Gawen Crabb smiled and gave a small nod.
Margaery Tyrell, usually quick with words, kept her rosy lips closed, walking on in silence.
Gawen stayed by her side quietly. He wondered—should he speak to comfort her, or would that only wound her pride? Then again, perhaps what the little rose needed most was not words but silent company.
Alliances, after all, required reassurance. For noble ladies, nothing was more comforting than the silent presence of a knight devoted to them.
A mild headache… but nothing Lord Crabb could not manage.
When he blinked, his eyes carried a look of concern, tenderness, and—though restrained—admiration.
…
Margaery noticed his gaze lingering now and then. The corners of her lips curved faintly.
She turned her face slightly toward him. Their eyes met. For once the ever-composed Gawen froze. Quickly, he reined in his emotions and looked away, coughing lightly.
Margaery read his glance well. Her soft laugh escaped, and her steps grew lighter, almost buoyant.
"Lord Crabb, will you tell me something of the Red Keep?"
Her wide eyes flicked around, then back to him. "I often wonder what truly happens within those walls. Surely it is unlike anything I know."
Gawen's eyes shifted. "It would be my honor, Lady Margaery."
So, this was why the little rose had sought him out. Of course—duchesses' daughters were busy women; they did not approach a minor baron without cause.
It was plain enough: she sought distraction. The Red Keep had been in turmoil—Lord Eddard Stark had suddenly cast the Master of Coin into the black cells. Of those who knew the truth behind it, only Eddard, Gawen, and Varys remained.
Yet none suspected Gawen knew so much—or that he had played a hand himself.
To Margaery, he was a man of keen senses, close to House Stark, rumored even to be a regular in the Hand's Tower.
Thus she guessed rightly: Lord Crabb held more secrets than most, and perhaps even the reasons behind such a shocking arrest.
And rumors spread like wildfire when the Hand of the King jailed one of the Small Council.
…
Gawen chose instead to share a few comical tales from the Red Keep, drawing laughter from Margaery until her face lit once more.
At last, her curiosity broke through her sorrow.
"Lord Crabb, I heard… is it true Lord Stark and Lord Baelish were rivals in love?"
She flushed slightly, though her eyes gleamed with girlish intrigue.
Gawen thought wryly. Girls did love gossip.
With patient tact, he resolved to satisfy her curiosity—while at the same time, little by little, revealing the shameful truths of the Vale's ruling house.
Step by step.
…
Gawen let hesitation show.
Margaery's eyes softened. "My lord, what troubles you?"
Her tone carried genuine concern.
He shook his head. "It is not true. In fact…"
He sighed. "Lord Stark faces a dilemma. After all, Lady Lysa is Lady Catelyn's own sister."
Margaery's pupils widened. She understood at once.
Gawen went on quietly: "Lady Margaery, we are allies. I would not see you misled by false whispers."
He leaned closer. "I speak plainly because I trust you. But this must remain between us."
As they walked, he recounted the tale—of Petyr Baelish and Lysa Tully, from their first entanglement onward.
Finally, he lowered his voice: "This will not end easily. Many will question young Lord Robert's parentage. That is why Lord Stark is caught in such a bind."
…
…
The Tower of the Hand.
"Syrio Forel looked upon Arya Stark seated on the steps.
'Resting girl,' he said, 'do you know why Syrio Forel became First Sword of Braavos?'
Arya wiped sweat from her brow and muttered, 'Because your swordplay is the best.'
Syrio nodded. 'Just so. But why me? Many are stronger, faster, younger. Why Syrio?' He tapped his lashes. 'Because I see the truth.'
Arya scrunched her nose. 'Seeing's just looking. I look at you all the time.'
'Girl, looking is not seeing. The sea wind tells us where ships must sail. Braavosi captains return with strange beasts for the Sealord's menagerie: striped horses, spotted giraffes, hairy hogs as large as cows, manticores, tiger cubs carried in pouches, and lizards with sickle-claws.'
Syrio grinned. 'I have seen them all.'
Arya's eyes shone with wonder.
