Either Queen Cersei or the Dragon Mother

Crackclaw Point once had its own legendary hero, a man named Clarence Crabb.

A Kingsguard during the reign of Jaehaerys I, grandson of Aegon the Conqueror, was named Clement Crabb.

During the Battle of the Trident in the Usurper's War, the great houses of Crackclaw Point fought alongside Prince Rhaegar until the very end.

The men of Crackclaw Point proudly claimed to be the model subjects of the Dragon House.

After Robert Baratheon emerged victorious, the Crabb family, already small in number, suffered heavy casualties. The only male heir left was Gryn Crabb, who was still in his mother's womb at the time.

The Whispers, an arc-shaped military fortress built against the mountains. Scattered around the fortress were a few small houses.

The Lord's Hall of the Whispers.

[Gryn Crabb, a transmigrator who has achieved perfect integration.]

Gryn Crabb sat upright behind a long table, with a man and a woman standing on either side of him.

The man was about forty years old, roughly one meter seventy in height, bald and portly, dressed in a blue round-necked robe.

The woman was in her thirties, also about one meter seventy, with long, curly brown hair, wearing a blue dress with a low-cut neckline.

The two were the high steward, Herschel, and the domestic steward, Lady Surana.

At this moment, an old farmer knelt respectfully in the center of the hall, his voice filled with cautious reverence: "Yes, my lord, I am certain... I went out to farm at daybreak, and my neighbor, Marty, always runs to my home to engage in... various panting exercises with... my... woman... it has happened many times."

After finally hearing the old farmer's disjointed account, Gryn Crabb's expression remained unchanged, save for a slight pursing of his lips.

The Lord's Hall fell silent.

Seeing that his young master had no intention of speaking, the high steward, Herschel, gave a light cough and said, "Old Piel, judging by what you say, you have caught them in the act... have you not taken any... disciplinary action?"

Old Piel, the farmer, was silent for a moment before replying, "I was very angry, but I am no longer young, and Marty is younger and stronger than me. I could not beat him..."

"And your wife?"

"I... could not beat her either..."

Oh, the women of Crackclaw Point were truly formidable!

Given the local customs, the old farmer would likely soon earn a resounding nickname, something like "Weak Old Piel."

To be a qualified lord, one had a duty to protect the weak; only when the weak are protected can the soil of loyalty be formed.

Gryn Crabb understood better that if one looked at it from another angle, everyone was actually a cub in need of protection—yes, including himself.

The fifteen-year-old young lord Gryn Crabb's voice still carried a hint of callowness: "Old Piel, your lord has heard your statement. I will arrange for two swordsmen to accompany you."

Having said this, Gryn Crabb's gray eyes turned toward a tall, middle-aged man in iron armor standing on one side of the hall, and he continued: "Ser Pell, you arrange for two sharp soldiers. If there are no issues, go ahead and arrest..."

Gryn Crabb asked the high steward, Herschel: "In my territory, where are we short of men right now? Somewhere... dangerous."

The high steward, Herschel, seemed to have had the answer ready for a long time: "The territory always needs laborers capable of heavy work, my lord. But I suggest you give him a sword. The mountain wildlings have begun to stir again. You need more warriors. You are merciful, and you must always give your subjects a chance."

Very well, young and strong, is he? Likes to steal another man's wife, does he? Full of energy, are we? I'll give you a sword and send you to fight the wildlings. If you are lucky enough to survive, it will be entirely due to the grace of your merciful lord.

Be grateful, grip the sword in your hand, and continue next time.

Gryn Crabb nodded slightly and gave a light wave of his right hand.

The old farmer, Piel, had reddened eyes as he bowed deeply to his lord. Though he was hunched over, he felt his spine straighten and his body fill with strength. He secretly resolved to farm well for his lord; if the harvest was good, he would surely be able to pay more wheat in taxes this year than last.

The lord looks too thin; it must be because he hasn't eaten enough. If I tend the fields well and the harvest is bountiful, the lord will be able to eat more and put on some weight.

"Next."

"My lord, my farm tools are broken..."

"Lord, my son's stomach has been hurting for days, I beg you..."

"My lord, that was my prey, the mountain wildlings stole it..."

"Merciful lord, mountain wildlings are always appearing near our village, the villagers are very worried..."

"Yes, they usually appear in groups of five or six."

The morning task of receiving petitions from the subjects was finally complete. Gryn Crabb finally didn't have to maintain his dignified sitting posture and stretched, rising from the tall wooden chair. It was killing him—this noble posture that had to be maintained like a painting.

"Lady Surana, bring a basin of hot water to the study, and have lunch sent there as well. Also, have Maester Al prepare a raven; once I have written the letter, it can be sent immediately."

Inside the castle study, Gryn Crabb finished his lunch, tidied up, and picked up a quill.

Today was the third letter.

The recipient of the letter was the current Queen, Cersei Lannister.

After the Usurper's War, Gryn Crabb was the only male heir left of the Crabb line, as he had still been in his mother's womb at the time. Eddard Stark, a man of great chivalry, had persuaded the new king, Robert Baratheon, to pardon Gryn Crabb's mother from death, and the Crabb family had fortunately managed to keep their spark alive.

However, after the Usurper's War, Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King for the Baratheon Dynasty, had not forgotten to suppress former model families of the Dragon House, including House Crabb, by various means in the postwar years, day after day for a decade.

Next year, the curtain of A Song of Ice and Fire would rise, and the Game of Thrones was about to begin.

Gryn Crabb had a great deal to do.

To join this stage, as a noble of the Crownlands, he first had to ease relations with the Red Keep.

Over a decade had passed, and Jon Arryn was finally old, his energy far less than before; according to the plot, he did not have much time left.

House Crabb could finally catch its breath.

He could not drift with the tide, nor could he be satisfied with the status quo.

Mocked as Half-Wildlings, House Crabb previously did not understand or know how to act, but now Gryn Crabb—he had arrived.

Gryn Crabb stopped his train of thought, preparing to channel his inner sycophant.

To Her Grace the Queen, who embodies both courage and beauty:

Out of admiration, I send you my most sincere greetings, and I hope you will forgive my presumptuous intrusion.

Fifteen years have passed since the war, and at that time, I was still in my mother's womb, quietly enjoying a warmth of which I can retain no memory.

Since I came to understand the world, I have always been grateful for the kingdom's mercy in allowing House Crabb to continue.

I am now fifteen years old, capable of wielding a sword and drawing a bow.

Because I dare not slacken, and dare not forget, I hold fast to our family motto—Together We Stand.

As I grow older, my understanding deepens; the core of House Crabb's motto lies in loyalty.

The dragons have been gone for fifteen years, and although House Crabb has survived, it has lost its way. The Crabb family of the past, because of its loyalty, would have marched toward certain death without hesitation.

Because of that past loyalty, House Crabb has lost trust in this new world.

Without trust, the loyalty of House Crabb has nowhere to rest.

Noble as you are, would you be willing to grant House Crabb a chance?

I have heard that Your Grace will soon embark on the Kingswood Hunt, and House Crabb hopes for the glory of serving at your side.

A guard captivated by your charm—Gryn Crabb.

Gryn Crabb put down his pen. The first step: either Queen Cersei or the Dragon Mother.