THE IRON THRONE OF ICE AND FIRE

King Robert still held Queen Cersei in check, but Greene Kleb knew he needed to carve out his own path to power.

A direct meeting with Cersei Lannister was a fool's errand. The lioness of the Rock would sneer at the Kleb name, dismissing his family as half-barbarians. If he wanted to rise, he had to prove himself—not with words, but with action.

The Crab Claw Peninsula was a land of shadows and strife. Barren and treacherous, it was more swamp than soil, its valleys and forests home to warlike clans who trusted no one beyond their blood. The Andals had tried to take it, but every step forward had been met with blades in the dark.

The peninsula's people fought outsiders with the same zeal they turned on one another. Blood feuds ran deeper than the bogs, and peace was always fleeting—only a hero could force it upon them. House Crabbe had once produced such a man. Clarence Crabbe, their legendary ancestor, had brought a brief era of unity. But after his death, the land fell back into chaos, as it always did.

Even Aegon the Conqueror had sent his sister, Visenya Targaryen, to bend the peninsula to his will. Her dragons had seen to that. House Crabbe had sworn fealty to the Targaryens then, and for generations, they had remained loyal.

Greene Kleb sealed his letter and handed it to his steward, Herschel.

For a long moment, he sat in silence, his fingers running through his dark, shoulder-length curls. To the east, a hundred miles away, lay Whispering City, the last stronghold of his family. But to the north, past the marshes and hills, there was land. Good land. Farmland.

Once, it had been ruled from Whispering Castle, the ancestral seat of House Kleb. The records said his forebears had commanded thousands of warriors there, securing their dominion through strength.

But that was before the Reaver War. His mother, Lady Surana, had fled with the remnants of their household, abandoning the castle for the safety of the city. That was over a decade ago. Now, Whispering Castle lay in ruins, and with it, the Kleb claim to the land had withered.

Greene exhaled. "My mother… she must have endured more than I can imagine."

Surana's voice was steady, but her gaze darkened with memory. "My little lord, even now, I shudder to think of those days. At night, your mother slept with two swords at her bedside—one for the mountain savages, should they come in the dark… and one for herself, should all hope be lost."

Greene huffed a quiet laugh. "She was a formidable woman."

For once, Surana allowed herself a small smile. "And you were her greatest pride, my lord. Never doubt that."

But the world did not stop to mourn.

The harvest approached, and already, the mountain clans stirred. His mother had held them at bay through sheer force of will. Now she was gone, and Greene, just a young lord fresh from his mother's shadow, was left to face them alone.

The savages had united. They smelled weakness. If they didn't strike now, then when?

Surana wasn't worried about the fight itself. The Kleb household retained two knightly retainers, men who had served his family for generations—Ser Per Pirie and Ser Mason Baker. His standing force numbered over two hundred, hardened veterans accustomed to the peninsula's dangers.

Twenty of them bore full plate. Against the unarmored mountain clans, they would be worth ten men each.

No, what worried Surana wasn't the battle. It was the boy leading it.

Greene was clever, but he was still young. This would be his first true command, and she feared he would be swept up in the heat of war. That he would charge too far, fight too boldly, and expose himself to a fatal stroke.

The Kleb line was fragile. If Greene fell, the house would collapse overnight.

Greene, however, was not nearly as reckless as she feared.

He knew better than to throw himself into the fray without thought. Strategy came first. Lords commanded. Soldiers fought.

And besides—he had begun to feel something strange. Since the moment he had awoken in this world, he had felt his body growing stronger. Every day, with every sunrise, he was faster, sharper. His sword hand itched for battle.

But no matter how much his blood sang for it, he told himself one thing:

You are a lord. You have soldiers. Act like one.

House Kleb was small. His only surviving kin was a cousin, three years older, married and with child.

That was dangerous.

The Crab Claw Peninsula was no peaceful holding. Lords here did not sit in courts and discuss taxes. They fought. They killed. It had been that way for generations, and it would be that way until the end of days.

Greene knew what was expected of him. His mother was dead. He was the lord now, and he would fight. Again and again. Until either his enemies were gone… or he was.

If he fell, what would become of House Kleb?

Even Surana, ever pragmatic, had her concerns. The Kleb title was that of a hereditary baronet, an awkward rank—too high for a common marriage, too low for a powerful alliance.

By now, at fifteen, he should have been betrothed.

Surana knew this was not just about romance. Westeros had been scarred by wars of succession, and no lord worth his salt would let love dictate such matters.

In her eyes, even if Greene had to father a bastard, it was better than leaving his house without an heir.

It was not a curse. It was practical.

She had even thought of a solution—her own daughter, Kalea. Thirteen now, newly come into womanhood. Strong, healthy, and—most importantly—loyal.

Greene had grown up under Surana's watch. She knew he was not the sort of man to discard a woman without care.

A bastard was no great shame. The boy would not inherit the Kleb name, but he would carry Kleb blood.

And if he lived, he would be raised in comfort, granted a farm, a future, a life without want.

A small price to ensure the house endured.

Surana saw no issue.

Greene, however, leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a long, long time.

Thirteen.

The thought left an uneasy weight in his chest. Some things… were difficult to accept, no matter the logic behind them.

Best to set it aside for now.

Over the next few days, the numbers came in.

Two thousand subjects. Farmers. Hunters. Ten villages in total.

One, down by the sea, with two hundred fishermen.

It was called Fishing Village.

That would not do.

At the very least, it should be Fishing Port.

That would be handled later. First, the war.

Ser Mason Baker had been sent to tally every blacksmith, carpenter, and craftsman in the territory.

Herschel was already overseeing the preparation of empty workshops.

Greene had plans. A cold weapons forge. A longbow corps trained in the peninsula's famed yew forests. The discipline would take years to cultivate, but every day he wasted was another step toward failure.

The first task was clear—muster his strength, crush the mountain clans, and secure his borders.

The only problem?

He was broke.

Perhaps, for now, the Kleb family motto needed a slight revision.

"Strength is better than hard work."

He would change it back when he had coin to spare.