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The Throne’s Last Flame

DrManhattanEn
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Synopsis
A Game of Thrones fanfiction, set in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Features transmigration. No harem, no system, no technological uplift. No poison tropes. Side characters remain as faithful to the original as possible. The story avoids mundane slice-of-life pacing. Light power fantasy for the protagonist, with moments of major triumph woven throughout. Protagonist: Green Clegber Starting Title: Baron of Whispering Hill House Words: United in Strength House Sigil: A golden marigold blooming in the marsh
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: Cersei or Daenerys—No Middle Ground

The Crab Claw Peninsula once boasted its own legendary hero—Clarence Crabb.

During the reign of King Jaehaerys I, grandson of Aegon the Conqueror, there served a member of the Kingsguard named Ser Clement Crabb.

At the Battle of the Trident during Robert's Rebellion, the noble houses of the Crab Claw Peninsula fought valiantly beside Prince Rhaegar until the very end. The folk of the peninsula proudly declared themselves model vassals of House Targaryen.

When Robert Baratheon emerged victorious, House Crabb—already sparse in numbers—suffered grievous losses. Only one male heir remained: Grenn Crabb, still in his mother's womb.

⋯⋯

Whispering Town—a crescent-shaped fortress built into the hillside. Scattered about its flanks stood humble cottages, sparsely settled.

Within the Lord's Hall, young Grenn Crabb sat tall upon a high-backed chair of carved wood. He was a soul reborn, fully merged into this new world. Behind him, a grand banner displayed the golden marsh marigold of House Crabb.

At his side stood two attendants—one man, one woman.

The man was perhaps forty, balding and broad of belly, clad in a blue round-necked robe. The woman, in her thirties, wore her brown curls loose, and her blue gown bore a low-slit neckline.

They were Herschel, the steward, and Sulana, the housekeeper.

A grizzled farmer now knelt at the center of the hall, his voice trembling with a mix of reverence and unease:

"Yes, my lord, I swear it... When I go to the fields at first light, my neighbor Matty slips into my home... and with my woman... they engage in... all manner of panting... exercise. It's happened more than once."

Grenn Crabb listened patiently to the fragmented confession, his face unreadable but for a faint tightening of the lips.

The hall fell into awkward silence.

When the young lord remained still, Herschel cleared his throat and stepped forward:

"Old Piel, you caught them in the act, didn't you? And... you did nothing?"

Piel hesitated before answering: "I was angry, but I'm not the man I once was. Matty's young and strong. I can't best him…"

"And your wife?"

"She... overpowers me too…"

Ah, the women of the Crab Claw Peninsula—indeed, fierce and bold.

By tomorrow, the old man would likely earn a new name among the villagers: Piel the Weak.

But a lord's duty was clear—protect the weak, or else loyalty would wither like crops in blight.

Grenn understood well: in truth, all souls need shelter. Even his own.

The fifteen-year-old lord spoke with a voice still laced with youth:

"Old Piel, your lord has heard you. I shall assign two swordbearers to go with you."

He turned toward a tall, ironclad knight standing nearby:

"Ser Pell, choose two sharp men. If there's no resistance, take them both."

Then Grenn leaned slightly toward Herschel and asked in a low voice:

"Where do we need hands? Somewhere... dangerous."

Herschel didn't miss a beat.

"My lord, there's always need for strong backs in the domain. But perhaps offer him a blade. The hill tribes are stirring again. You need more warriors. Mercy demands a second chance."

Very well. Young. Strong. Lusty. Then take a sword—and test your vigor against wildlings. Should you live, you will owe it to your lord's mercy.

Be grateful. Clutch your blade—and fight again.

Grenn nodded slightly and waved his hand.

Old Piel's eyes shone red as he bowed low, back bent yet filled with strength. In his heart, he vowed to serve his lord with renewed zeal—tilling the fields better, harvesting more grain, offering greater tribute.

The lord looks too thin, he thought. Must be going hungry. I'll work harder, feed the land—and feed him well.

"Next."

"My lord, my tools are broken…"

"My lord, my boy's belly has ached for days, I beg you…"

"They took my prey—those hill wildlings—"

"Merciful lord, the wildlings haunt our village outskirts. We're afraid…"

"Yes, always in packs of five or six…"

⋯⋯

By noon, the audiences had ended.

Grenn Crabb stretched his limbs and rose from his chair. At last, he could cast off the burden of noble posture.

"Lady Sulana, prepare a basin of hot water in my study. Have lunch brought as well. And tell Maester Al to ready the ravens. I wish to send a letter shortly."

⋯⋯

In the castle study, Grenn finished his meal and cleared the desk. Then he took up the quill.

It would be the third letter.

Its recipient: Queen Cersei Lannister.

After the Rebellion, House Crabb had been reduced to a single male heir—himself. Still unborn, hidden in his mother's womb. It was Eddard Stark who, out of knightly honor, convinced Robert Baratheon to spare his mother. Thus, the family flame endured.

But Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale and Hand of the King, spent the next ten years relentlessly suppressing the former loyalists of House Targaryen—House Crabb among them.

Soon, a new age would dawn.

The Song of Ice and Fire was about to begin.

The game of thrones would be played.

And Grenn Crabb had much to do.

To take the stage as a noble of the Crownlands, he had to ease the tension with the Red Keep.

After more than a decade, Jon Arryn was old, his strength failing. According to the tale, his days were numbered.

At long last, House Crabb could draw breath.

But Grenn Crabb would not drift with the tide. He would not be content to simply survive.

Once mocked as half-wildlings, the Crabb family may have lacked cunning—but now, Grenn Crabb had arrived.

Enough thought. It was time to flatter like a bard in silk.

To Her Grace, the Queen—embodiment of Courage and Beauty:

In humble admiration, I offer Your Grace my sincerest greetings. I beg pardon for my boldness.

Fifteen years have passed since the war. I was not yet born—sheltered in my mother's womb, bathed in warmth I cannot remember.

Since childhood, I have thanked the realm's mercy for allowing House Crabb to endure.

Our family words are "United in Purpose." In growing older, I have come to see that the heart of those words is Loyalty.

The dragons are gone. House Crabb remains, but adrift. Once, our ancestors charged toward death with unwavering faith. That loyalty has found no resting place in this new world. Trust was stripped from us.

Without trust, loyalty is a sword with no master.

Noble queen, would Your Grace grant us a second chance?

I have heard that Your Grace will soon embark upon a royal hunt. House Crabb longs to serve—to ride beside you, to guard you, to be worthy once more.

Your devoted shield,Grenn Crabb

He set down the quill.

The first step had been taken.

Cersei—or Daenerys.

.

.

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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥

📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯

The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥

Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.

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Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.