Tyrion laughed. "Ha! Brother, you're asking for the impossible! How can a Lannister aspire to the laughable notion of happiness? All our lives, we've sought nothing but unlimited power."
As he spoke, Tyrion's tone shifted, turning mocking.
Jaime shrugged, his expression bitter.
The two Lannister brothers each drifted into their own thoughts and fell silent.
After quite some time, one of Queen Cersei's maids approached gracefully and curtsied. "Ser Jaime, Her Grace requests your presence."
Tyrion cut in. "My sister, so fragile at the moment, didn't happen to summon her favorite younger brother too? Hmm... Your expression tells me I wasn't invited!"
Tyrion hopped down from the railing, straightened his clothes, and set off. "Seeing me now would only put our dear sister in an even worse mood. I'm off. I hope she'll be happy, dear brother!"
With that, Tyrion turned his back on Jaime and waved his right hand behind him without breaking stride.
Jaime watched his little brother's retreating figure and sensed Tyrion's loneliness. He opened his mouth, then stopped.
Jaime knew that Tyrion had a kind heart. Cersei never hid her dislike of him, but Tyrion had never truly hated her for it. On the contrary, he had always yearned for a family's affection.
Whenever Cersei found herself in trouble, Tyrion's small figure would always be nearby, where she couldn't see him. He never came closer.
Jaime loved his younger brother, but Cersei, whom he loved most, had hated Tyrion ever since they were children.
Jaime had tried to mend things between them, but he had failed. Now, he could only hope that their relationship wouldn't grow any worse for his sake.
The Red Keep, the Queen's Bedchamber.
Seated before her vanity, Cersei seemed not to care that anyone might see the scars on her face. She lifted her chin slightly and smiled, but her voice was cold. "Jaime, I want you to kill Robert."
Jaime's heart lurched. He placed both hands on Cersei's delicate shoulders. "Cersei, I understand your anger, but we can't act rashly. Robert is the king, and I'm one of the king's Kingsguard. Besides..."
Cersei angrily shoved Jaime away, as though he'd said something particularly ridiculous. "Jaime the Kingslayer, are you lecturing me about the duties of the Kingsguard?"
At the words "Kingslayer," Jaime's hand clenched slightly, and a flash of anger crossed his face.
Suppressing his anger, Jaime urged her quietly, "Cersei, you can't act rashly. Robert won't be easy to kill. One mistake could bring disaster upon House Lannister, and Father won't spare us."
Mentioning House Lannister brought Cersei back to her senses for a moment.
Memories of Old Lion Tywin Lannister—the way a single glance from him had once left her too afraid even to breathe—rose in her mind. She'd thought they had faded after she became queen, but she now realized how vivid they still were, frighteningly clear.
Jaime went behind Cersei and gently embraced her.
Still furious, Cersei didn't want him touching her. She tried a few times to break free, but when she couldn't, she let him hold her.
Jaime felt the warmth of Cersei's body. He was willing to accept every part of her.
Cersei's beautiful eyes trembled, but the face that appeared in her mind belonged to Lord Gryn Crabb, far away on Crackclaw Point.
She felt it was time to take hold of a sword of her own—one that would not be controlled by the Lannisters or anyone else, a sword that truly belonged to her.
According to the intelligence provided by Grand Maester Pycelle, the Little Baron was a skilled commander. He had defeated twenty thousand men with only a thousand.
A sufficiently sharp sword.
Whispers, the lord's study.
Gryn took a large sip of the sour red wine, which he found himself missing a little. He furrowed his brow. It still tasted awful!
Back at Whispers, Gryn seemed to be in good spirits. "So, Maester Al, did you tell the Citadel that we defeated twenty thousand men with a thousand?"
Maester Al grinned, revealing the few teeth he had left. "I was going to write that we defeated thirty thousand, but I worried the old fellows back home might have a fit, so I lowered the number a bit. Heh, heh, heh."
Gryn smiled. "Esteemed Maester Al, I sincerely thank you for your support, as always."
Maester Al rose shakily and bowed his head to Gryn. "My lord, you're right. Showing off your strength is an important part of political maneuvering. Since you're going to the Red Keep, you'll be joining the Game of Thrones. Being unknown invites not only contempt, but also a quiet death. I simply wanted to use the Citadel to let the great lords know in advance that Randyll Tarly isn't the only one who knows how to wage war."
"Your kind heart worries that the Citadel might hold me responsible one day and damage my reputation. But I'm old now. I only want to do what I can for you while I'm still able. Between you and the Citadel, you'll always have my loyalty."
Maester Al blinked. "By showing the world your formidable military ability, you've also spared me the worry that you might have to climb into the beds of noblewomen for the sake of our lands."
Gryn threw his head back and laughed.
Whispers, the blacksmith's workshop.
Mutton spread his arms and stuck out his belly as the craftsmen took his measurements.
After finishing, the blacksmith said respectfully, "Lord Mutton is a big man. He'll need about two and a half suits' worth of plate armor."
Herschel asked, "How long will it take to make a complete suit of plate armor?"
"My lord steward, with enough hands, we can finish it in two months."
Steward Herschel pondered for a moment, then patted his belly, which was much smaller than Mutton's. "Lord Gryn will leave in a week at the latest, and Mutton will be accompanying him. As for the plate armor... make Mutton a breastplate first. Also, have someone take an existing suit of chainmail apart and refit it to fit him..."
"I'll give you five days."
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