Gawen Crabb smiled. "Once you taste the sour red of the Crab Claw, you'll come to like it."
He lifted his cup and took a sip.
Tyrion Lannister's eyes flickered. He chuckled.
"Stannis has hauled off the royal fleet. Blackwater Bay is his private garden—he can strike at King's Landing whenever he likes… Hah. Doesn't the city feel like it's lying sweetly in bed, waiting to be **** by him?"
Gawen teased, "Then you'd best be good—use every technique to please him."
Pff! Tyrion couldn't help spraying his wine. He coughed and laughed.
"I'll show him the might of the Lannister giant!"
After another chuckle, he rubbed his belly and suddenly grew sober.
"Gawen, did Cersei send you out because of Stannis?"
Gawen's cup stilled. His brown eyes met Tyrion's intent stare.
"How did you know?"
"Don't fret—no one whispered," Tyrion said, wagging a hand. He tapped his temple.
"My dear sister likes to take first, then decide how she feels and grant favors after. Your elevation came too suddenly. I hazarded a guess… looks like I guessed right."
Gawen inclined his head. "Tyrion, that's classified."
Tyrion nodded solemnly, rubbing his chin in thought.
"Can the horses of the Crab Claw run upon the sea?"
Gawen set down his cup.
"Then let's begin our bargain, Tyrion."
"Starting with Cersei's foolish orders?"
"For me, yes. I need a fair pretext to march into the Vale."
Tyrion grimaced.
"I'm starting to think my sister isn't entirely witless. Honestly… that's hard to say. I don't want to break faith with you."
"You know the one person the Queen Regent cannot gainsay," Gawen said.
"My kindly father? No—he isn't in the city… My darling nephew?"
Gawen nodded and poured.
"When Robert made Jaime Warden of the East, King Joffrey took umbrage at the Vale's hauteur. He wanted to grant the young lord of the Eyrie a fair chance to test blades with him."
Tyrion's cup filled; Gawen set down the flagon and continued,
"Add the Arryn scandal we mean to loose, and he'll have even greater reason to be wroth."
"Hah…" Tyrion's voice dripped mockery.
"My dear nephew does pick his opponents well."
Gawen shrugged.
"Since he took the Iron Throne, Joffrey's longed to display his valor before the realm. It's also a good chance to ease things between uncle and nephew."
Under cover of a sip, Tyrion stole a wary glance at Gawen.
After a beat, he said lightly, "With your wits, asking Cersei would be simpler."
Gawen answered his probing look with calm.
"You know her nature. She dislikes anyone who slips her leash."
Tyrion grinned.
"You make my sister's selfishness sound almost pretty."
He sipped again.
"And you're right—your revenge must stand behind Cersei's need to shore up her son's rule. Unless…"
Gawen's eyes trembled; he cut in softly,
"I've never considered that. Lies are uncovered in the end, Tyrion."
"You are a reassuring fellow," Tyrion murmured. He raised his cup.
"Then a bargain, Earl Gawen."
Gawen touched his cup.
"A pleasant partnership, Lord Hand."
Tyrion flashed a happy grin.
"I'll speak with my royal nephew at the proper time. The nephew may not love his uncle, but the uncle still loves the boy."
He paused, then smirked.
"The older he gets, the more he resembles Cersei. We ought to style him Cersei the Second. The Seven do have a sense of humor."
Gawen smiled.
"Mother and son, after all."
Tyrion leaned forward and lowered his voice.
"Can the Crab Claw's levies alone see your vengeance done? You know the Arryn words. Under their sway, the Vale lords vie to be knights of honor… Think how long the Arryns have ruled—thousands of years. I hear nearly every household that can afford it keeps a horse and knight's harness. Even if they lack the accolade, they'll have the knight's look… Hah—As High as Honor."
He ended in a murmur of awe.
"Scores of thousands of armored horse… a frightening thought."
Gawen listened quietly, then smiled.
"Thank you for the concern, Tyrion, but…"
His tone shifted—steady, grave.
"Cold reason cannot make revenge—and I may never get a better chance."
Tyrion nodded.
"Before, you'd never have a clean one-on-one. Now everyone is busy—and Lady Lysa has given us all such a surprise. A rare opportunity indeed."
He clapped Gawen's arm.
"Be flexible when the time comes. Don't ape my brother Jaime. Your 'knightly honor' gives me headaches."
They spoke through more details, then came to the matter of the City Watch.
"What do you make of Ser Jacelyn Bywater, Tyrion?" Gawen asked.
Tyrion spread his hands.
"Even I must admit your eye is keen. He's solid. I like him."
He raked his hair.
"I've yet to find a way to make my sister like him as I do."
Gawen tapped his cup with long fingers.
"Ask Ser Lancel to help."
Tyrion shook his head.
"Since the knighting, the boy apes Cersei's disdain for all beneath her. My dutiful cousin has vanished."
Gawen tapped his temple.
"Think. Harder."
Seeing Gawen wasn't joking, Tyrion smothered his smile and pondered. After a silence, his eyes flickered; he stared at Gawen in disbelief.
