Crackclaw Point had once possessed its own legendary hero, a man named Clarence Crabb.
It had also given rise to Clement Crabb, a knight of the Kingsguard during the reign of Jaehaerys I, grandson of Aegon the Conqueror.
During the Battle of the Trident in Robert’s Rebellion, the various houses of Crackclaw Point had fought alongside Prince Rhaegar to the very end.
The people of Crackclaw Point proudly proclaimed themselves model vassals of the House of the Dragon.
When Robert Baratheon emerged victorious, the already sparse House Crabb suffered devastating casualties.
The only surviving male was Gryn Crabb, who at the time was still in his mother’s womb.
*** Whispers Castle was an arc-shaped military fortress built against the mountainside.
Around the castle, small houses were scattered here and there.
Inside the Great Hall of Whispers Castle: Gryn Crabb, a transmigrator who had fully integrated into this world, sat straight in a high-backed lord’s chair.
Hanging behind him was a massive banner bearing the marsh marigold.
To his left and right stood a man and a woman.
The man was around forty years old, roughly five-foot-seven, balding and plump, dressed in a blue round-collared robe.
The woman was in her thirties, about the same height, with long, dark brown curls and a blue gown with a low-cut neckline.
They were Hershel, the head steward, and Surana, the house steward.
At that moment, an old peasant knelt respectfully in the center of the hall, his voice trembling with cautious deference.
“Yes, my lord, I am certain…
Every time I go out to farm during the day, my neighbor Marti sneaks into my house and…
does all sorts of heavy breathing exercises with my woman…
It’s happened many times now.” Having patiently listened through the old peasant’s stammering account, Gryn Crabb’s expression remained calm, save for a slight twitch at the corner of his lips.
Silence settled over the hall.
Seeing that his young master had no intention of speaking immediately, Head Steward Hershel cleared his throat and said, “Old Peere, judging by what you’re saying, you’ve caught them in the act directly…
Did you not do anything about it?” Old Peere was quiet for a moment before replying, “I was furious, but I’m no longer young.
Marti is young and strong compared to me.
I can’t beat him…” “And your wife?” “I…
I can’t beat her either…” *Ah, the women of Crackclaw Point really are formidable!* Based on the local culture, after today, the old farmer would likely earn a loud nickname, something like “Soft Old Peere.” To be a qualified lord, protecting the weak was a non-negotiable duty.
Only when the weak felt protected could loyalty take root.
Gryn Crabb understood better than anyone that from a different perspective, everyone was a child needing protection—including himself.
The fifteen-year-old lord’s voice still carried a touch of youth: “Old Peere, your lord has heard your plea.
I will assign two sword-bearers to accompany you.” With that, Gryn turned his gray eyes toward a tall, middle-aged man in iron armor standing on one side of the hall and continued, “Ser Pell, arrange for two sharp soldiers.
If there are no issues, arrest him directly…” Gryn tilted his head slightly and whispered, “Hershel, where are we short on hands right now?
Hm…
find something dangerous.” Steward Hershel seemed to have an answer prepared: “My lord, the domain always needs heavy labor, but I suggest you give him a sword.
The mountain wildlings are growing restless again, and you require more warriors.
In your mercy, you should always grant your subjects a chance.” *Alright then.
Young and strong, is he?
Likes stealing wives, does he?
Full of energy?
Give him a sword and send him to fight the wildlings.
If he’s lucky enough to survive, it’ll be thanks to the lord’s mercy.* *Be grateful, grip your sword, and do better next time.* Gryn nodded slightly and gave a gentle wave of his right hand.
Old Peere’s eyes welled with tears as he bowed deeply to his lord.
Though he bent his back, he felt his spine straighten, filled with strength.
Secretly, he resolved to work the fields well for his lord.
If the harvest was good, he would definitely surrender more wheat than last year.
*The lord looks far too thin, surely because he doesn’t eat enough.
Once I tend the fields and yield a great harvest, the lord can eat more and put on some meat.* “Next.” “My lord, my farming tools are broken…” “Lordship, my son’s stomach has been aching for days, I beg of you…” “My lord, that was my game!
The mountain wildlings stole it from me…” “Merciful lord, mountain wildlings keep appearing near our village.
The villagers are terrified…” “Yes, they usually roam in groups of five or six.” *** By the time he finished receiving his subjects’ petitions for the morning, Gryn Crabb could finally drop his stern, dignified posture.
He stretched, rising from his heavy wooden chair.
Staying poised like a painting was exhausting work.
“Lady Surana, bring a basin of hot water to the study and have lunch sent there as well.
Also, tell Maester Al to get a raven ready so he can dispatch it as soon as I finish my letter.” Inside the castle study, Gryn finished his meal, tidied his desk, and picked up a quill.
Today marks the third letter.
The recipient was the current queen, Cersei Lannister.
After Robert’s Rebellion, he was the sole surviving male of the direct Crabb line.
Because he was still in his mother’s womb at the time, the chivalrous Eddard Stark persuaded the new king, Robert Baratheon, to pardon his mother from the death penalty.
Thus, House Crabb miraculously preserved its spark.
However, after the war, Jon Arryn, Hand of the King to the Baratheon dynasty, did not forget to suppress former Targaryen loyalists—including House Crabb—using every available means, year after year for a decade.
Next year, the curtain on A Song of Ice and Fire would rise, and the game of thrones would begin.
Gryn Crabb had a mountain of work ahead of him.
To enter that stage, a noble of the Crownlands first had to ease tensions with the Red Keep.
After more than a decade, Jon Arryn was finally old, his vigor faded, and according to the timeline, his days were numbered.
House Crabb could finally catch its breath.
He could not simply drift with the current or remain content with the status quo.
Mocked as semi-wildlings, House Crabb had either lacked the wisdom or the means in the past.
But now, Gryn Crabb had arrived.
Gryn cut his rambling thoughts short and prepared to let his inner flatterer take the reins.
*To Her Grace the Queen, a paragon of courage and beauty:* *Driven by admiration, I send my most sincere greetings.
Please forgive my humble intrusion.* *Fifteen years have passed since the war ended.
Back then, I was still in my mother’s womb, quietly enjoying a warmth I cannot remember.* *Ever since I came of age, I have been grateful for the Crown’s mercy in allowing House Crabb to endure.* *Lest I grow negligent or forgetful, I hold fast to our house motto—Ready for Anything.* *As I grow older, my understanding deepens: the core of House Crabb’s motto lies in loyalty.* *Fifteen years have passed since the dragons vanished.
House Crabb endures, yet it has lost its way…
Once, out of loyalty, House Crabb marched forward without hesitation, even toward certain death.* *Because of that past loyalty, House Crabb lost the Crown’s trust in this new world.* *Without trust, House Crabb’s loyalty has nowhere to rest.* *Noble Grace, would you grant House Crabb a single chance?* *I hear Her Grace will soon host a hunt in the Kingswood.
House Crabb longs for the honor of attending you.* *Your devoted servant, captivated by Your Grace’s charm,* *Gryn Crabb.* Gryn put down his pen.
Step one: either Cersei or the Dragon Queen.