He continued: 'The Sealord's First Sword had died. A successor must be named at once. Many bravos were tested—each dismissed. When I entered, the Sealord sat with a fat yellow cat upon his knee. He asked if I had ever seen such a creature.'
Syrio's grin widened. 'And I told him: I had seen a thousand such cats in the alleys of Braavos. He laughed, and made me First Sword that day.'
Arya frowned. 'I don't understand.'
'The cat was ordinary,' Syrio explained. 'Others expected marvels, so marvels were all they saw. They called it huge—it was only fat. They called it pretty—its ear was torn in a brawl. They called it "she"—but it was a tom. Do you see now, curious girl?'
Arya's face lit. 'You saw the truth!'
Syrio ruffled her hair. 'That is it. The heart lies, the head misleads, but the eyes see true. See with your eyes, hear with your ears, taste with your tongue, smell with your nose, feel with your skin. Then, think with your mind. Thus comes truth.'
Arya laughed. 'That's it!'
Syrio twirled his wooden sword. 'Three months more, and you shall have steel in hand, clever girl.'
Arya cheered. 'I can't wait!'
Footsteps echoed. Lord Eddard Stark appeared at the doorway.
'Arya, what you cannot wait for is supper.'
Syrio inclined his head.
'Father!' Arya cried. 'Soon I'll wield a real sword!'
Ned's stern face softened. 'Congratulations. But for now, come—we must not keep Sansa waiting.'
…
At table, Sansa Stark cast a prim glance at her sister. "Arya, must you always be such a grubby little thing? Someone asked me today if you were my younger brother."
She lifted her chin, satisfied.
Her favorite slippers had been ruined by Arya days ago; now was her chance at revenge. She adored the Red Keep's splendor, its lords and ladies, its pageantry. The tourney had been the finest day of her young life. Feast, masque, mummers—so much awaited.
Yet Arya spurned it all, preferring dirt and swords.
"I hate you!" Arya shouted. "You're always tattling!"
Sansa smirked. "I am only helping you, little sister."
Ned glanced at Arya—she wasn't so filthy, after all. Sweat and grit were the marks of diligence. A good child.
Sansa grew uneasy at his silence. "Father?" she tried sweetly.
Ned looked at her. "What is it, Sansa? Is the food not to your liking?"
She lowered her eyes demurely. "Arya never heeds me. She soils herself daily. I fear unkind tongues will mock her."
Ned nodded, and she pressed on. "And… our house is noble. We must not be mocked for such things."
Ned frowned. We are not noble. We are sworn to duty. To guard the North. That is our tradition.
He should never have brought them here. King's Landing was already corroding his little wolf.
Arya pouted. "Noble sister, winter is coming. Starks must train with swords."
Ned's frown eased. His lips curved faintly. "Arya, after swordplay—bathe. And wear clean clothes."
Sansa's eyes went wide. That was all?
She felt tears rise. Father always favored Arya. She missed her mother.
"You're just father's pet!" she cried.
Arya stuck out her tongue. "And you're Joffrey's little lapdog."
"I am not!" Sansa's voice cracked. "Joffrey loves me. We love each other!"
"Love?" Arya scoffed. "You're a child!"
But Sansa flung the words like a spear: "I love him as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as Jonquil loved Florian. His mother loves me too. She's taking me hunting soon. She blesses our match!"
Ned reeled. When had this begun?
His heart ached at her tear-streaked face. "Sweet Sansa, we will speak of this later."
Arya muttered, "Always crying."
But Sansa wiped her tears, voice firm: "Father, believe me. Joffrey and I will live happily ever after, like the songs. I will bear him golden-haired sons, and one day he will sit the Iron Throne. The greatest king ever—brave as a wolf, proud as a lion."
Arya's eyes flashed. "You can't have a lion cub with Joffrey. He's no lion. He's a stag."
"He is not a stag!" Sansa shrieked. "He's nothing like that drunken king!"
The words struck Ned like a hammer.
Nothing like Robert. Not at all…
His grey eyes narrowed. His pupils shrank.
Robert's children… do not look like Robert.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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