The Bearing of a Great General

Tyrion chuckled, "Ha, brother, that is a fool's hope! How could a Lannister ever dream of ridiculous happiness? All we seek in this life is boundless power."

Tyrion's tone shifted as he spoke, dripping with sarcasm.

Jaime shrugged, his expression bitter.

The two Lannister brothers drifted into their own thoughts, falling silent.

A long while later, Queen Cersei's maidservant approached with a graceful gait, bowing low, "Ser Jaime, Her Grace the Queen requests your presence."

Tyrion chimed in, "Did my sister, so frail in this moment, not see fit to summon her favorite brother as well? Hmm... your expression tells me I have not received an invitation!"

Tyrion hopped down from the railing, straightened his clothes, and set off, "Seeing me now would only sour my dear sister's mood. Farewell, brother, and may you find the happiness you wish for her!"

With that, Tyrion turned his back to Jaime, raised his right hand to wave behind him, and walked away without breaking his stride.

Jaime stared at the small retreating figure, feeling Tyrion's loneliness, and opened his mouth to speak.

Jaime knew in his heart that Tyrion possessed a kind soul. Cersei never hid her hatred for Tyrion, yet Tyrion had never truly hated her in return; on the contrary, he had always craved family affection.

Whenever Cersei was in trouble, Tyrion's small frame would always appear in the vicinity, just out of her sight, though he never approached.

Jaime loved his brother dearly, but the Cersei he loved most had hated Tyrion to the core since childhood.

Jaime had tried to intervene, but he had failed. Now, he only hoped that for his sake, the relationship between Cersei and Tyrion would not worsen.

The Red Keep, Queen's Bedchamber.

Sitting before her vanity, Cersei seemed not to care that others might see the bruises on her face. She tilted her chin slightly, a faint smile curling her lips, though her tone remained cold, "Jaime, I want you to kill Robert."

Jaime was startled, his hands pressing down on Cersei's delicate shoulders, "Cersei, I understand your anger, but we cannot be impulsive. Robert is the King, and I am the King's Kingsguard, and besides..."

Cersei angrily shoved Jaime away, as if she had heard something utterly laughable, "Kingslayer Jaime, are you lecturing me on the duties of the Kingsguard?"

Hearing the word "Kingslayer," Jaime's palms tightened, and a flash of rage crossed his face.

Jaime suppressed his anger and whispered a warning, "Cersei, you cannot act on impulse. Robert is not so easily killed; one slip could bring disaster upon the Lannisters. Father would not let us off."

The mention of the Lannisters finally caused Cersei to calm down.

The memory of a single glance from the Old Lion, Tywin Lannister, that once made her unable to even catch her breath, resurfaced in her mind. She had thought it faded after becoming Queen, only to realize it remained deeply etched, terrifyingly clear.

Jaime walked behind Cersei and gently embraced her.

Still nursing her anger, Cersei was unwilling to be touched, but after struggling a few times to no avail, she let Jaime hold her.

Jaime felt the warmth of her body, willing to tolerate everything about her.

Cersei's beautiful eyes fluttered, but in her mind, she saw Baron Gryn Crabb, far away on Crackclaw Point.

She felt it was time to grasp a sword of her own, one not controlled by the Lannisters or anyone else—a blade that belonged truly to her.

According to the intelligence provided by Grand Maester Pycelle, this young baron was highly skilled in warfare, having defeated twenty thousand men with only a thousand.

A sufficiently sharp blade.

The Whispers, Lord's Study.

Gryn took a large gulp of the sour red wine he had actually started to miss, then frowned; it still tasted terrible!

Back at the Whispers, Gryn seemed to be in a consistently good mood, "So, Maester Al, you told the Citadel that we defeated twenty thousand men in a single battle with one thousand?"

Maester Al grinned, revealing the few teeth he had left, "I originally intended to write thirty thousand, but I feared giving those old fools a heart attack, so I lowered the number a bit. Heh, heh, heh."

Gryn wore a smile, "Respected Maester Al, my sincere thanks for your unwavering support."

Maester Al rose shakily and bowed to Gryn, "Lord Baron, you are correct. Learning to display one's strength is a vital part of statecraft. Since you are to enter the Red Keep, you are effectively joining the Game of Thrones. Obscurity brings not only contempt but silent death. I merely wanted to inform the great figures through the Citadel in advance that it is not only Lord Randyll Tarly who knows how to fight."

"Your kind heart worries that the Citadel might hold me accountable later and damage my reputation, but I am already very old. I only wish to contribute what I can while I am still able to move. Whether it is you or the Citadel, my loyalty will always be to you."

Maester Al blinked, "By showing the world your formidable military prowess, I need not worry that you might be forced to climb into the beds of noblewomen for the sake of our lands."

Gryn looked up and laughed.

The Whispers, The Smithy.

Mutton spread his arms wide, puffing out his belly, and let the smiths take his measurements.

Having finished, the smith said respectfully, "Lord Mutton has a sturdy build; it will take about the material of two and a half sets of plate armor."

Herschel asked, "How long will it take to complete a full suit of plate?"

"Master Steward, if we have enough hands, it can be finished in two months."

Steward Herschel pondered for a moment, resting his hands on his own belly, which was considerably smaller than Mutton's, "Lord Gryn departs in a week at the latest, and Mutton must accompany him. For the plate... start by crafting a breastplate for Mutton. At the same time, arrange for someone to take apart the existing chainmail and refit it to Mutton's size..."

"I will give you five days."