Gawen met his gaze and gave a tiny nod.
Tyrion slumped back, eyes on the ceiling.
"Unfair. When Cersei dotes on a brother, she forgets her truly dutiful one—me."
Gawen ignored the theatrics.
"Now—do you have a way?"
Tyrion bared his teeth.
"Lancel Lannister will soon be the good cousin I remember… and he can help me…"
He glanced over.
"Why not keep this for yourself?"
Gawen's look was pure disdain.
"My lord Hand, were I you, I'd be weeping with gratitude."
Tyrion cackled.
"Generous lord! If you don't mind, accept a kiss."
"Denied," Gawen said flatly. "I'd rather not breed nightmares."
Tyrion clutched his belly and wheezed with laughter until he could barely breathe.
Smiling, Gawen handed him his cup. Tyrion took a deep breath and gulped a long draught.
Gawen patted his arm.
"My friend, don't carry it alone. You are not by yourself."
…
Crab Claw Peninsula, Whispers City.
With a flutter, a raven from King's Landing alit on the wide sill. A pair of plump hands untied the letter from its leg.
…
The door to Maester Arl's study opened. The broad form of Samwell Tarly filled the frame. Puffing, he said,
"Maester Arl—letters from the Red Keep."
He handed them over, then wiped his brow—rumor had it he'd lost two pounds on the westward drills.
Arl eyed the beeswax seal and carefully unfolded the page.
Samwell watched him stare and not move.
"Maester… are you all right?"
Arl dabbed the corner of his eye, then looked up, voice trembling.
"Child—the Crabb are now the lawful rulers of the Crab Claw Peninsula."
"Gods be good." Samwell, beaming, took the letter with both hands.
As he read, he couldn't help sounding the words aloud, louder and louder:
"Earl of the Crab Claw Peninsula… Warden of the Crab Claw… Governor of the Peninsula… to be inherited forever, never to lapse!"
He burst out,
"Maester, our Lord Gawen is just too, too—"
"Sam, fetch Steward Herschel. Now," Arl said calmly.
"Right—right—right…" Thinking fled Sam; habit carried him out the door.
When he'd gone, Arl hummed an old Crab Claw tune and tottered to the shelves. He drew forth the family chronicle of House Crabb.
Seated again, he opened a virgin chapter, dipped his quill, and thought a moment. Then, smiling, he wrote:
In the Westerosi year 298 AC…
…
A small port in Essos.
Jon Snow twisted like an eel and slammed his heel up between his captor's legs. A shriek behind him—he wrenched free, drew steel, and strode for the other man rifling his pack.
"Foreigner—drop it. Now."
Jon's eyes burned.
"I gave you both a chance."
"W-what… what are you doing—"
With a wet hiss, Jon's sword flashed; blood spattered. He turned, slipped a blow from behind, and drove his blade hard into the ambusher's gut.
He frowned down at the two dockside jackals who'd plagued him since he'd disembarked, then lifted his gaze. Near dusk, the sun sank; clouds blushed rose and orange like a flower opening.
At the harbor tavern he had heard talk of a true dragon—rumor said that if one kept south, there was a city-state called Qantys, now ruled by a Targaryen dragon.
Viserys Targaryen… Daenerys Targaryen…
Were they the two who survived that war all those years ago? His father's brother and sister… Should he seek out his kin?
No. He was still a bastard. No one would claim a baseborn wretch as blood. Perhaps he was meant to be alone.
He shut his eyes and drew a slow breath. If fated to solitude, he would make loneliness his strength.
Opening them again, he shouldered his fallen pack. He looked west. On this strange continent, he would cast off the boy he had been and begin anew.
He set off, thinking as he walked… Perhaps he needed a new name. What should it be?
"You handle yourself well, stranger!"
A young man's voice rang out. Jon halted, hand closing on his hilt, and looked toward it, wary.
Two figures came into view—one lean and long, the other big-shouldered and burly.
Jon steadied into a fighting stance as they approached.
The youth smiled gently, spreading his hands.
"We mean no harm."
He looked about Jon's age, with blue hair and a handsome, mild face.
Beside him, the older, larger man had orange-red hair and a thick beard.
Patiently, the blue-haired youth explained,
"It's our first time here as well. We noticed two sneaks tailing you and came to see…"
He glanced at the bodies and smiled.
"Seems you've tidied your trouble."
"They were thieves," Jon said, hand easing from his sword.
The red-haired giant rumbled,
"Good. They earned it."
"I agree," the youth said. "Quite my view as well."
He paused, then offered,
"I'm Young Griff. My strict father kept us moving all my life. Lately he's sent me abroad to harden myself and broaden my sights."
The big man spoke next.
"I'm Rolly. Blacksmith's son. Hired as Young Griff's guard."
"I'm Jon, from Westeros. I came… to train, I suppose?" Jon's voice faltered at the end.
Young Griff laughed.
"Give it time. You'll know what you're meant for, Jon."
Rolly's booming laugh joined his.
"Perhaps you're right," Jon said, smiling back at them both.
.
.
.
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