path, son of the great Lord Randyll?"
Sam's mouth opened, but no words came. He looked down.
"My apologies. That question upset you, didn't it? Dwarves are poor at reading moods. We're notorious for loose tongues and mismatched outfits. I'm hardly an exception."
Sam gave a shy smile.
Tyrion nodded approvingly. "You're clever. You understand my humor. In all of King's Landing, only Gawen—and now you—can manage that."
Sam scratched the back of his head, sheepish.
Tyrion grinned. "The heir of Randyll Tarly?"
A flicker of sadness crossed Sam's face. "He… doesn't like me. I've already left that place behind."
Tyrion shrugged. "Another unloved son."
Sam hesitated. "I… can't imagine you being sad."
Tyrion burst out laughing. "Sam, you've got a sharp mind. I like you."
Sam smiled bashfully.
Tyrion leaned from his chair and pulled the book toward him. "Dragons are fascinating. When I was your age, I used to dream I'd ride one someday… What's that look? Don't tell me you never had such dreams?"
Sam admitted honestly, "I have. But… dragons no longer exist."
"Already reconciled to that truth? I spent years lying to myself."
"Maybe you like them more."
"Afraid to have your dreams crushed, then?"
Tyrion shook his head. "I liked dragons because I thought… if I could ride one, even a stunted, twisted little boy could look down on the world. A wretched childhood…"
He spoke coldly, devoid of emotion. "As a child, I'd hide in tunnels deep within Casterly Rock. I'd light fires and imagine the flames came from dragons. Sometimes, I dreamed one had burned my father alive. Other times, it was my sister."
He glanced up at Sam's horrified face—and burst out laughing.
"If Gawen heard this, he'd seriously urge me to act on it, ha!"
Typical Tyrion humor. Sam wiped sweat from his brow.
After laughing a while, Tyrion's tone turned serious. "For me, it's all in the past. It can't hurt me anymore, so I've made it a joke. Sam, remember—face your past. Choose your future. That's the strength of your life."
With that, he hopped down, patted Sam's knee, and hummed a soft King's Landing tune as he walked away.
Tyrion's final words struck something deep inside Sam.
He stared at the little man's fading shadow—stretched long by candlelight.
For a moment, Sam thought he saw a giant.
…
Pentos — Mansion of the Magister
Daenerys Targaryen's handmaiden had died.
The magister's healers said her internal injuries were beyond saving.
Stricken with grief, Daenerys spent the entire night plagued by nightmares.
"You've awakened the wrath of the sleeping dragon!"
In her dream, she was naked. Viserys struck her again and again, his face twisted in rage.
Daenerys tried to flee, but her body wouldn't move.
Her thighs ran red with blood. She groaned, eyes shut. Then came a horrible ripping sound—and a great roaring fire.
She opened her eyes. Viserys was gone.
Flames surged all around her. A massive dragon rose from within.
It turned to face her, and their eyes met—molten and vast.
She woke, trembling, drenched in cold sweat.
…
Viserys's blows had reddened her cheeks and left her disheveled, forcing Magister Illyrio to delay her arranged marriage.
Illyrio was a merchant—spices, gems, dragonbone, and other illicit trades.
His network reached all nine Free Cities, far east to Vaes Dothrak and the coasts of the Jade Sea.
They said he'd sell any friend for the right price.
"My prince," he said gently, "your sister must at least look the part of a princess."
"She is a princess!" Viserys snapped. "Princess of Dragonstone. A trueborn princess."
Illyrio kept calm. "What you need is an army. And right now, you need Princess Daenerys—not a frightened girl. The world values appearances."
At last, Viserys listened.
…
Though he could no longer strike her, Viserys found other ways.
"Stop slouching. Chin up."
He grabbed her shoulders, fingers brushing over her body.
"My sister must never disgrace me. One mistake, and… you wouldn't want to awaken the sleeping dragon, would you?"
His crooked smile made her shudder.
His fingers tightened. Even through her clothes, the pain was sharp.
"Understand?"
"Yes… I understand…"
Satisfied, Viserys stroked her silver hair. "When I reclaim the Iron Throne, I won't forget your loyalty."
The Iron Throne... Across the Narrow Sea, a land her brother always spoke of but she had never seen—Westeros.
Those names he mentioned—Casterly Rock, the Eyrie, Highgarden, the Vale, Dorne—they were just empty words to her.
During the Rebellion, when they fled King's Landing, Viserys had been eight. Daenerys was still safe in their mother's womb.
She vaguely remembered Ser Willem Darry—a gruff, gray-bearded giant. Even half-blind and bedridden, he barked orders with commanding fury.
The servants feared him, but he was always kind to her. His hands, leathery but gentle, called her "little princess."
They'd lived in Braavos then—in a house with a red door.
She'd had her own room. A lemon tree grew outside her window.
When Ser Willem died, the servants stole what little money remained.
Soon, they were cast out of the red house.
When that door closed forever behind them, Daenerys wept without end.
To her, that place had been home.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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