Crackclaw Point had its own legendary hero, a man named Clarence Crab.
A grandson of Aegon the Conqueror, a Kingsguard knight during the reign of Jaehaerys I, was named Clement Crab.
During the Battle of the Trident in the Usurper's War, the great houses of Crackclaw Point fought alongside Prince Rhaegar to the bitter end.
The Crackclaw Point men proudly claimed that they were the model subjects of the Dragon House.
After Robert Baratheon emerged victorious, House Crabb, already a small family, suffered heavy losses. The only male heir left was Gryn Crabb, who was still in his mother's womb at the time.
Whispers was a crescent-shaped military fortress built against the mountains. A few scattered houses stood around it.
The Lord's Hall of Whispers.
[The transmigrator Gryn Crabb has been perfectly integrated.]
Gryn Crabb sat behind a long table, with a man and a woman standing on either side of him.
The man was around forty, about five foot seven, bald and stout, and wore a blue, round-necked robe.
The woman was in her thirties, about five foot seven, with long, curly brown hair. She wore a blue dress with a low-cut neckline.
They were Herschel, the chief steward, and Surana, the housekeeper.
At that moment, an old farmer knelt respectfully in the middle of the hall. His voice carried a cautious reverence. "Yes, my lord. I can confirm it... I go out to work the fields at dawn, and my neighbor, Marty, always comes to my house to... to do all sorts of heavy breathing exercises with... the woman in my household... It's happened many times."
After finally hearing the old farmer's halting account, Gryn Crabb's expression remained unchanged. Only the corners of his mouth pressed together slightly.
Silence fell over the Lord's Hall.
Seeing that his young master had no intention of speaking, Herschel, the chief steward, gave a light cough and said, "Old Piel, from what you've said, you've caught them in the act. Didn't you... teach them a lesson?"
Old Piel fell silent for a moment before replying, "I was furious, but I'm no longer young. Marty's younger and stronger than me. I can't beat him..."
"What about your wife?"
"I can't... beat her either..."
Oh, the women of Crackclaw Point really were a fierce lot!
From today on, according to local custom, the old farmer would probably soon earn himself a memorable nickname, like Old Piel the Weak.
To be a worthy lord, one had a duty to protect the weak. Only when the weak could be protected could the soil of loyalty take root.
Gryn Crabb understood even better that, from another perspective, everyone was a little cub in need of protection. Yes, even him.
The fifteen-year-old lord's voice still carried a trace of boyishness. "Old Piel, your lord has heard your account. I'll assign two swordsmen to go with you."
As he spoke, Gryn Crabb's gray eyes turned toward a tall, middle-aged man in armor standing to one side of the hall. He continued, "Ser Pell, assign two sharp soldiers. If there's no problem, have them arrest..."
Gryn Crabb asked Herschel, the chief steward, "Where does my domain need more people right now? Somewhere dangerous, I mean."
Herschel seemed to have an answer ready. "There's always a need for laborers who can handle heavy work on the domain, my lord. But I'd suggest giving him a sword. The Mountain Wildlings are stirring again, and you need more warriors. You're merciful, and you should give your subjects a chance."
All right, young and strong, were you? Enjoyed stealing other men's wives, did you? Had energy to spare? Here, take a sword and go fight the Wildlings. If you were lucky enough to survive, you could thank your merciful lord for the favor.
Be grateful, grip your sword, and do it again next time.
Gryn Crabb gave a slight nod and waved his right hand.
With red-rimmed eyes, Old Piel bowed deeply to his lord. Though he bent at the waist, he felt his back straighten and strength fill his body. He secretly resolved again and again to work the fields well for his lord. If the harvest was good, he could pay more wheat in taxes this year than last.
My lord looks too thin. He must not be getting enough to eat. If I tend my fields well and bring in a bigger harvest, my lord can eat more and put on weight.
"Next."
"My lord, my farming tools are broken..."
"My lord, my son's had a stomachache for days. Please..."
"My lord, that was my prey. The Mountain Wildlings stole it from me..."
"Merciful lord, the Mountain Wildlings keep appearing near our village. The villagers are worried..."
"Yes, usually in groups of five or six."
The morning's audience with his subjects was finally over. Gryn Crabb could at last stop maintaining his stern pose. He stretched and rose from the tall wooden chair. Gods, keeping up that noble posture was like having to remain inside a painting.
"Lady Surana, bring a basin of hot water to the study, and have lunch sent there too. Also, tell Maester Al to prepare the ravens. Once I've finished writing, the letter needs to go out at once."
In the castle study, Gryn Crabb finished lunch, cleared everything away, and picked up his quill.
This was his third letter.
It was addressed to the current queen, Cersei Lannister.
After the Usurper's War, Gryn was the only male heir left in the main line of House Crabb. Since he was still in his mother's womb at the time, the chivalrous Eddard Stark had persuaded the new king, Robert Baratheon, to spare Gryn's mother from execution. By good fortune, House Crabb had kept its last spark alive.
But after the Usurper's War, Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King under the Baratheon Dynasty, had not forgotten to suppress House Crabb and the other model families of the Dragon House by every means at his disposal. He had kept it up for ten years.
Next year, the grand story of A Song of Ice and Fire would begin. The Game of Thrones was about to start.
Gryn Crabb had a great deal to do.
To enter the game, a noble of the Crownlands first had to improve relations with the Red Keep.
More than ten years had passed. Jon Arryn had finally grown old, and his strength was no longer what it had been. According to the story, he didn't have much time left.
At last, House Crabb could breathe a little easier.
He couldn't just drift along or be content with the way things were.
House Crabb had been mocked as Half-Wildlings, and in the past, they hadn't known what to do—or hadn't been able to do it. But now Gryn Crabb was here.
Gryn Crabb put his thoughts aside and prepared to channel the god of flattery.
To Her Grace the Queen, whose courage and beauty were one:
In my admiration for you, I send you my most sincere greetings. I hope you will forgive my boldness in disturbing you.
Fifteen years have passed since the war. At the time, I was still in my mother's womb, quietly enjoying a warmth I would never remember.
Ever since I came of age, I have been grateful for the kingdom's mercy in allowing House Crabb to endure.
I am fifteen years old now. I can wield a sword and draw a bow.
I dare not grow lax, nor dare I forget our family motto: Together We Stand.
As the years pass, I understand more deeply that loyalty lies at the heart of House Crabb's motto.
The dragons vanished fifteen years ago. House Crabb survived, but lost its way. In the past, House Crabb stayed loyal even when it knew death was certain, and still went forward without hesitation.
Because of that loyalty, House Crabb lost the trust of the new world.
Without trust, House Crabb's loyalty has nowhere to go.
Your Grace, would you be willing to grant House Crabb a chance?
I hear that Your Grace will soon take part in the Kingswood Hunt. House Crabb longs for the honor of serving at your side.
Your Grace's devoted guard, enchanted by your charms—Gryn Crabb.
Gryn Crabb set down his quill. First, he had to choose: Queen Cersei or the Dragon Mother.
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